Myriam's Blog

Left Untouched

2009-09-25T21:26:00.002-05:00

It was one of those weeks, where my body gave plenty of room to a cold virus, my back decided to go out, my computer died, my well got contaminated, I almost got killed by another driver, and was yelled at for something I didn’t do.

In retrospect, this week seemed pretty miserable. Yet, despite the physical pain, the lack of sleep due to discomfort, the hours lost on the phone with techies, and other emotions better left untouched, through it all, I marveled at how nature is ever changing, autumn being my favorite season of all.

The daily transition of colors, the cool smell of the air, the nesting of all forms of life, deeply moves me. Autumn seduces me like no other season because of its constant flux. If fall lasted 6 months, like the greenery of spring and summer, would I feel the same? Probably not.

It is a short cycle, and every day is a quiet transformation, leading to a climax of colors, and then its withdrawal, to the grey of November, before surrendering to the blanket of snow, which makes everything look the same.

A Force to Reckon

2009-08-01T20:09:00.005-05:00

The current grabs my feet and pulls me under, fast. I hardly had time to finish my breath, and manage to drink a bit of water as a result. Now immerse, my thoughts are racing "I knew it! I knew something bad would happen!" and kick my feet hard, try to swim back up. Above the surface, I take a half breadth only to be pulled back under, once again. "So that is how people drown... it happens all so fast." I take a split second to reassess my position and decide it is best to swim under the water for a few strokes, to get out of this cycle.

I reamerge, the water still running fast, and I breathe and cough and breathe and cough and I am so happy to be out from this overwhelming and powerful force of nature.

Bewitched

2009-07-24T12:19:00.005-05:00

The only sounds I hear are my heartbeats going really fast and my breathing, also fast. And the bubbles. These sounds just blend together as one long giant drone: breathe in, hold, heartbeat, bubbles, repeat. The descent, although short, feels like forever, in dry land minutes. Once at the bottom, the knees on the sand, I look up to see the sun rays moving in the water, like waves. My world is upside down.

All around me, where the water and the sand blend, underwater horizon is dark, mysterious, and scary, like infinity. My breathing has slowed down, just a bit, my heartbeat hardly so. I can feel the weight of the billions of gallons of water that surround me, although rather than crushing me, my body blends into it and I become one - I am one with the ocean. I am in the womb of the planet.

I slowly start moving forward. Forms of life appear in strange colors, shapes, and types of motions. Vegetation, straight from sci-fi movies, dwarf my human size. Forms hide under the sand and stare back. I am a visitor here, and they know it.

This is another world, one of long chains of interconnection, mutations, and survival, from microscopic plankton to the largest mammal - their survival all depend on one another. Break a link and whole ecosystems disappear.

My heartbeat has slowed down now, and so has my breathing. I am blended in the experience, surviving this hostile and deadly surroundings on a mere few pounds of air at a time. The uniqueness of the flora and the beauty of the fauna stuns and comforts me: they give me hope. If they can do it, coexist, when whole species of life depend so much on each other, then maybe we can too, as humans.

I am weightless. I am neither heavy nor light. My movements are in slow motion, like time. Suddenly, the hour is over. Before running out of air, I go back on the boat, back to reality, back to gravity. I awaken from the spell that was cast upon me by the underwater world.

The Mermaid

2009-07-20T15:05:00.003-05:00

I searched for her, all along, unknowingly. I longed for the smoothness of her skin, her curves, her smells. One day, I heard her voice. Fearful at first, I very slowly surrendered to her call, her muse, I let go, opened my arms and gave myself to her.

I was pulled away from land, in the mystical cold and dark water of the unknown... can I breathe? Will I survive?

My heart kept beating fast, uncertain. Electricity moved in my body, aware now of its constant flow, keeping me awake, even when tired.

Mesmerized, I wondered if it was all real. Life as I knew it ceased to exist. I was becoming. Fantasies turned into reality and reality turned into fantasies.

I only watched her, moving as she only could. I would not touch her as we were from different worlds. Her voice calling me made the pain deep and so much real.

The canvas waited patiently to be painted. It was blank, staring back, waiting... and waiting... Once the brush stroked, it was fury, madness, passion, fusion of creator and creation. The colors flying and forming life. The mermaid watched, from afar.

Once done, the canvas dripped from love and despair.

Going Solo, One More Time

2005-03-23T19:51:00.000-05:00

August 2004

Day One: Entry

It is my first night out. I unpack my backpack only to find a note from Rich, my beloved life-partner, which reads: “Have a great trip. I love you.” He snuck it for me to find while I would be in the woods; tears form in my eyes. Just a few months back, as I was putting photos in albums, I stumbled upon pictures of the solo backpacking trip I had done five years ago in the Pecos Wilderness. It then dawned on me that five years was a very long time since I had set foot alone in the woods for a week, and that realization perturbed me. Time flies, I thought. We were supposed to be spending this upcoming week together, but upon this insight, I suggested it would be best if I were alone. He fully supported my adventure, with mild envy.

Wherever I go, I have a three-pile system when packing my necessities. The first one is all the items I cannot live without, the second are items I would like to bring, and the third are the items I might want to bring along for fun or comfort, luxury items, which is a very loose term depending on the circumstance.

For an obscure reason, my first pile of essentials has grown steadily larger by each backpacking trip. Pillow. Sandals. Water filter. Cookies. One air mattress (in addition to the foam pad). Tent. Chocolate covered espresso beans. Walking poles. Pee pot. Extra fuel bottle. Sunglasses. Water pouch. Camera. Bathing suit. Extra book. Chocolate covered blueberries. Sunscreen. I must carry at least twenty pounds more than I used to twenty years ago. To add on my list: Tiger Balm for sore shoulders.

Going backpacking solo for a week requires a healthy dose of masochism. The first few days the pack is heavy and my legs wobbly. As I grow stronger, paradoxically, the pack becomes lighter. This time, I feel pain on body parts I never even know existed.

Day Two

I am terrified of bears. Just before I left, our friend Phil lent me a book about them. I read it cover to cover. I now feel more knowledgeable and understanding, however, every bit of information in that book confirmed my deepest fears. I bought a bear-proof canister, but unfortunately, because of the dog food (really!), the food supplies don’t all fit in and have an extra bag I need to hang, at least for a couple of nights. I set my food bag by the book. It is beautiful; ten feet off the ground, five feet away from other branches. Just as the sun rose, we hear a loud ‘crack’, which made me believe a smart daring bear had successfully reached my stash. Méo and I get up, curious. The food is still hanging. We didn’t see any bears and haven’t yet figured out what made that loud noise.

After a night of rain and a too sudden premature rise, I decide to go back and lounge in the tent. Mesmerized by the rain drops, I also listen to Méo snoring louder and louder under my sleeping bag. I had invited him in during the night, as he sat up from his sleep, shivering of cold. Now I hear him snoring and his dog breath warms up my cheek. Tonight I will put his coat on just in case. I stretch, and try to get up. I feel sore muscles I hardly use any other time. The multitudes of all these new feelings of soreness make me feel old. Twenty years have gone by since my first solo outing in the wilderness. I thought back then that I had all the time in the world. Now I feel I am on a count down.

Traveling in the valleys translates into mud, lots of mud, like the wilderness-savvy Hardie warned me. At first, I patiently hop from rock to rock, or detour in the forest fighting against the branches, just to end up stepping in the mud anyways. I decide to make good use of my new gaiters and merrily swish through, ankle deep. I am the first one on the trail this morning as I undo the night’s work of hundreds of spiders criss-crossing the trail.

Life as I know it is left behind. There is just the now. I let the thoughts go by like clouds. Moving one step in front of the other, concentrating on my breath, trying to forget the burning between my shoulder blades.

At the end of the day, happily back into my sleeping bag, I write in my journal and vigilantly inscribe the day of the week on the top of the page to make sure I don’t forget when I need to be out and return to life. The moon sheds a mild light as I lay awake on my back, listening to the loons on the lake, the gushing sounds of the waterfall nearby, and my snoring dog who now farts deadly ones in my small tent.

Day Three

All morning, I keep repeating to myself somewhat in vain, “Never walk on wet roots or wet man-made structures”. As I set my foot on the planks laid across a severely wet section of the trail, I barely have time to put my weight and quickly end up on my back, stranded. I will never turn a turtle on its back for the fun of it. Not any more. After sinking elbow deep in the mud, I wonder if my watch is as waterproof as the small print on it claims and manage to get back on my feet. I now look at the boards with fierce resolve and proceed to cross, slowly.

When my thoughts have nowhere to go, with really nothing to attend to, they race in every direction, before settling down, usually by day four or five of a solo trip. When I do not have to be focused on my footsteps, I hear music and lyrics I didn’t even knew I knew, hear hits from the fifties, sixties, seventies and today, including TV show jingles such as Batman. I watch, in awe, the Niagara Falls of thoughts flowing in my mind and judge not. Some memories go by, some fears, some dreams, all flow steadily, between the moments where I need to be focused on the mud, which are now more frequents than those of free flowing thoughts.

When I see a nice big rock or the trunk of a fallen tree, waist-high, I rest my pack on it and relieve my back and shoulder of its weight. I learned this simple trick from the Nepalese, who carry on their backs more than their own weight and perfected the art of resting without taking their loads off by creating “rest spots” at the end of steep hills, hip high rock walls. I try to rest as often as I can or need.

Reaching my destination is not as important any more. Enjoying the journey in getting there is more significant. I like to savor the silence of the woods, the bubbly sound of the brook, the rain falling on the leaves of the trees high above.

Mud as become a conversation piece among the hikers I run into. On any given day, the usual trail questions are “How are you?” to “How far is…?” to “Is there anyone in the lean-to?”. Now the questions are “How is the condition of the trail ahead?” Mud. “And from where you came from?” Mud. “What about on the other side of the mountain?” Mud “A lot of mud??” Yes. Lots of M-U-D. Other times, there is the occasional comment, without a question, such as “I’ve never seen so much mud.” or “I can’t believe how much mud there is.” And mud there is, as it has rained almost daily this summer here. The soil is soaked and so are my boots now.

The mushrooms are blooming in every corner of the forest. They are short, tall, luminescent, red, purple, orange, brown, white, yellow, penis and umbrella-shaped. All kinds of mushrooms are thriving in this wet environment. I take pictures of them. When I get to the umbrella-shaped one, I notice that the camera’s battery is low. How many more photographs will I be able to take before it dies? One more thing to add on my list…

When I get to my camping spot, I take my load off and head out to the lake. Swimming at the end of a long backpacking day shaves the last five miles off my body. Feeling rejuvenated, I look forward to a hot meal and rest.

I turn my boots upside down and a small puddle forms under them… I have surrendered to the reality that my feet will be wet for the remaining of the trip, unfortunately.

With Méo, I don’t feel alone. I know he will alert me of the presence of others, humans or animals, and that fact comforts me. Truly alone, I can only rely on my limited senses. He also travels twice the distance as I do, going on off-trail excursions and terrorizing chipmunks. He is too small to carry a dog pack. I carry more than my share, as his food for a week adds up.

My senses are waking up by each passing day. The moist forest delivers a multitude of new scents and delicate aromas, some of which I am starting to identify. Today I thought I could smell rain. The forest bottom littered with pine needles has the sweetest smell of all. Shade and sun have different smells too. And mud, there is now and forever a very large imprint in my brain of the scent of mud. The hikers I cross who are fresh from civilization smell of soap, antiperspirants, and fabric softeners. Their smells linger for a long time. I don’t like it. They probably don’t like my smell either, which has grown steadily by day, despite rinsing off by day’s end my sweat and salt.

While eating dinner, I watch hummingbirds getting their very own, in a nearby wildflower patch. One by one they come, and sometimes argue over feeding territorial rights.

Day Four

My body finally surrendered to the task, as my pack got magically lighter, since half the food is already eaten (which helps). I have also started fantasizing about food I can actually chew. Dehydrated foods are lighter, but when they get re-hydrated, they tend to all end up with a similar texture: mushy. Baby food grows old after a few days. Today however, I am looking forward to lunch, as I am having the teriyaki beef jerky that Rich made and is the best I have ever tasted.

The dehydrated milk I brought to mix with my granola for breakfast is lumpy, despite doing my very best to mix it. This morning I decide to use hot water instead, in the hope that it will be easier to dilute. This is a big mistake. It is a lot worse. I miss my vanilla soymilk, enriched with calcium, and vitamins. I never drink cow’s milk. I don’t like it, except on the trail, which is better than mixing granola with water. My thoughts wander back to a week earlier, when I was shopping at my local health food store, where I had to choose between the organic and non-organic dehydrated cow’s milk. The organic one required the use of a blender, but not the non-organic. Or so they said. Frustrated, I skip the cereal and decide to eat the chocolate covered blueberries, even though they were meant for dessert after dinner.

Women are usually the ones asking me if I am alone. Men never ask. I usually answer that I have a trail companion, and point at Méo. In their eyes he doesn’t count for much though and do not see how much he makes a difference. He does. I have a being that I look after and who looks after me. We relate. Alone, you have no beings to relate to, except for the others you encounter on the trail. I have backpacked alone and it is very different. I went days sometimes without uttering a single word. I had only myself to be contented or discontent with. I don’t feel lonely in my solitude with Méo.

Of course I am alone, in the human being sense of aloneness. That is why I am so slow on the trail. I have no allowances for getting hurt. Every step counts. Every. I have noticed that the second I lose my focus, I slip or I miss a step, I get out of sync. I stop, breathe deeply and start again. It is a walking meditation.

Backpacking solo is about ownership. Owning which pace I go. When I stop. How long. How often. Owning each footstep, whether going up or down. Ownership of whether I decide to pursue or not, and why.

I have yet to figure out what is worse: Trying to avoid the mud by contouring it, thus increasing the erosion and compounding the problem, or walking straight into in, ankle deep and sometimes deeper. Undecided, I sometimes choose to walk through it, sometimes around it. Both require a lot of energy. My boots are so soaked that they now weigh five pounds each. The cold water swishing around my toes take an hour to warm up in the morning.

There are so many humans on this mountaintop tonight that I feel as if I am at a public campground. I long for solitude. Maybe tomorrow night?

Day Five

Twenty years ago, I used to get up with the sun and hit the trail by seven. Now I sleep in and let my laziness be. I can’t “get up and go” as it reminds me too much of my day-to-day life. I linger in the tent and savor it. I cuddle Méo and fall back asleep. This morning he fell back asleep before me, his head on my shoulder, his dog breath flowing in my neck, snoring. This is the closest to dog heaven he will ever get until he dies, I think.

The first time I became aware of backpacking as an activity, it was with my old boyfriend Melvin who had taken me for a day hike in the Green Mountains. On top of Mount Mansfield, the highest peak of Vermont, despite the rain, the clouds, and no views, I was hooked. A few weeks later, with my new hiking boots laced tightly, I hit the trail with my black Labrador, Hito, for what I thought would be a six-day adventure on the Long Trail, which runs through Vermont from Canada to Connecticut. By day three I was so enthralled that I took our last three-day worth of supplies and subdivided it in half so we could double the days of our journey . Needless to say, we got hungry and we both lost weight. Lots of weight. Although I vowed to bring enough food for a longer journey next time so I do not wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach growling, I loved every second of it.

For the next few years, I set out once every summer and backpacked in my beloved Greens of Vermont. These weeklong adventures prepared me well for a two-month journey into Nepal and Tibet. Then I got married, had children, and although I did manage to go out once during that time, it wasn’t until I got divorced that I got back out again few more times. I have kept the last 20 miles of the Long Trail to do with my kids, someday, I hope.

Now, being in the Adirondacks High Peaks Wilderness is a new adventure. There is a feeling of remoteness I longed for and am finding hard to get as a result of the multitude of others. I try to make room within myself for tolerance.

Every day after dinner, I bathe Méo to get rid of the mud he has up to his chin. He is a little dog, but he his holding his own. He has gotten used to the tempo by now. At first he would run everywhere. He has soon learned that we are here to stay for some time and is now following my footstep, going a lot slower than he is used to. After bathing him in the river, he shivers. I use his towel to absorb the water, and use a comb to untangle his hair of twigs, grass, and mud clumps. He enjoys this nightly ritual. Today we are in the sun, and he slowly stops shivering, relaxing as I put him on his back to clean up his belly. At night, I put on his blue coat. Little dogs can get away with wearing blue coats with light reflectors on them. At night, he is no longer “Toto, the trail dog”, but my very own little Méo, who snores.

The sun has set not long ago behind the mountain. Glimpses of dusk are lingering. Nightfall is different from a mountaintop. I am glad to be out of the valleys. The moon is setting also now, slowly. Some stars are beginning to appear. The night is still, the air is motionless, just the distant sound of the brook remains, which helped me shed fives miles just a little earlier.

I make myself comfortable. I take out my sleeping bag, position myself on my back so I can watch the stars come in one by one through the opening of the tent door. When was the last time I watched the rise of the night like this? I will have to remember to remember.

As I lay on my back, my very wet socks are hanging above my head on a makeshift clothesline inside my small tent, created with a glimmer of hope that they may dry, even just a bit. I just don’t understand why they smell so much. I am glad to be alone, with a dog who doesn’t mind my smells as I am learning to live with his, and is now sound asleep, snoring.

I read for a while and then shut off my headlamp. Total darkness now surrounds me. Millions of stars are shimmering. The Big Dipper is hanging over Mt. Colden, barely holding on. I feel like sleeping with my head outside the tent. Then I remember the entry in the log, in the nearby lean-to. Visits of bears have been nightly. I change my mind, regrettably.

Just as I am about to fall asleep, Méo wakes up and wants to go out. Nature calls, I suppose. I open the zipped door and he goes to his bowl to drink. A lot. He trots back in, trailing some mud from his paws, and goes back to sleep, snoring. I have always envied the guys’ bladder, and still do so now.

Day Six

I can see some sun touching the tent. I am delighted. This morning I will set out with my daypack to climb up Mt Colden and have some views of the High Peaks! I prepare breakfast and almost forget to use cold water, not hot, and leave the tent up so the morning dew can dry. I also don’t want to waste any time packing. With great anticipation that the sun’s warmth will make magic, I set up a clothesline between two trees and hang my soggy socks and the wet towels, mine and Méo’s. I sacrifice my only dry pair of socks, hoping that upon my return, the other one will be dry. I gather lunch food. I crave salt today, and am looking forward to eat my pistachio nuts on top.

This morning I am tired as I didn’t sleep so well last night. The clear night had brought some cool air and Méo was shivering, despite wearing his coat. I was not really warm enough myself to surrender part of my sleeping bag to him, so I instead let him sleep on my Gore-Tex pants in the hope that it would help him be warmer. It did.

As I begin my hike, I feel a new twinge in my left knee, the good one, and I wonder what it could be. I am worried. I walk slowly, very slowly. In fact, I am walking so slowly that any slower and I will be standing still. I am taking baby steps, waiting for my muscles to wake and warm up. I am focused on my knees. Have I been compensating with my good knee? Probably. Now I am vigilant to make sure I alternate the demands of the ups and downs, navigating around the mud and stepping onto logs. My head is looking down, at where I position my feet and poles. I am glad to be four legged.

When I finally pause, I look up and notice fog moving up quickly from the valley. By the time I am almost to the top, mashed potatoes surround the mountain. I am so disappointed that there will be no views that I stop, sit, and look at the map. I surrender my idea of going to the top and take out my pistachio nuts. Unsalted. I put them back in my bag and eat a granola bar instead.My spirit is strong, willing to continue with my journey two more days until the end of the week, but my body is tired. I assess my options. I decide to make my last day tomorrow and head back home.

I go back to camp and pack up. We have eaten most of the food and my backpack still feels heavy. It must be the 2.5 lbs of the bear-proof canister that I am carrying my food into. Or my growing list of “essentials”. Whatever it is, it weighs.

My socks are still very damp, but not wet anymore. Now I do not have any dry socks. I hate having wet or cold feet, let alone both simultaneously. I’ll have to add another item to my ever-expanding list.

I only have a few miles to go to the next lean-to, which is a good thing since I am moving slowly. I am not in a particular hurry either, which helps. I get to my second destination for the day, Lake Tear of the Clouds. Somehow in my imagination I created this image of a turquoise glacier-like lake, nested at the foot of giant Mt. Marcy. It is a very plain little gray lake, with no view of Marcy today. I take a picture nevertheless, my first one since my mushroom spree, so I can show my kids the farthest water source of the Hudson River watershed.

My last destination is in a gorge, at the feet of the Haystack Mountains. I am relieved to take my pack off. I read the logbook. There are too many nighttime bear activities to make me feel comfortable. Besides, I am finally alone, the only human around, and for several miles. All of a sudden, I am glad I have been carrying my newly purchased $80, 2.5 lbs bear proof canister.

As usual, I head out to the brook; wash Méo who doesn’t want to get in (smart dog). The water cascades into a hip deep pool, bottomed with huge polished rocks. I see myself sitting in this pool, washing away the day’s last five miles. I get in and as I walk slowly to the magical spot, my feet and calves get numb. I change my mind and rinse off quickly instead. I now understand why Méo gave me a dirty look and growled as I washed the mud off his belly.

I unpack. I hang my old wet socks. They are starting to rot. I hang my new wet socks, hoping they will not absorb the humidity that is filling in the air. As I prepare dinner, Méo bolts out suddenly and barks aggressively. I am hoping his wolf genes are not too far behind. After an hour of this dance, he finally sits back to relax. Meanwhile, I have gathered enough rocks to kill or maim a bear.

After reading for a while, legs up on the walls of the lean-to, I step inside the tent. My feet are cold. I put my gloves on my feet, carefully placing each toe inside each finger space. Suddenly, I am ten years old, putting my multicolored fashionable socks on, with individual placement for the toes. As I glimpse back into the seventies, I smile. My monkey-feet, albeit uncomfortable, are warmer now.

Méo keeps growling every now and then. At first, my breath would stop, my heart would race, and I’d look suspiciously towards the pitch black forest in fear. Now his growls comfort me. I know he is on high alert, so I don’t need to.

In the comfort of my den, I feel safe. Although a mere layer of nylon separates me from the outside world, here is my haven. I have positioned the rocks outside the door and a pole, just in case. Whatever happens happens.

I hear the brook far below, smell the moisture in the air. I am subdued to the fact that it will be raining again tonight and possibly tomorrow.

This is my last night. I am finally all alone in this gorge with no one around for miles. I like the feeling of remoteness. I will have to come back in the winter, when humans (and bears) hibernate.

I have found what I wanted. I am ready to go home.

The Death of Dartagnan

2004-12-28T20:28:00.000-05:00

INTRODUCTION

This is the true story of my father's illness and death as I have experienced it during the fall of 1997. I have chosen this topic because I couldn't avoid writing about it. It is by far one of the most profound emotional and spiritual life-altering experiences that I have ever lived. I have also chosen not to censor some events and phenomenon who might appear strange or surreal, because they were real to the people who experienced them. I have inserted the events in a chronological order to facilitate the reader's comprehension of the unfolding of the occurrences.

As an interfaith minister, I am a believer that events have meaning and power. I also believe in the presence of a greater intelligence, be it God, Great Spirit, Great Architect, Higher Power of whichever label one prefers to use. I like to call it the Infinite Universe, where each molecule, atom and energy particle have a place to go at a given space and time. I address the hardships of my life as opportunities to deepen my learning experience while I live on this plane, on this planet, at this time. Consequently, I have viewed my father's illness and death as a learning process to both assess my relationship to him, in the present and the past, my relationship to my children, my ex-husband, to Rich, my partner, and to everything I chose to do or not to do.

I am dedicating this memoir to Claude, my father, who has welcomed me to assist him in one of the most important passages of his life.

THE NEWS TO HIM
Friday, October 3

Claude has recently decided to let his hair be the natural gray it had been for over thirty years. He has also taken on drinking cappuccino, which he vigilantly prepares every morning for himself and his partner of four years, Françoise. This morning, as he goes through his morning routine, he looks at the clock incessantly. When 9 AM comes, he has to call the hospital and get the results of the tests he has taken last Monday.

He gets his diagnosis: Carcinoma of the soft tissues, a very aggressive, malignant cancer. Today is his 64th birthday. With Françoise, they cry in each other's arms all day long. They had both retired and bought a house in the country to move into, just a week before. The news crumbles their dreams.

THE NEWS TO ME
Monday, October 13

I am hit by an avalanche. The weight covers every inch of my body. I am cold. The sudden silence is pounding in my ears. My breath is still. As I hang up the phone, my mind starts racing. I can't even hear myself think; a tornado has caught up with me.

I make my way to the kitchen where Rich is waiting for me. My father has cancer, I hear myself say. As his arms embrace my body, my heart melts away, surrenders to my tears. His words, I know how it feels, I've been there, echo softly and soothe my pain. His soft red beard brush against my cheek and comforts me.

The next day I call Mary, my mentor at the college. I am quitting. I can't stand the pressure, I can't do this, I explain to her. Family, work, school, getting divorced, and now with my father's illness, it is too much for me right now, I tell her. There is a short silence, the one where thoughts are weighed because as words they will have an impact. You can't, she answers. You can't quit, you can't quit now. Remember that there will be
the before, the during and the after, and nobody knows how long any of these will last. You will have to learn to deal with it and move on with your life, through it all. I hang up. She is right, but the plain truth is hard to accept.

A DIFFICULT FALL
October - November

The alarm goes off. The moon is still out, a small but distinct crescent on the horizon, just below the Orion Belt. As I step out of bed, the chill of the morning slowly wakes me up. I turn on the stove and make myself a cup of Wild Berry Zinger tea. I sit at my desk and ponder, again, about the night that just went by and the dreams that accompanied it. I shake my head and begin to work. There's nothing like Statistical Inference to start the day at 5 AM.

At 6:30, I wake up Ilan. His sleepy face surrounded by his tousled hair tells me he would rather stay in bed. Daily routine obliges, so he gets up, puts on his favorite jeans (the ones with both knees torn out), eats his Cheerios with vanilla soymilk and practices violin. As he heads down the driveway to catch the school bus, Leah, the first day care child arrives and plays with Naomi, who just came down the stairs.

At 9, Cathy arrives to relieve me from the day care duties. The seven children run around with glee. Unlike me, they have had a full night of sleep. I retire to my office to continue some Statistics. I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to tune out the kids' squeals and concentrate on today's homework. I am distracted. Images of my dreams haunt me.

At lunchtime, I take a leave from my haven to prepare the meal for everybody. Food has no appeal to me these days. I eat because I need the fuel, but taste nothing. Cathy has been noticing the half helpings I serve myself and tries, to no avail, to motivate me in getting seconds.

It is 1 PM, Cathy has just left and the children are down for naptime. I inhale the silence that permeates the house. More homework interrupted by memories of my dreams, which I've had recurring all week. I dream of my father, shriveling in his hospital bed, aging so fast, death crawling under his skin, his bald white head pulsating with blue veins, his eyes, dark and deep. And then I wake up, and stay up for hours as I reflect on Claude's illness, on what it means for me to lose my father as I divorce his carbon copy: two men that I have rejected lately because of the abuse I have decided not to bear anymore by either one. I also ponder on life's futility, on Zen and the art of living and dying and of how to slow down the train of my life so I can catch my breath and assimilate all of what this means yet I can't slow down because I can't.

As the afternoon comes to an end, I wake the kids up, serve snack, and welcome Ilan back from school. As the parents pick-up their child one by one, some notice my weary eyes and offer words of support.

At dinner, as we sit around the table, I feel fortunate to have these three wonderful beings sharing my daily life. They are so buoyant, loving, beaming. I thank God to grant me this day and ability to appreciate Rich, for his generosity, love and outstanding support; Naomi, for her genuine affection and tender heart and Ilan, for his sensitivity and presence.

As I hand out bath toys to Ilan and Naomi, my body screams for a respite. It has been a long day. When I cuddle Naomi to sleep, I almost fall asleep myself. I sluggishly step out of the children's room, go downstairs to start a load of laundry. As Rich practices guitar in the living room, I try to get a hold of Linda, my sister, who lives in San Francisco, with whom I have daily contacts. Either she or I call the hospital every day to gather some news and then we share the news to the other.

From the start I have had this ominous feeling that Claude would not make it. Yet Linda is hopeful, although signs of fast deterioration are obvious. Bernard, the oldest of the family, is the only one who lives in Montreal and gets a chance to visit him as he wishes. He sees the decrepitude. He says I won't recognize him, especially since his hair fell out because of chemotherapy. But I tell him, I see him in my dreams, I visit him every night.

My body slouched on the sofa, I listen to one of Bach's suite for guitar played by Rich. The minutes, the seconds are still. The time warp of the day comes to a halt. My eyelids are heavy, so I go run a bath. The bubbles feel soft; the honeysuckle smell tickles my nostrils. The candlelight dances on the wall. As the cells of my body soak in the heat, my mind races, as I try to sort through the labyrinths of my life.

The covers up to my chin, the sweet smell of the snow comes in from the open windows. I snuggle up on Rich's shoulder and fall fast asleep. Maman! Maman! Naomi calls for me. I wake up from a very vivid dream and walk to her room to see what it is going to be tonight. The covers are off and she is cold. I am hopeful that tonight I might be able to sleep better than the night before, where she woke up every hour altering between her fears of monsters and cramps in her legs. As I slip back under the sheets, trying not to wake up Rich, I look at the clock: 2:43 AM. Good, maybe I can sleep another two hour before my alarm goes off.

The images of my dream keep turning in my head on replay mode. In this dream, I arrive very late at my friend's Eliane's house for lodging and am told by my sleepy host to use the guest room, at the end of the hallway, on the right. As I enter the bedroom, there is my father, sitting at the desk, his back to me. As I approach, he turns to greet me and he is himself, only what he used to look like three months ago. He gentlemanly offers me the chair and sits on the bed, facing me. As I start talking to him, I am rather distressed because I know that it is only an illusion, an image of what he used to be. I begin telling him about my discomfort. I begin sharing with him that I think his difficulty to welcome us now that he is on his death bed is related to the fact that he doesn't want to be seen like this. I have over thirty years of memories to cherish and want to be with you during this difficult transition time. As my voice echoes in the stillness of the night, his body starts to shrivel down until the state that he is now, a bald cadaver, waiting for its last breath.

As the seconds and the minutes and the hours go by, I am completely absorbed by the images of my dream and how they ring so true. He does not want to be seen like this, completely vulnerable, helpless.

TALK WITH THE DOCTOR
Thursday, November 20

Dr. Hings and I have had one phone conversation at the beginning of the month, when I asked her to give me honest answers about my father's diagnosis, treatment and prognostic. This time I am calling her because Claude has been going downhill really fast in the last week and I am beginning to think that the end is sooner than anticipated.

Yes, she says, I thought it would be a matter of months before your father dies, but now I am more certain that it will be within few weeks. Have you mentioned this to Claude? Not yet, because until now there was still hope that the treatments would slow down the cancer, but because of his pneumonia, we weren't able to do anything. As anyone talked to him about death? No. I am worried that my father will die wrapped up in his fear of death. Mortality has been a taboo subject for my father for as long as I can remember and I feel it is needed to be addressed at this time. The next day, Dr. Hings talks with Claude about his imminent death. As Claude listens, tears run down his cheeks.

DEATH AS SALVATION
Sunday, November 24

Just after dinner, as Dr. Hings does her last round, she tells Claude that it will be a matter of days before he dies. The reality is harsh but he chooses to open his arms. I want to see everyone I know and say my final Good Bye, he answers, to everyone's astonishment.

For the next two days, a train of people pass and receive a message, come out teary knowing that they will never see him again. I am dying, he would say, looking deep into their eyes. It is time for me to leave and go meet my mother.

My father had lost his mother of tuberculosis when he was four years old. He always felt her presence and throughout his life, held firmly to her picture in his wallet. He was sent to an orphanage in La Malbaie, overlooking the St.-Lawrence River and hated it. He was given a boiled onion to eat at every meal, to strengthen the immune system, the Brothers would say. Until this day, he resented eating onions and would tell us of orphanage stories as soon as a bite of onion would mistakenly end up in his plate.

My mother, Thérèse, Claude's wife of 40 years, got to meet Françoise for the first time. The exchange was cordial, but tense, as they both were saying their farewell to the man they both passionately loved, one in the past, the other in the present.

COME NOW
Tuesday, November 25

It is 2 PM. I receive a call. Linda who flew to Montreal from San Francisco that morning tells me that I should come fast because he is not doing well at all. I had planned to leave the next morning, because I had to organize and prepare the day care for the days I was going to be absent, but the adrenaline kicked in and was through getting everything ready by 6. Rich cared for my children that evening and opened the daycare the next morning until my assistant showed up. He did so, very generously. I feel overwhelmed by the pace of the events. I am so grateful to have Rich in my life, who genuinely offers unconditional support: a lesson for me who needs to learn how to receive.

On the way up north, I beat my own record in driving time from New Paltz to Montreal. I am trapped in my fear of arriving too late and wish to be there already. I get to the hospital and jump into Françoise's arms who collapse. I'm so glad you made it on time; I was so afraid that you would not see him before he died. Everything has been going so fast, so fast, she says, weepy.

We spent a couple of hours talking about anything and everything, got to know the woman with whom my father had decided to spent the last years of his life. He had kept his relationship completely private. He didn't want to let anyone between the two of them.

HUMOR, INSIGHTFULNESS AND ANGELS
Wednesday, November 26

From his hospital room on the 17th floor, the cars below look like toys. The town, the air, the rooftops, all is white with snow. The busy-ness of the city is hustling.

Claude wakes up. After a few moments, he gathers his senses, looks my way, his gaze into mine. Myriam, you have arrived, he softly says, with a smile. I hug him and rub his bare head.

We talk. I share with him childhood memories. I tell him that every time I grab sandpaper, contact glue, a Phillips screwdriver or the circular saw, I see images of him, I hear his voice. I tell him that now, when I do work around the house, Ilan is my helper. He smiles.

He doesn't want to eat anymore; only a bite here and there to soothe the stomach, but no more. He soon falls asleep for his morning nap and I sit next to his bed. His right shoulder is nested in my hand, like a small orange. His other shoulder, with the cantaloupe-size tumor, is pulsating with blue veins. My hand holds his small, muscleless hand. The cancer-ridden arm and hand are swollen, the tumor restricting the circulation.

After his nap he requests that the visits be limited to his children and Françoise, only. He wants us in the room. I am ready to leave, he tells us, make a circle around the bed and hold hands. We close our eyes. A cylinder of light descends over the bed. Northern lights-like beams dance within the cylinder. Claude's invisible double is standing, ready to go. Claude's physical body wakes up and says, I have to get up, I have to stand, I have to go now! Claude, you are paralyzed, you cannot get up, Linda answers. It is so beautiful, it is so beautiful, I cannot believe I am back, he mutters.

After a short coffee break for all, we gather back and sit down again, he has a message for each one of us and for his grandchildren. He tells Françoise to live her life, to live it now, to continue and move on. Remember Françoise that you get to choose, he says, with a smirk. We look at each other, this is an inside story between Claude and Françoise that is drawn forth as we learn that when they met, another man was courting her and she chose Claude.

When Linda's turn comes up, she says, We do not have a grandchild for you to give a message, but as you know, we have been trying hard to conceive a child for the past two years. When you go to the other side, can you look around and see if there is a little cherub ready to come down? I will make it my utmost priority, he answers, looking deep into her eyes, but you will first have to give me a few days.

There isn't one pair of eyes that is dry in the room. He asks us not to cry, not to be sad. But we are moved by what you have told each one of us, can we be inspired by your strength and courage and beauty? I ask, teary. Yes, in this case, it is okay then... but you know, I have some flaws that I have tried to hide from all, throughout my life, but they are there, you know, and... I interrupt, Are you trying to tell us that you are not perfect? Everyone laughs. My father has always tried to pretend that he was above it all, in all circumstances, and now he surrenders to his humanity. I am moved by his lucidity, his egolessness. Where is the father that I have known, the rage-aholic, arrogant, self-sufficient, egocentric man?

We get quiet again and close our eyes. Two small angels are behind his back, pulling and tagging, trying to help him leave. Claude wakes up, my back hurts, he says. The two little angels stop, disheartened, look at each other and leave.

I am getting too much love from all of you now, I can't leave, he says. But the love was always there, Claude, only now, you are able to receive it, I say, as his eyes water up.

We are asked to leave, he wants to spend some quiet time with Françoise now.

IT'S QUIET TIME
Thursday, November 27

Françoise has been alone with Claude since the day before. Linda expresses her concerns that it isn't probably favorable to leave her alone like that for so long. Minutes later, Françoise shows up and tells us that Claude doesn't want her to be alone anymore. As his children, we take turns, one at a time, so as not to clutter the room.

At times Claude wakes up, whimpering because of the pain. He mutters, I cannot complain, I cannot complain, there are many worse than I, many. But you now belong to those Claude, you are among the worst. No, there are many more worse than I, those who are alone, suffering, those in Third World countries who are abandoned, political prisoners, who are tortured, they are all worse than me, he says. Nothing comes out of my mouth. I am completely absorbed by the words he just said, by the unsettling truth they carry.

At times he wakes up, his gaze filled with apprehension, what if I go to the wrong place? he asks. You are going to go to a beautiful place, you will meet your mother, Napoleon, Alice, Gigi (and party 'till midnight again), Roland (and tease him 'till eternity) and others you do not know, I answer.

Lunch arrives and Claude wants to taste some chocolate pudding. After his first spoonful, his eyes get wide and large and he says, gleefully, this is good! After many more, and many more of the same joy of tasting, he says, I have to stop eating this or I will never want to leave this place!

During his afternoon nap, I listen to his breathing, my hand rubbing his bare head. I comment to Françoise about my amazement as to how Claude has learned, through his relationship with her, to live the present moment and enjoy the little pleasures of life. She is surprise, for she has always known him that way. She adds that he, from the time they have met, has sent her love letters, notes, faxes, E-mail, every day, and that she has kept them all. Claude was the one noticing the color of the clouds, the smell of the wet leaves in the forest, the chirps of the Robins. I am glad he has been able to experience the present moment. I am sad it took him so long to do so.

Françoise asks her son Frederick to go look for her Jeep, which has been parked on the street for five days already. He comes back with bad news; the Jeep is gone, stolen. Françoise's response was typical of her non-attachment to the material things. She felt it was one less thing to be bothered with and was relieved. Just the night before, she and Claude had talked about how selling the Jeep for a smaller car was going to be more practical for her. Now she didn't have to sell the Jeep. The Great Architect had taken care of all that.

Later that day, during a lull, I take my pen and start scribbling notes in my notebook, when, out of nowhere, I hear a melody and words of a song. I write it down. It is my first song and it is dedicated to Claude.

LAST CONVERSATIONS
Friday, November 26

He almost doesn't talk anymore, just some short conversations here and there. I would like to go walk in the woods one more time, he tells Linda. You miss the forest? she asks. He nods and his eyes fill up. I need a gun, he says to Linda. You mean, you need a gun to make a whole in your stomach and get rid of all of these painful gases? I need a gun for that and more, he answers, with a look that had much to tell.

Too soon, too late, were among his last words. Too soon to die, too late to conquer the illness.

HIS LAST WORDS
Sunday, November 30

When he woke up this morning, death was lingering next to his right shoulder, waiting for its entry in the script of Claude's life. My father's eyes were farther than ever, mildly glossy, gone but yet still there. What time is it? He asks. Noon. I will be leaving at 2. Then revised himself and added, At around 2. He then fell deep asleep never to wake up again.

THE COMA
Monday, December 1

I am in his room. The oxygen is hissing. His breathing is shallow but steady. I am alone. I talked with him before. Told him that he had been a great dad, although our relationship was far from perfect. Told him all the things that I learned through him. That if you do something, try to do it right, do your best at all times. This taught me to seek quality in things and in people. Told him how he had inspired me all my life to seek to fulfill my deepest dreams. To have dreams was important, but to fulfill one's dreams was even more so. He taught me how to trust my destiny, that things happen when they happen and that we have to surrender to those. Told him about the letter I sent him in September, when he didn't know he had cancer. Such a bad timing, I thought, to send him a missive about our unfinished businesses. On the other hand, would I have known about his illness, I would have never sent it. I am happy that he has received that letter but wonder how it would have been differently without it also.

I am sitting here writing all this on Linda's laptop. How strange. His body is letting go of life by the minute and I am here writing about it. His feet are now cold, his legs, mildly blue. Everyone is ready to see him go now. Even Françoise is ready. She has packed the whole room this afternoon. Everything. The gray bags are sitting next to the door, waiting to be taken back home. It has been seven weeks since they were first unpacked. It has been a long journey. The wait is long but necessary. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now. Of course my life is calling, all those responsibilities are waiting for me. I came to be relatively at peace with myself: I am not indispensable. The world can continue without me.

The electric razor we had just bought him is useless now. Bernard, my brother who always wore a beard until recently, is now the new owner. He warmly takes the razor in his hands, turns it around and sees our father through it. He looks up at me and looks down back at the razor. A mild discomfort passes through his body, as in, will I be able to actually use it?

THE MORNING OF HIS DEATH
Tuesday, December 2

I walk into the room only to find him still breathing and alive. I stare at him, somewhat discouraged as to how long he's been hanging on. I look at Françoise who starts to giggle and I join too. Better laugh than cry, I comment. My father is an athlete: skied, played tennis, racquetball, hiked, all his life. His body is programmed to live, fight, survive. He is not going to let go like that.

Everyone believes that he will choose to leave his body and this world when he feels his lover is ready. He has been waiting for days already, but he his patient, for his love for her is greater and more passionate than anyone has ever seen him experience before. Until he fell into a coma, his gaze into her eyes was deep and meaningful for the love they have for each other has no bounds. The passion and intimacy they share are almost painful to watch because it is ending.

I can't help but to tell Françoise that she has to start getting out of his room. It had been at least three weeks since she has last ventured out of the hospital and only for few seldom hours when done so before that. But I am so comfortable here! is her reply to my request. This is part of the problem, I answer. But I have promised to stay by his side no matter what! is the defense. It has been almost two months since they first ventured through these doors, creating a new love nest, sheltered from the outside world. Well, let's ask him for a clear sign that he grants you permission to move on with your life. I get a blank look. Claude has not flinched out of his coma for two days already. I talk loud enough for him to hear me. I know he can hear me. I have sung to him the day before the song that I wrote for him and his breathing changed. Every time someone talks to him, his response is a more rapid short inhale, followed by a similar exhale. I know he understands what is going on around him. I add that if he wants her to resume her life, let's ask him to give a clear sign today that he approves fully of it. Another blank look followed by a shy, incredulous nod.

The hospital is nested on the slope of the Mont-Royal Mountain. From the window, we can see some people cross-country skiing or horseback riding. All morning Rich is looking at a small field, observing the type of snow, examining its texture for a cross-country ski ride he is planning for the next day.

From the time Claude was asked to give a clear sign to Françoise, two hours has gone by. It has been a long wait. It has been a long week. It has been a long seven weeks. Françoise is alone in the room now. She sits by his bedside and lovingly talks to him. She reviews all the promises they have talked about during the previous days. She tells him how much she loves him and how soon he will be set to explore a new freedom. It is Tuesday, December 2, 1 PM, she tells him. His breathing starts to change, his fingers and hands are slowly turning blue. This is it! He is leaving!

Everyone waiting in the other room is called to come passively support him in his departure. I reach Bernard on his cellular phone. He is moving out of the apartment he has been living in for over a decade and starting a new life, apart from his partner of 17 years. He is taking his last breaths, I tell him. Claude indeed is taking is very last breaths, very softly, slowly, effortlessly. As life leaves his body, so do the colors. His skin is very slowly turning gray. As we cry, we continue talking to him, wishing him a wonderful journey, a new life, a new beginning. Through her tears, Françoise kisses him and tells him I love you, I love you, my love, have a great journey, I love you, my love, I love you, I miss you already, I love you, my love, I love you.

I sing him my song and wish him a good journey.

CHANSON POUR CLAUDE / SONG FOR CLAUDE
pendant le cours de ta vie / during the course of your life
tu nous as tous légué / you have passed on to us
une belle passion de vivre / a beautiful passion for life
ta belle passion de vivre / your beautiful passion for life

pendant le cours de ta mort / during the course of your death
tu as semé en nous / you have strewn in us
lumière, beauté et espoir / light, beauty and hope
un beau cadeau d'amour / a beautiful gift of love

tu as vécu ta vie /you have lived your life
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta vie / you will have lived your life

tu as vécu ta mort / you have lived your death
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta mort / you will have lived your death

merci Claude, merci / thank you Claude, thank you
d'être parti ainsi / to have left as such
d'être venu vivre ta vie / to have come to live your life

I call Bernard again and tell him that Claude has just died. There is a silence. The movers have just rung the doorbell goddammit, I hear him mutter. We'll talk later, he tells me, as he exhales his cigarette puff.

Rich, looking out the window, turns to me, white as a sheet. Come and see this! My jaw drops. In the snowfield are now inscribed, by someone's footsteps, twenty feet long letters that spell FREEDOM. This wasn't there 20 minutes ago.

AFTER HIS DEATH
Tuesday, Dec. 2

I call Ilan to see how he is doing. It has been a week since I last saw him. How was school today? Good. Is Pappy dead? Do you want to know the truth? Yes. He passed away few hours ago. Silence. When are you coming back? In few days. It has been a long time, I miss you. I miss you too, Ilan. Do you know where Pappy went? Yes, he went somewhere called Heaven, all the way at the other end of the Universe.

As I wander around in his apartment during the reception, I notice his motorcycle helmets in the closet. His favorite, for long journeys, has "Je t'aime" scribbled with a silver marker on the back so that Françoise is reminded of his love for her as they ride together. His clothing, permeated with his smell and memories of warmth, will never be worn by him again and just hang, waiting for another destiny.

I glance at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. His tight handwriting is everywhere, a reminder of his habit of putting all kinds of events on it for the record. First motorcycle ride, April 4. Myriam's visit with kids, May 28. Their five week long motorcycle trip's destinations are scattered throughout July and August. His last inscription is October 18, just days before his hospital departure. The rest of the month and of the year is blank.

Françoise makes us listen the last message he has left for her on the answering machine, telling her how much he loves her, misses her, how much time passes too slowly without her. Hearing his voice makes me fall deep in to the sorrow of my loss, of my grief for the father I once had and that is gone, forever.

Just before he died, Claude promised Françoise that he would give her a clear sign of his presence next to her after his death. The first night she is back in their apartment, she is woken up by the halogen lamp at the other end of the bedroom. It is shining its full 300 watts. After a few seconds of assessment and confusion, Françoise keeps watching. The light starts to dance, going down and up and up and down, fast and slow. After its ten-minute choreography, it stops. She wakes up her son Frederick to tell him about this most incredible thing that had just happened. He shakes his head, my mother is going nuts, he thinks. Then the light lit again and performed another dance, just as unique, unsettling and beautiful. Frederick did not go back to sleep that night, neither did Françoise, but for different reasons: he, out of sheer fear and amazement at the phenomenon; she, out of pleasure to know that he had shown her that he was there, right next to her.

THE AFTERMATH

The week after he died, after a two-year effort in filling up my day care, two families called, each with two sons, each looking for full-time openings. Filling up the day care for me is the equivalent of stepping out of a financial rut I was trapped in for over two years.

Five days after Claude passed away, Linda was ovulating and got pregnant of her first child.

Sometimes, as I ponder about all of these events, I wonder if they really happened, if they were real. I do not like the thought of the impermanence of all living things, here today, gone tomorrow, yet it is my lifeline.

ONE YEAR LATER: A LETTER TO CLAUDE
December 2, 1998

I am nostalgic. Reminiscences of my life with you, of moments spent together, sprout up unevenly. I have felt your absence this year. Even though we didn’t share much in the last few years, I miss our phone calls and sporadic dinners.

When you died, the mourning came in spurts. The weeks following your departure were empty of your presence yet filled with chagrin. Every time I laid down my eyes on something that reminded me of you, sadness filled my heart. Writing my experience of my last week spent with you was a catharsis. Again, thank you for having let me be part of this moment.

Every time I sing your song, I cry. The kids do not want to hear it anymore: they dubbed it “The Song That Makes Us Cry.” Naomi still talks about you. When our rabbit died at the end of the summer, she fell apart. She kept crying and saying, “Loosing Papy and Hopper the same year is too much to bear.” Standing strong and tall on her four and a half years of life, she understands pain better than others ten times her age.

You come into my dreams again, only once in a while. What is most striking is your smell. I can smell you when you come in my dreams: the sweetness of your cologne mixed with the salt of your sweat; it permeates my nostrils until I wake up. Only then do I realize how much I miss you, you and all of your imperfections, you with your temper, your last word. You come in my dreams and talk and I can hear your voice too. When I wake up, I remember your accent, from all the way up North, an accent I cannot duplicate.

We buried your ashes exactly five months after your departure. Linda, Bernard and I made our own little ritual and it felt like you had just passed away, again, the day before. We relived your death a second time around and it was not a party.

When you took your last breath, I saw the last breath of all of humanity: the unavoidable destiny of mankind. As an ineffable moment of stillness, this last breath makes us One. Wherever we come from, from any place on Earth, there will always be, at some point, a last breath. When you took yours, this is what I saw. This image that comes and goes is a reminder of my finiteness, of everyone's finiteness.

When I think of you, I am reminded of where I come from. When I see your last breath, I am reminded of where I am going, ultimately, whatever road I take. As I think about my own death, I appreciate life for what it has to offer, for all the little things, which it is made up of, and I am grateful. Thank you for having passed along such a gift.

Why start my own blog?

2004-12-28T16:48:00.000-05:00

I am using this medium as a way to channel my thoughts and experiences. I have created this site totally impulsively. In fact, if I had taken even just a few moments to think it over, this site would probably not even exist. My fear would have stopped me. However, as I want to create more opportunities to engage my creativity in the coming year, I believe a blog can be a good vehicle.

We shall see...