Three years ago this past Friday, May 28, my beloved went to the local emergency room and said, “You must do something with me; I am a danger to myself.” Â Fourteen months later she ended her life. Â This past Friday, a date selected prior to appreciating its 2018 antecedent, I drove my boys,
My guru says don’t be shy about getting in God’s face.  You’re His child, after all.  Hat-in-hand is no way to approach your parent. Demand what serves your noblest aspirations.  So I say: G, I’ve boiled it down. I need two things to feel the path I’m traveling is blessed.
 I can’t imagine passing up the fun of writing my own obituary. Unlike more traditional obits, there will be no narrative of worldly achievements, connections, good fortune, heartbreak and general shenanigans. Instead, an exploration of the key question one might pose in response to those things. So what? Our control over what happens is tiny
When my beloved and I first became sweethearts nearly a half-century ago, our only piece of art was a poster of hers that read: A friend is someone who leaves you with all your freedom intact, Â but who, by what he thinks of you, obliges you to be fully what you are. ~ J. L’Heureux.
Among the thousands of stones that have surfaced on the land I tend. I have relatives who are Chinese. Years ago I asked one of them why was it, did he suppose, that the eyes of Chinese people are shaped as they are. What environmental circumstance caused their eyes to adapt in the particular way
The question was one I’d never before considered: How would I characterize myself? Sidestepping thought, as I try to do as much as possible, I opened my heart and mouth to the voice of intuition. Out popped: “I’m a very gifted person.”  Not gifted talented, but rather someone who has received many gifts. I
My beloved’s suicide plus 18 months. The word is not the thing, and all I can give you is words. Seemingly never-ending new depths in the ocean of surrender.  Familiar after familiar revealed as ephemeral.  Perhaps it’s a feeling one has as death of the body approaches. Only for me it isn’t
Today I enter year 78. Sixteen months and a day after my beloved’s departure. Not three weeks in my new home. Last night I was guided to watch “This is It,” the documentary of the three-month rehearsal of what was to be the capstone tour of Michael Jackson’s career, which of course didn’t occur because