Ermine,
(Lemon County)
Calif.—

My Dearest Y.,

Things pop in my head, so I apologize if I mention one or two things which I already have. I do so only referentially.

My friend’s father died suddenly. I thought, how quickly our life circumstances can change, from ideal to dire.

It immediately reminded me of my experience with V. — though, of course, I would never consider comparing a death to a break-up.

I saw some similarity, however. Within a few weeks, I had broken up with someone I loved — dearly — only to commit to someone I didn’t.

I panicked, I ran, I chose safety.

I wondered, what about love seems so threatening, fearful, even terrifying? Do we fear being seen? known? rejected?

Do we fear we will repulse the one we care about most deeply? In the moment, I had a theory. I always have theories.

I thought love affects us that way because it makes us admit our self now includes another. Even when alone, someone abides with us.

This explains why when one of an elderly couple dies the other often closely follows. A large part of them died too.

I frequently — in spite of myself, really — watch a TV show where the living try to reconcile with the death of a loved one.

They say — every single one of them — “I think about them every day.” They still talk to them. They still feel their presence.

Death does not break love, but rather reveals it. Like a marionette bereft of the doll, you finally pay attention to the wires.

Death does this, so does loss and absence.

I don’t mean “absence makes the heart grow fonder” — I mean “absence reveals the heart.” Love, if real, requires no predicate.

We truly love when we love anyway. We must love something in its absence before — or even in order to — love it in its presence.

The Christian tradition asks us specifically to take this same leap of faith. I prefer to keep this missive secular, though.

(You know that most of the New Testament consists of letters, though, don’t you? Fun fact!)

I don’t doubt I’ve said some variation of this in some other place in some other way. I had something else to tell you, actually.

Exactly while I had all this in my head, I had a conversation with someone who said to me something I always say to myself.

She said, — you can only lie to others if you can first lie to yourself. I say, — if you can lie to yourself, you can lie to anyone.

As before, something popped into my head. When she said that, I thought, what truths do I — can I — tell myself, at this moment?

Several came to mind, and each one took my breath away. The feelings, I suppose, one might have seeing El Capitan, for example, a deep humility.

The truth serves no real purpose, I thought, but to please, awe, and also, like the monument, stand before us incontrovertibly.

I had one other thing to say but literally, as I typed this, I discovered my long-time priest, counselor, and friend has died.

I don’t know what to say, except that I will probably still pester her with questions! — if only in my head.

All. Always.

E.—

P.S. — I will always remember a story she told me during one of our many talks. Shortly after her first husband died, she said, she went for a drive. On the drive, she suddenly had the feeling that she should pull over. She pulled over and got out of the car, and as she did so, a flock of white birds — which shouldn’t have been there that time of year — leapt out of the reeds and flew away. She thought that he asked her to stop there then, that his spirit was with them.

Don’t hang out with “spiritual people” if you can’t handle these types of stories.