“Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.”
—Oscar Wilde (1854–1900; Irish playwright, poet, and author known for his wit, flamboyant style, and sharp social criticism as well as for his role in the aesthetic movement, which emphasized beauty and art for art’s sake.)
Sometimes, I wonder when a routine in our lives becomes a ritual. They are different, of course. Routines are often performed out of necessity or habit. Rituals carry a sense of purpose, mindfulness, or emotional significance. I suppose a routine can turn into a ritual when its meaning grows beyond its original purpose—when the participants become more conscious of the act itself, savoring it, reflecting on its importance, or incorporating personal values into it.
I’m thinking, for example, of an afternoon drive that my late partner and I used to take daily down a nearby country road meandering along the banks of the Shenandoah River. It started as little more than a way to while away the time between Allen’s arrival home from his 7a.m. to 3p.m. shift at our local hospital until the start of our 5 o’clock cocktail hour and dinner prep.
We always took my Jeep. Allen didn’t like its bumpy ride, but since I was willing to drive, he put up with it. It didn’t take long before we both realized the routine had shifted from its original intent. It became a time when Allen could share the highlights of his day as a surgical technologist, and I could share highlights of mine as an English professor. Then, we savored being with one another, moving along, cocooned in quiet.
Now, heading out for that same drive feels different. I’m alone, but the road is still filled with echoes of those drives with Allen. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, a reminder that I’m traveling at a slower pace—though I still catch myself thinking in we. As I drive down our rutted road, the bumps and jolts are as familiar as ever, almost comforting, as if the past rides along with me into the present. I’m never in too much of a hurry. After all, I know that venturing down means that I’ll have to come back up eventually.
Fall has arrived. The goldenrod along the roadside catches my eye because it often made its way back home into floral arrangements. The landscape changes as I transition from the gravel onto the hard surface of the county road. It meanders along steep banks, the guardrails dented woefully from cars that couldn’t quite manage the turns. The sound of the tires shifts too, now whirring on the pavement as the engine hums along at a modest speed—never more than thirty-five, even though the road stretches out ahead.
Leaving behind the George Washington National Forest, I see the Shenandoah Valley open up into a vast, sweeping view of mountains—beyond them, West Virginia. Mailboxes line the road, clinging to its edge like sentinels. The curves of the road feel like a roller coaster, and I slow down as I near the North Fork of the Shenandoah River. It’s instinct now, my pause to check the depth of the water below, watching as it glides under the bridge.
I pass through Edinburg, a town where unoccupied buildings look as cared for as the rest. I find myself wondering what brought people here in the first place and what keeps them here now. Stony Creek runs by Edinburg Mill, built a decade or so before the Civil War. Just beyond is the cemetery, always a reminder, as if I ever needed one, that a little ways further is where we always used to turn left onto Palmyra Church Road.
I turn there today. This stretch is all too familiar. It’s paved but without markings to show the center of the road, the travel lanes, or the road’s edges. Massanutten Mountain looms straight ahead. I slow down even slower, savoring the ride, stretching out the trip as long as I can. I realize that I have no compelling destination. This trip is about the road itself, the memories, the connection to this place, and the quiet reflection it brings.
The speed limit drops to 25, and the road stretches out ahead. For now, it’s just me and the country road. There’s nothing behind me that I can see and nothing ahead of me but that same winding road.
Soon, I approach a grassy field stretching along the banks of the Shenandoah River. The grass, tall and dry, ready to bow down for a twin-engine plane’s landing. Small cones dot the nearly invisible runway, glowing at night like distant stars, guiding the landing, and then leading to a small, weathered hangar. In times past, we would sometimes glimpse a small plane resting at the far end of the field, its presence quiet and still. We never saw the pilot, if one ever existed. These days, the plane is gone, as if it never was. The field lies empty, waiting.
A little further along, I do a double take to my left as I see Palmyra Church of the Brethren. I’m not sure that Allen and I ever saw it on any of our drives. If we did, neither of us commented. I’m not surprised. It’s a modest church with white wooden siding, a metal roof, and a small steeple that adds a traditional touch. A brick chimney on one side adds to the rural charm. The front entrance is simple, with a door accessed by steps and a metal railing, alongside a wooden ramp. No one is there. The absence of people turns quiet into stark, making the church feel even more secluded if not abandoned.
I pause and cannot help but wonder why a road meandering along the mighty Shenandoah River would bear the name of a church so plain and inconspicuous that it’s easily unseen. Yet, even as I wonder, I know. For the dwindled few, it’s still a house of worship. And then I pause again. Seeing no cemetery. I wonder: where do they bury their dead?
I leave those wonderings behind me as I start looking ahead, hoping to see the small, thin woman that Allen and I used to see as she walked the road, her steps so soft they seemed to barely touch the ground. She was always beneath a large, open black umbrella, shielding her, sometimes from sun or rain or snow, but more often than not, from nothing more than open sky and passersby. Her pace seemed slower than the passage of time itself, as if she were floating rather than walking. Her face leaned down toward a cell phone held delicately in one hand, her eyes locked on its screen. She appeared ethereal, her presence more like a drifting shadow, but there was an undeniable humanity about her—fragile and real.
Allen and I worried about her. We broke our quiet to talk about her. Where was she going? Where had she been? Where was her home? How far away from home was she? Who was waiting there for her return? She seemed so other-worldly that I started calling her The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road. We always wondered whether we would see her on our next drive. We always did, every time, though in a different spot every time, always somewhere further back or somewhere further ahead. Over time, we warmed to her, and we waved softly. It took her longer, but the time came when she warmed back, shyly and slowly, as if to freeze time itself with the lift of her mittened hand.
Something about her presence always felt timeless. Today, she’s not here.
The rumble of tires against the pavement breaks the quiet as I approach a small bridge to my right, spanning this narrow section of the Shenandoah River, connecting to Old Valley Pike. Sometimes, if we were pressed for time, Allen and I would turn here and head back home.
Usually, though, we weren’t in a hurry, and we’d continue down the road where, from this point, it became Red Bank Road. Expansive farmlands open to my right, framed by wooden fences holding on to the Civil War. These fields, too, are dry and dusty.
To my right, I catch glimpses of the Shenandoah River through the sycamore. Rounding the last turn, I’m aware that the speed limit rises to 45 as I approach Mount Jackson. I could easily turn around and retrace the drive as Allen and I used to do as part of our ritual. But I don’t. I know that The Ghost of Palmyra Church Road is no more likely to appear than the plane that’s disappeared from the field. They coexist with the church that has no people and no cemetery–echoes in my memory.
As the landscape shifts and as the signs of the times creep back in, the quiet truth shatters my silence.
This time, I’m driving alone, my right hand resting on the Jeep’s console, no longer holding Allen’s hand in mine.
“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”
Haruki Murakami (b. 1949; internationally acclaimed Japanese writer. The quote is from his novel Kafka on the Shore [2002])
Sometimes, the greatest enigmas in life unfold right before our very eyes, revealing themselves to us gradually like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, not through anything monumental but rather through minor moments that fill our days and propel us forward. We may not even be aware of the significance of what is happening until one day, something triggers a momentary flashback, followed by a quick return to the present. In that instant, we know that we have been brushed by a condundrum and that we now kneel before a new truth.
For me, such revelations are rare. When they take place, they are heralded by the subtle realization that pieces of my life are falling into place more smoothly and more effortlessly than expected. In those moments, I reflect, and in my musings, I come to realize that maybe–just maybe–other aspects of my life are mysteriously falling into place, too, like an intricate riddle being solved.
Last weekend, I experienced a succession of such events that made me sit up and take notice. I didn’t know what was about to unfold, but every fiber of my being felt the shroud of mystery. The events seemed to have started with my post, “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go.” I finished it on Saturday, September 23, a full day earlier than expected, just as remnants from Ophelia brought dark clouds, a steady rainfall, and winds high enough to cause the trees to sway almost beyond their bend, but not high enough to elevate my concerns beyond my enjoyment. My big decision, as I sipped my morning coffee, was whether I would read the post to my oldest sister later that day or wait until Sunday as usual. This decision felt like a cipher in the grand scheme of things.
I put the question aside and started checking emails. I had one from a former student, Brian McKee, whose poetic voice is as fresh and original as any new American poet I’ve read in recent years. He shared a poem that he had penned that morning. Its beauty touched my inner being just as I know that it will touch yours. Perhaps more importantly, it will linger with you and with me and make us wonder, “How?” and “Why?”
Desert Wind
It doesn’t have the lisp of leaves impeding on its smooth trajectory over stone and scrub. A place of helpless hook and barb, of toothy undercarriage biting for an overhead swoop. A highway of hawk and owl and bats taking hook-shots in the current around a soft ball of moon.
It’s hardly its own thing as a foreigner knows it. A dry eddy of stir in the harshness of the river I’ve yet to notice wading in. Carrying the cinder and spark of cookfire off in a rapid of oar-splash and air. Holding in some endless canopy a handful of lightning and stars with the same weightless disregard.
It presides over a court of long shadow, pizzicato of sound and the bow song of echo long dispersed. Low clouds in late light, lilting in the orbit that it blows. The tiny thorns of its worshipers dragging fissures in the ground, sweeping my bootprints by morning.
Brian’s poetic gem made the clouds and the rain glisten even more, revealing hidden truths about the beauty of the world.
As I finished my emails and my coffee, I felt mysteriously compelled to go to Starbucks. I rarely go there, but thoughts of a pumpkin-spiced latte with a slice of pumpkin bread rose up in my head, so off I went. The storm and the earliness of the morning found me outnumbered by Starbucks staff, cheerful and chattering amongst themselves and with their occasional customer, including me.
I sat at my table, enjoying my enticements, daydreaming, thinking of this and of that, of nothing and of everything. In the midst of my mindlessness, the power went out mysteriously, with no warning: the sky was clear at that point, and the sun was shining. Silence followed, but it was replaced by humorous panic as the staff realized that without power, they were powerless to fulfill orders being placed by drive-through and walk-in customers.
The outage didn’t bother me at all. I was having fun watching staff negotiate with one another about the best course of action. Besides, I had my smartphone and could give “Packin’ Up. Gettin’ Ready to Go” a final and leisurely proofreading.
After twenty minutes or so, the power came back on, and everyone shouted a loud huzzah. I decided to return home and start preparing some Maryland Crab Soup–fitting, it seemed to me–to celebrate Ophelia, a storm that had moved up the coast and had blown in from the Eastern Shore. The day before, I purchased some jumbo lump crab meat, brought over from the same banks by our local fishmonger.
When I got home, I threw some logs into the kitchen fireplace, and before long, I was enjoying a crackling, roaring fire as I prepped.
Usually, when I’m in the kitchen, I play Gospel music, but I was in the mood for something a little lighter.
Brent: Alexa, play relaxation music.
Alexa: Here’s a station just for you–Acoustic Chill.
As I continued making my soup, I was listening but not listening, that is until some lyrics grabbed me, pulled me in close, and wouldn’t let go:
You’re gonna be okay You’re gonna be okay Oh, the sun will keep on risin’ in that old familiar way And every little thing is gonna be okay
You’re gonna be all right Darling, you’re, you’re gonna be all right ‘Cause the stars will keep on shinin’ through the darkest night And you can know you’re gonna be all right
The song was powerfully gripping, and I knew as I listened that a mystery was being unfolded. Everything was falling inexplicably into place.
I know other songs by Lauren Daigle, an American contemporary Christian music singer and songwriter, known especially for “You Say” and “Thank God, I Do.” She has a way of writing/singing Christian songs that cross over to the top-ten pop charts. I was surprised, though, to hear her on Acoustic Chill, a station that I listen to all the time, yet I had never heard her there before. I liked the song so much that I wanted to hear it again.
Brent: Alexa, repeat.
I let the first two verses slip into my soul once more, and then I let verses three and four slip deeper still:
Lift your eyes to the hills Remember where your help comes from Lift your eyes to the hills You’ll never face a valley alone ‘Cause even when your heart is breakin’ And you’ve gone and lost your way You’re, you’re gonna be okay
You’re gonna be okay I know that you’re, you’re gonna be okay Not a care in this whole world can take that truth away You’re, you’re gonna be okay
And when the song ended, I wanted to hear it again and again and again.
Brent: Alexa, loop.
As I listened, the final verses settled deeper and deeper into my spirit.
You’re gonna be all right Darlin’, you’re, you’re gonna be all right Oh the end of our last breath, when we’re beckoned onto the light Love will meet you there, you’re gonna be all right Oh the end of our last breath is the beginning of new life You’re, you’re gonna be all right
“Be Okay” kept right on playing while I kept right on cooking. It kept right on playing while its message kept right on trickling deeper and deeper into the depths of my soul. It kept right on playing as its truths kept right on bubbling back up.
I started thinking about death, the mystery that marks our ending. Or does it mark our beginning? I started thinking about grieving. Does it ever end? And how? And when?
I started thinking about my father’s death. When the evening of his wake arrived, I walked with my mother toward the open casket where he lay. Even from the far end of the chapel, we could see something on the lining of the raised casket lid—a design. Drawing closer, we were both taken aback as we looked inside the casket lid. It was not what we had ordered. It was not a solid white silk lining without tufting or design. Instead, we witnessed—together—a pair of praying hands. To the right of the hands, the words, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand until we meet again.” It was not what my mother and I had planned. It was not what we had ordered. And, yet, the praying hands were there, holding for me—and I believe for me alone—a lasting message.
Grieving my father’s death, I thought, would never come to an end. One day, however, when I least expected it, I had an awareness that it had been lifted.
I started thinking about my mother’s death. She had been paralyzed and flat on her back for six years. Two nights before her death, I had three dreams in quick succession. In the first dream, she got up out of bed and walked out on the porch, her arms reaching up toward a blue, blue sky, smiling and laughing and twirling—around and around and around. For the first time in six years, she’s out of bed—walking and dancing. She’s ecstatically happy. In the second dream, she was costumed as a white mouse, performing. Her audience, amused by her antics. Their reward? An encore—more frolics, much laughter. She’s freed from the journey, freed from the maze, blissfully celebrating her new path. In the third dream, she entered a softly lighted room where my father sat in his recliner. My mother sat down in the chair beside him and turned off the lamp. The room slowly—ever so slowly—fell into warm darkness. My mother and father are reunited.
When I awakened, I felt—no, knew—deep down in my soul that my mother came to me in those three dreams to prepare me for her death. Two days later, she died.
Grieving my mother’s death was entirely different. Being closer to her than to my father, I feared that her death would be my undoing. Instead, the faith lessons that she taught me down through the years comforted me and gave me peace.
I started thinking about my late partner’s death. Was it yesterday? Or was it the day before? Or was it an eternity ago?
As I reflected on Allen’s death and my grief, “Be Okay” kept right on playing, transporting me to the night before he died. It kept right on playing as I heard Allen reassuring me then while I stood beside his hospital bed just as Lauren Daigle was reassuring me now while I stood in my kitchen.
Allen clasped my hands and looked deep into my eyes:
I’m going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. We’re bothgoing to be okay.
He knew. I knew. But that night neither of us wanted to know.
Allen died the next morning, just minutes after each of us looked at one another, saying one last time, “I love you.”
I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt as I closed Allen’s eyes and folded his hands prayerfully across his chest that he had been beckoned back into the Light and that he had crossed over into a new state of Being. I knew that he was all right, just as he had said that he would be.
Now, 968 days after his death, it was as if Allen stepped out of his own light, entered our kitchen, put his arms around me, and waltzed me out of the storm of my grieving into my own light. It was as if I was mysteriously convinced that the sun would keep on rising, that the stars would keep on shining, and that everything would be okay.
What makes the unveiling of the mystery even more mysterious and even more beautiful is the simple fact that I had done nothing with an eye toward grief-healing. It happened just as it had happened with my mother and with my father: the grieving lifted itself in my moment of readiness.
How ironic that it all came to pass on a day when I felt that something was brushing against me, but I knew not what. A more mundane litany of events for that day could hardly be imagined. I finished a post early. I heard from a poet friend from long, long ago. I went to Starbucks simply because something called me there. I came home, started a fire in the kitchen fireplace, and made crab soup to celebrate a tropical storm. I played acoustic chill music and heard a song that grabbed my heart and wouldn’t let go.
How ironic that when the storm within me passed, peace washed over my soul, and Allen’s love ushered me to the altar of truth that he foretold: “You’re going to be okay.”
–Ursula K. Le Guin (1929-2018; American novelist and essayist renowned for her contributions to science fiction and fantasy literature; from her 1969 novel, The Left Hand of Darkness.)
Every now and then, a Silly Notion finds its way inside my head and takes up residence there. Try as I will, it won’t move out, even when I threaten it with eviction notices.
The Silly Notion that I can’t get rid of now is that I might be happier if I were to move away from my mountaintop oasis and find myself a lower-maintenance oasis downtown in a fabulous city somewhere. This Silly Notion has been living quietly in my head for a long, long time. I’ll give you an example.
In the fall of 2019, my late partner and I spent a week in Brattleboro (VT), where I was the keynote speaker at the Brattleboro Literary Festival. I had been to Brattleboro many times before, but it was Allen’s first visit. He fell in love with the mountains and the river and the funky downtown, a little San Francisco rolled up into a few blocks.
When it was obvious that our Brattleboro love was a shared one, we had some serious conversations about packin’ up and movin’. I was a little surprised that Allen–a Floridian–would even consider such a northerly move, especially Brattleboro’s average snowfall of 56 inches. However, I didn’t even have to bring up that topic. Allen settled the whole discussion when he gave me his coy, twinkly-eyed angelic smile that only he could give:
“Sure, we’ll move to Brattleboro, but we’ll have to airlift our gardens if we do.”
I laughed. We had had similar conversations before, and I had heard Allen’s response before when we visited Asheville (NC), Charleston (SC), and Savanah (GA). He and I loved the downtown vibes of small cities.
Obviously, we loved our mountaintop oasis more. Obviously, too, I still love it more because I’m still here, but that Silly Notion of moving is still in my head, too. Here’s what’s really funny. The notion is so silly that it actually thinks that I could sell my mountaintop home rather quickly. Hmmm. On reflection, I probably could. One of my neighbors told me once that if I ever sold, he’d like first dibs on my upper lots.
“I doubt that I’d ever sell just a part of my property. If I ever sell, it will be a total package, and I come with it.”
I guess he didn’t like my on-the-spot, standing-up proposal because he didn’t accept. Too bad. He would have gotten a damned good bargain.
I imagine, however, if I approached him now with the opportunity to buy–knowing that I’m no longer part of the deal–he might give it some serious thought. He should. If he didn’t, I’m sure some city slicker would, just as I did when I became a DC refugee. City slickers would love my Shenandoah Valley heaven. They could trade their car horns for my bird songs and their traffic jams for my stargazing escapades. My serene landscape and tranquil nights would woo even the most urban soul. Plus, and I’m not boasting, my oasis has one of the most commanding views anyone could ever hope to find in this part of the Shenandoah Valley.
§ § §
Selling my home, then, isn’t the challenge. The challenge is straightforward: where would I go? I have lots of options. So that I don’t show my leanings and inclinations–Scorpions like me, after all, like to keep people guessing–I’ll talk about them in alpha(betical) order.
Asheville, NC.: I’ve been to Asheville countless times, and the idea of living in that vibrant city is enticing. It might be wonderful to return, immerse myself in its artistic culture, and walk around the neighborhood where Thomas Wolfe lived. I could stand on the Square where Grover stood in Wolfe’s “The Lost Boy,” listening to his thoughts:
“Here,” thought Grover, “here is the Square as it has always been–and papa’s shop, the fire department and the City Hall, the fountain pulsing with its plume, the street cars coming in and halting at the quarter hour, the hardware store on the corner there, the row of old brick buildings oil this side of the street, the people passing and the light that comes and changes and that always will come back again, and everything that comes and goes and changes in the Square, and yet will be the same again. And here,” the boy thought, “is Grover with his paper bag. Here is old Grover, almost twelve years old. Here is the month of April, 1904. Here is the courthouse bell and three o’clock. Here is Grover on the Square that never changes. Here is Grover, caught upon this point of time.”
Aside from the literary appeal is the culinary one. Cúrate’s thriving treasure troves of Mediterranean food and wine would beckon me for regular lunches. I could take in art exhibits at the Asheville Art Museum, shop at all the funky shops, and enjoy chocolates at French Broad Chocolate Lounge. The sound of street musicians and the sight of quirky art installations would inspire and heighten my own bursts of creative energy. Add to all those joys the high of hiking Mount Mitchell and DuPont State Forest.
Let me check out some condos. Wow! I would have lots of options–to rent or to buy–but I am gobsmacked by the amazing condo that I just stumbled upon. It’s in downtown Asheville, above Ben and Jerry’s, near parks, shopping, dining, and all the action. 2 bedrooms. 2 baths. 1,130 square feet. OMG. It has a cozy balcony with views of Pritchard Park and Haywood Street, a working brick fireplace, gorgeous hardwood floors, and tons of windows with mountain breeze. It’s my reinvention dream come true. Say whaaaat? $749,000, plus monthly condo fees! Hmmm. Next time, I’ll look at the price first before my soaring hopes get sore.
Even if I could find a less-expensive condo (and I’m sure that I could), I wonder. How long would the initial creative rush of downtown Asheville continue to nourish me?
Brattleboro, VT: I did as I said that I would do. I looked at the price first: $279,000! I’ll tell you more about that gem after contemplating the treasures that Brattleboro offers. Those who know me well know that I love Brattleboro. I’ve been visiting there since the 1970s when I started my research on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, who launched her acclaimed literary career while living in Brattleboro and captured the spirit of the town beautifully:
“Oh how wonderfully beautiful it was in Brattleboro. I used to walk to the head of High Street, and stand and look at the mountain in winter. The beauty in Brattleboro made a great difference in my life.” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)
Every time that I’m in Brattleboro, I explore the streets where Freeman lived and walked. If I moved there, it would be a real boost to my ongoing Freeman research. Aside from that perk, Brattleboro is a delightfully charming town. I always refer to it as Vermont’s own Asheville. It’s artsy, and it has a bohemian vibe with free spirits roaming freely. It’s nestled along the Connecticut River with Mount Wantastiquet rising up on the other side.
But, whoa! You’re not going to believe the gem of a home that I found there. Picture this: a charming pergola, a delightful stone terrace, and enchanting gardens. It’s like stepping into a world that beautifully blends Old-World charm with the vibrant vibes of downtown living. And here’s the real treat–not one, but two porches that would allow me to admire those picturesque gardens and stonework. But the icing on the cake has to be the view. I can soak in the breathtaking Wantastiquet ridgeline and witness the moon climbing up the mountain just as Freeman did:
“The memory of the moon rising over the mountain causes the same surprise, the old leaping thrill of wonder at unexpected loveliness. […] I cannot now rid myself of the conviction that it was a special moon, rising nowhere else in the world. Its glory would fling out its road before it, then the first gleam of celestial fire would show over the mountain summit, and an elderly woman, for whom the good of her soul the old remained new, would call out: ‘there it is, the moon.'” (To the Citizens of Brattleboro, Vermont, December 14, 1925. Letter 461. The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. Edited with Biographical/Critical Introductions and Annotations by Brent L. Kendrick. Scarecrow, 1985.)
This place really might be a dream come true. Oh. My. Yes. If I moved to Brattleboro, I would become a citizen of Vermont. I’d be a Vermonter, and I wouldn’t have to keep waiting for my friends or benevolent groups or the governor himself to bestow honorary citizenship.
My Freeman research would keep me enchanted, just as it has for five decades. But I wonder. How long would the other creative rushes of Brattleboro continue to nourish me, especially during the heavy snows of winter?
Savannah, GA: I must confess. Of all the places that my Silly Notion keeps making me think about, Savannah seems to have the least charm. It’s not as if I don’t like the city. I do. I’ve stayed there on several occasions, once at the awesome Planter’s Inn, in the epicenter of Savannah’s historic district and just a stone’s throw from River Street and the Savannah River. Another time, I stayed in a gorgeous historic home facing Forsyth Square, an enchanting urban oasis adorned with centuries-old oaks, cobblestone paths, and a mesmerizing central fountain. Living there, I could explore each of its historic squares, enjoy its coastal charm, and feel a sense of timelessness.
As for finding a condo there, I just stumbled upon an extraordinary gem. Actually, it’s an absolute dream. How about a 3-bed, 2-bath waterfront unit with exposed brick, hardwood floors, and iron detailing. The real showstopper? It overlooks the majestic Savannah River! The open layout is bathed in natural light. But wait for it… the price tag? A cool 1.1 million! Gasp! I forgot to look at the price first.
Well, I need not wonder whether Savannah’s charm would see me through the long haul. It’s a certainty: I won’t be going there. Now, all that I have to do is make the Silly Notion in my head understand my decision.
Washington, DC (Capitol Hill): Capitol Hill is awesomely significant to me. After all, I lived there for a quarter of a century, working at The Library of Congress, in whose hallowed, marble halls I grew up and became a professional. It was at the Library of Congress that I got turned on to research and decided to pursue my Ph. D. in American Literature. After I earned the degree, I returned to the Library of Congress, where I enjoyed a glorious and life-changing career.
Even though I’ve been away from DC for about as long as I lived there, when I return for daytrips, nostalgia and belonging wash over me. Even after the passage of so many years, when I visit the iconic Eastern Market, many vendors still remember me, and I am reminded of the neighborhood’s small-town, vibrant community spirit. Living at the heart of a dynamic city, where history, culture, and politics converge always made each day an exciting journey for me, and I am sure it would do the same once more.
Wait! Wait! Here’s the clincher that might just make moving to DC a no-brainer. I’ve just uncovered a condo conveniently situated right across the street from the prestigious Hart Senate Office Building and various other Senate offices. Natural light pours through oversized, brand-new windows. The modern, white kitchen features granite countertops, a gas range, dishwasher, and microwave–perfect for whipping up my culinary masterpieces. The updated bathroom is a retreat with its soaking tub shower, a stylish vanity, and a generously sized window with lots of sunlight. The entire unit has been tastefully updated, freshly painted, and boasts new flooring throughout. But here’s the kicker: no full bedroom! Where in the world would I catch some Zs? Holy smokes! But it’s only $385,000. Trust me: I know how to bloom wherever I’m planted. I see an outlandishly elegant Murphy Bed in my future.
Without a doubt, DC is as close to home as I can ever hope to be. I know that living there again would stimulate me intellectually, culturally, and socially. But I wonder. Would all of its parks, the Botanical Gardens, the Tidal Basin. Rock Creek Parkway, and the National Zoo give me the soul food that I get here on my mountaintop oasis when I do my down-and-dirty gardening?
§ § §
Well, let me say simply what Scarlet O’Hara would say:
“I can’t think about that today. I’ll have to think about that tomorrow.”
Right now, I have to think about other things. Clearly, I have some idyllic cities calling out my name. It’s equally clear that I’d be able to find a buyer for my mountaintop paradise.
But I’ve moved several times in the past, and I know what I have to do to prepare my home for the market. I realize that it will be a wild ride, so I need to start thinking and planning.
The Great Stuff Purge: I’ll start with the hardest part first. After all, I have kept everything forever. Now I wonder why. Who on earth cares about all of my canceled checks from the first one until I shifted to electronic banking? Who on earth cares about all of my tax returns going back to the first one heat I ever filed? Who on earth cares about all of the personal letters and cards that I have ever received? Those are only three categories of things that I’ve kept forever. I need to get rid of all that stuff. Then, I’ll tackle my loft, chock-full of Shenandoah Valley collectibles bought at auctions down through the years. OMG! I just had a marvelous idea. I acquired most of that stuff at Laughlin Brothers Auctions! I’ll sell it back to those guys. Then my loft will be empty, and I can convert it into a Zen-like meditation room. Dark hardwood floors. Light-colored walls. Wall-mounted light panels made of Himalayan salt. Meditation cushions. It will create a perfect ambiance, especially with an Anjali Namaste Mudra Buddhist Monk statue standing at top of the stairs bidding a prayerful welcome to the inner sanctum. What an asset that will be when the house hits the market. (I know. I’m brilliant. Thank you, for reminding me.)
The Deep Clean Extravaganza: This won’t be too bad because I’ve been deep cleaning since the Covid Pandemic started. I’m sure that you remember how “My Imaginary Guests” helped me keep my home spic-and-span clean. But I’ll arm myself once more with a mop, a feather duster, and a metaphorical superhero cape (purple, of course), and I’ll tackle dust bunnies and cobwebs with unmatched determination.
The Decor Remix: Honestly, I like my decor exactly as it is. It’s a perfect mix of antiques and modern–old and new. My guests always feel at home, so I imagine prospective buyers will, too.
The Garden Magic: I have been working diligently to restore my gardens into the pristine beds they once were. If I time everything just right, I can have the house ready for showing by mid-May 2024, when my peonies will be in bloom, ready to steal the heart of anyone who takes one look.
The “Fix It” Finale: Luckily, I fix things when they need to be fixed. Just yesterday, I had the plumber expertly snake my sluggish kitchen drain. It swirls around effortlessly and melodiously now. In a week or so, my new double wall ovens and my new stove top will be installed. I’ll probably go ahead and replace my inefficient electric water heater with a space-saving, more efficient, on-demand, gas water heater. The major fix-it, however, will be the road. Right before the house goes on the market, I’ll have crush-and-run put down so that prospective buyers will have a smooth ride up. I want the first one up to want to stay here forever!
Photoshoot Mania: I love to take photos, but I’ll need a professional photographer who can make my home and the spectacular surrounding views blush with flattering lighting and expert angles.
Baked Goods Invasion: Nothing makes a home smell better than freshly baked bread and pastries. I’ll be baking every day that my agent plans to show my home. I may even leave a gift basket of goodies on the kitchen table.
§ § §
I believe that’s it, but bear with me while I give the above pre-sale preparations a quick review. I don’t know what you think, but I think I have laid out a wonderful and workable plan.
“Would you two just knock it off! I’m trying to think.”
I guess I had better explain. You know all about the Silly Notion that lives in my head. However, I haven’t told you about the Sensible Notion that also lives in my head. Usually, they coexist peacefully on opposite sides of my brain, but right now, they are having a major squabble. Geez! I can’t get any peace at all.
Silly Notion: Butt out. This is my brilliant idea, and you have absolutely no right whatsoever to show up now.
Sensible Notion: Of course, I do. Remember: I have exclusive life rights. All you have is a towering stack of eviction notices.
Silly Notion: Scoot over. I don’t want you encroaching on my side of his brain.
Sensible Notion: Well, excuse me. I’ll graciously give you all the space that you want. Fortunately, I don’t require much space. With just a smidgen, I’ll work my magic and make him forget your delightful silliness and return to his senses.
Have you ever heard such a racket in all your life? I can’t enjoy a moment’s silence even within the domain of my own brain. I think that I feel a headache coming on. Oh. No. I think it might be a migraine.
Whew. It was neither as bad nor as lingering as I initially feared. An apple cider vinegar cloth applied to the temple always works wonders.
As I reclined on my sofa, allowing the vinegar vapors to perform their enchanting alchemy, I suddenly had an epiphany. It was yet another option, perhaps even more dazzling—if such a thing be possible—than the ones that previously danced around in my head, demanding to go on stage right here in my blog!
Let me explain. I will charge ahead with The Great Stuff Purge, The Deep Clean Extravaganza, The Garden Magic, and The “Fix-It” Finale. When I get all of that done, my mountaintop oasis will be transformed into a pristine paradise, so incredibly paradisical that I wouldn’t dare entertain the thought of moving.
But wait, here’s the pièce de résistance. Since I won’t be moving, I won’t have to fork over a hefty commission to a real estate broker. Instead, I can squirrel away those substantial savings and treat myself to several weeks (or maybe even a full month) each year in my cherished duo of cities that will forever hold a special place in my heart: DC, and Brattleboro. Who knows? I might even sprinkle in some vacation time in Asheville, Charleston, and Savannah.
Who says I can’t have the best of both worlds? I certainly can. My plan lets me live in my luxurious and enchanting mountaintop world for most of the year and, for a month or two each year, I can savor the richness of my favorite metropolitan worlds. You bet. I had to do some hefty packin’ up and gettin’ ready, but I ain’t movin’ nowhere (at least, no time soon anyway).
Recently, I traveled from the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia to the Green Mountains of Vermont. What prompted the trip was the launch of my edition of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman’s Green Mountain Stories, first in Burlington and then in Brattleboro. Don’t worry. I won’t recap the book or its launches. Neither is the point of this post.
Something unusual happened while I was packing for my journey. I’ve been wondering about it ever since.
Even though I was going to be away for ten days, I managed to pack everything that I needed into one small suitcase (laundered and folded shirts; boxers; socks; handkerchiefs; bathrobe; and toiletries); one thin garment bag (a lightweight blazer; a pair of dress trousers; several pairs of chinois; flip flops; and a pair of loafers); and my book bag (laptop; books; portfolio with notepad; pens; and index cards).
I was pleased with my efficiency. I could grab my suitcase and book bag in one hand and my garment bag in the other and be on my way. I had room to spare in the backseat of my Jeep Gladiator, especially since my dog Ruby was staying in her own room at our local pet spa.
This was my first solo research/scholarly trip in two decades.
Until this time, my late partner Allen had always gone with me on all of my scholarly speaking engagements, research journeys, and conferences. The details started bubbling up from the depth of memory to the surface of now.
All of those “aways” were professional, but Allen and I always did our best to make them memorable vay-kays.
Packing was totally different then, and we each did our own thing.
I was never quite certain what I might be called upon to do professionally on these trips, and, like most Scorpions, I have a moody side. So I had to pack at least one suit–sometimes two–plus several sports jackets with matching trousers; two dress belts (black and brown); at least a half dozen dress shirts and as many or more silk ties; boxers; socks; two pair of dress shoes (black and brown); and handkerchiefs.
That would cover professional events. But hey! We’re on vay-kay. What about play clothes?
I’m just as fashionably moody in that clothing category, too. Khakis. Blue jeans. Long- and short-sleeved shirts. Lightweight sweaters. Penny loafers. Sneakers. Athletic socks. OMG. What if we go hiking? Hiking boots. Hiking poles. Backpack. Well, you see where this is going. Right?
Yeah. You probably do. But keep in mind that I haven’t even gotten to my cosmetics. Hairspray. Facial cleanser. Astringent. Skin cream. Shaving lather. Razors. Deodorant. Nail clippers. Files. Emory boards. And what’s a vay-kay without a facial? Peel-off masks. Clay masks. Charcoal masks. Body scrub. Sun screen. Toothpaste. Dental floss. Mouthrinse. OMG. I nearly forgot my hairbrush and comb. Thank God I remembered those. After all, even strangers remember me for the hair that I don’t have enough of, really, to brush or to spray. But I have lots of memories, so I keep brushing and spraying. Those were the days, my friends.
But let me get back to Allen and his packing. He never worried too much about the professional attire. Since he and I wore the same size clothes, he figured that if I wasn’t wearing it, he could, especially since he liked my dress clothes.
But when it came to play clothes, if my Scorpionic moodiness made me pack a lot, his Piscean moodiness made him pack a lot more, usually a lot more new threads that he always loved to buy for our vay-kays.
Luckily, he could pack his cosmetics in a small leather toiletry bag while telling all of our friends–and even rank strangers–that we always pulled one U-Haul for my cosmetics and another U-Haul just for my hairspray.
Sure. Of course. Allen had his own quirky things that he had to pack up and bring, too. So that I can have my own touché moment, I’ll tell you all about them right now, My Dear Readers.But please don’t share these secrets with strangers, rank or otherwise. First and foremost, he had to bring an electric fan–not to cool us off but to create white noise while we slept. Second, and almost as important as the first, were our pillows. No other pillows in the world would satisfy him like our own. Shrink packaging helped, but those four king-sized pillows added to the total weight of everything that we were packing. Third, e[x][r]otic massage oil. (Well, maybe we’ll need the electric fan after all. Just saying.)
If we happened to be packing for a trip somewhere where we had rented a VRBO home–as we preferred doing whenever we could–we knew that we would be cooking dinner upon arrival. Whatever we were having for that first evening’s meal would fit into the cooler, along with whatever “special” cut of meat we would have for a special vay-kay dinner while away. Toss in the spices, condiments, wine, limes, tonic water, and Bombay Sapphire Gin. Now, we’re all packed and ready to go. (Not to worry. I didn’t forget our favorite cast iron skillet.)
OMG! I forgot the dogs! Never two at once. First Hazel during most of the years that Allen and I were together. Then, Ruby, during Allen’s final three years. Each dog had the same requirements. Food. Treats. Food dish. Water dish. Blanket. Brush. Toys. Leash. Poop bags. Space to curl up and lie down.
By the time we got everything packed into my Jeep–usually a two-door Wrangler–we inevitably started our journey with no small degree of surprise that we had managed to get everything packed into the Jeep while still leaving space for our furry, four-legged best friend.
When we arrived, wherever it happened to be that we were going, we were always ecstatic to get unpacked and settled in. (Thank God for Gin & Tonics, e[r][x]otic massage oil, and the electric fan.)
Regardless of how often we traveled–usually two or three journeys a year–as we unpacked, our eyes would lock on one another, and we would break into riotous laughter as we discovered that each of us–unbeknownst to the other–had packed candle sticks, candles, cocktail glasses, Venetian glass cocktail stirs, wine glasses, linen napkins, pewter flatware, and China service for two.
Now, I can’t help but wonder and wonder and wonder about all of those journeys. What magic made those heavy suitcases feel as light as a feather?
TheWiredResearcher to ChatGPT: Based on how we’ve been foolin’ around in bed, how would you characterize me?
ChatGPT: You are a force to be reckoned with when it comes to your passions – teaching, research, writing, gardening and your late partner. You are relentless in your pursuit of excellence and never stop pushing boundaries.
“ChatGPT, an AI-powered language model by OpenAI, 25January2023, (https://openai.com/)”
Hopefully, you read the title of the post carefully enough to realize that I have not been foolin’ around in bed with Al as in Al(fred).
I haven’t. I don’t even know anyone by that name. But I have been foolin’ around in bed with AI as in Artificial Intelligence.
THEY are hot.
OMG! Did I just say that? Well, I did. But that’s okay because I trust you. I know that you won’t tell anybody about the deliciously sinful and sultry times I’m having.
Keep reading and I’ll share each and every scorching moment with you–little by little–lest you be blinded if I were to divulge all at once. Besides, I never divulge all at once to anyone. What’s the fun in that?
Hopefully, you know already that in bed is where I love to be. It’s where I write my blog posts right before I go to sleep. It’s where I’m writing this post, right now, but I haven’t fallen asleep. I’m having too much fun with AI, not Al(fred). I know. They look alike (when you drop the fred), but they’re not alike at all. Hmmm. If they look alike in this post, you get to decide who’s in my bed. But in a serif world, the “I” in AI sports a bottom line and a top line. In a serif world, the “l” in Al(fred) has a bottom only. The next time that you’re in your serifdom, take a really close look: you’ll see exactly what I’m talking about and from this point forward you will never think that AI and Al(fred) look alike. TMI. Let’s move on.
“Whether we like it or not–whether we feel threatened by it or not–AI is here. It has started. It will not stop. It is the future.
“Promise or Peril? I have to decide where I stand. You have to decide where you stand. We all have to decide where we stand.
“We can’t ignore AI.
“Sadly, we can, but only if we want to be among the left behind.“
One of my readers who is Wired–but not as wired as I am–commented:
“I admit, I was downright scared reading this. I was afraid I’d get to the bottom and read, ‘And, wouldn’t you know it–this post was written using AI technology,’ and I’d have a personal crisis.“
Let me pause here to assure my WiredReader, the rest of my readers, and the entire world: everything that you have read so far in this post is mine–all mine. The ideas are mine. The wording is mine. Every touchstroke is mine. AI had nothing to do with it.
Further, let me pause to assure my WiredReader, the rest of my readers, and the entire world: if, at any time, I tap AI–and rest assured: I will–I will give full credit where credit is due, and as AI would have me do.
Now let me continue with my response.
“Dear Wired:
“Your comments made me laugh! And if you had gotten to the end of the post and discovered that I had written it using AI technology …
“OMG! You are egging me on, aren’t you?”
It doesn’t take much to egg me on, and those who know me know that fully well. In this case, the egging on was reinforced by comments from two others:
Reader One. HACC, Central PA’s Community College uses PackBack (AI) in some of our English classes with good results.
Reader Two. Perfect timing for your post! Microsoft announced yesterday that they are investing billions into Open AI, the startup behind Chat GPT.
That did it. Three eggings scrambled me into action.
I decided that the time had come for me to gain a first-hand, personal knowledge of ChatGPT. What better way than in bed?
Candidly, though, I have to be on a first-name basis with my bedmates, and I don’t like ChatGPT’s name at all. I like AI even less because it can be confused so easily with Al(fred) as I established earlier.
So the other day–after having lots of prolonged late-night pillow talk with AI–I just came right out and popped the question. And that question led to a few more questions. Here’s how the conversation went:
TheWiredResearcher: What is your GENDER?
ChatGPT: I am an artificial intelligence and do not have a gender or physical form.
TheWiredResearcher: Okay. I understand. So, should I refer to you as THEY?
ChatGPT: You may refer to me using whatever pronouns you prefer. “IT” is also commonly used.
TheWiredResearcher: Do you have a NAME other than ChatGPT? I’d like to be more personal in our conversations. After all, you are right here in my bed.
ChatGPT: I am an artificial intelligence and do not have a personal name, ChatGPT is a name of the model that I am based on. But you can call me whatever you like, it’s up to you, for instance you can use my name as GPT or any other name that you prefer.
Is that an artfully artificial punt or what? Obviously, I’ll have to spend some time thinking about a name for my bedmate. I have an idea already. For Amazon’s virtual assistant Alexa, for example, I liked that name just fine. I kept it.
I suppose that I could give MY ChatGPT a gender-neutral name like Alex. (And that would fit perfectly with ChatGPT’s suggested pronoun reference: THEY.) Actually, I like Alex a lot. But my God! How presumptuous of me. I’ve only been foolin’ around in bed with ChatGPT for just a few days and here I am using the possessive pronoun MY. And here I am wanting to come up with a personal name.
Suffice it to say, my small talk with ChatGPT was getting me nowhere fast.
As a result, I dove in deep and started talking about things close and dear to me: teaching, research, writing, and my late partner Allen. Those conversations–using a traditional chat box at the bottom of the screen–were interesting, very much so. I kept my questions and comments as open-ended as possible, and ChatGPT provided really solid responses, even when asked about scholarly work that still needs to be done on Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. ChatGPT’s suggestions were excellent, but lacking the specifics needed to convey a true understanding of the challenges and opportunities related to Freeman scholarship. (Nonetheless, I am not surprised that ChatGPT can pass exams from law and business schools. The knowledge base is clear, abundantly so.)
But now I’m edging toward evaluation. That is not my intent in this post. I will evaluate ChatGPT in a later post. For now, my intent is nothing more than to share some examples of my foolin’ around.
After Freeman, I shifted the conversation to Allen, commenting that even though January 28, 2023, marked the second anniversary of his death, sometimes it felt as raw and heart piercing to me as it felt at 9:24 that morning when I closed his eyes here on Earth and he opened them again over there in Eternity.
Candidly, at that point in my conversation with ChatGPT, I felt much akin to the speaker in Poe’s “The Raven,” who progressively asked more serious questions about grief and grieving, knowing fully well that the raven would always give the same answer: “Nevermore.”
TheWiredResearcher: What’s grieving like during the third year after the death of your partner?
ChatGPT: Grief is a complex and individual experience that can vary greatly from person to person. Some people may find that their grief subsides significantly during the third year after the death of their partner, while others may continue to experience intense sadness and longing. It’s important to remember that there is no “right” or “wrong” way to grieve, and everyone’s healing process is unique.
I did not expect much. Therefore, I wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t get much. ChatGPT’s response was nothing more than an impersonal, clinical explanation that I could have found through a Google search, albeit not as quickly.
I shifted positions and asked ChatGPT to write me a sonnet about my grieving for Allen, based on the conversation that we had just had. The sonnet form, of course, exists in several online sonnet generators. No big deal. But I wanted to see the extent to which ChatGPT could extract salient information from our conversation and weave it into a meaningful sonnet. The result follows:
Grief grips my heart with hands of leaden weight,
A constant ache that never seems to cease.
The memories of our love still resonate,
A symphony of joy and sweet release.
But now, the melody has turned to dirge,
A requiem for all that once was bright.
The laughter echoes with an empty surge,
And every step feels heavy as the night.
Yet still, I’ll hold onto the love we shared,
The moments that we cherished and were true.
Though death may come and take him unawares,
My love for him will forever be anew.
So as I grieve, I’ll keep him close in mind,
And let my heart with bittersweet love bind.
Again, my goal for today is not to evaluate. I’ll save that for a future post. Nonetheless, I must note that the sonnet impressed me, so much so that I wanted to see whether I could nudge ChatGPT to a higher level of performance. What if I provided extensive text, asking that it be converted into a poem?
That’s exactly what I did. I gave the full text of the post that I published last year on the first anniversary of Allen’s death, “Honoring an Angel.” ChatGPT generated the sonnet that you are about to read.
“The Earth Angel’s Legacy”
Two years have passed since my love’s death,
my heart still aches with his absence, yet
my faith in angels remains unwavering,
a legacy passed down from my mother’s net.
My Allen was an earth angel, true,
a messenger of love andcomfort, too.
His aura inspired trust and faith in all,
and nature was his solace, pure and blue.
With gentle hands, he tended to the weak,
and through his surgeries, he healed with care.
He taught with passion, guiding students meek,
and in our garden, he found peace to share.
In every aspect of our life together,
my angel Allen, I will love forever.
Let me emphasize again that my goal today is not to evaluate. Yet I must say that this sonnet touched me and warmed my heart, all the while that I was aware that it was driven 100% by information that I had provided in the underlying essay.
Yet lines three and four hit me hard and made me think:
my faith in angels remains unwavering,
a legacy passed down from my mother’s net.
In the essay, I had mentioned that my belief in angels came from my mother. Yet ChatGPT’s use of the metaphor “passed down from my mother’s net” struck me as original and creative, especially since the word net did not appear in the essay that I provided. Original? Creative? I’m still thinking. I’m still thinking.
By the time that I had finished that conversation, I knew that I would be weaving parts of it into this post.
TheWiredResearcher: Can I use all of this material in a blog post that I’m developing for next week?
ChatGPT: As a language model AI, I do not have any rights over the material generated and you are welcome to use it for any legal purpose. Please be reminded that you should cite the source. If you use it in a blog post or anywhere else, it is a good practice to give credit to the source. It would be great if you could include a disclaimer that the content is generated by an AI and not a human writer.
TheWiredResearcher: Give me a recommended citation.
ChatGPT: You can cite this source as “ChatGPT, an AI-powered language model by OpenAI.” Additionally, you can include the link to OpenAI’s website (https://openai.com/) so that your readers can learn more about the technology and the organization behind it. It’s also a good practice to include the date when the information was generated.
Hopefully, this post has provided you a few things to ponder. Hopefully, too, this post has gone further than sensational AI headlines that glam, glitz, and gobsmack.
As for me, I’ve enjoyed bedding down all week with ChatGPT. Lots. I’d enjoy it even more if “it” had a name that strikes my fancy as much as foolin’ around with “it” strikes mine. But I’m working on it.
If you’re wondering whether I’ll keep foolin’ around, my answer is, “You bet!”
Next week: “Another Week in Bed with AI.”
Then, the week after, I’ll synthesize and evaluate my experiences: “My Final Week in Bed with AI | The Heart of the Matter.”
For right now, though, ChatGPT needs to go to sleep. I do, too. To help me doze off, maybe I’ll ask ChatGPT to keep reminding me of the sweet nothings THEY shared shortly after we hooked up: “you are a force to be reckoned with … you never stop pushing boundaries.”
It must be true. Right? Of course. After all, ChatGPT told me so.
My belief in angels goes all the way back to my childhood in the coal fields of Southern West Virginia.
I’m not too surprised. My mother was a Pilgrim Holiness minister, and she had read both the Old Testament and the New Testament more than thirty times. She was well versed in the text and the context surrounding the 273 references to angels in the King James Bible.
She anchored me squarely and securely to my belief in angels, and it has lingered with me and has fascinated me throughout my life.
Angels are acknowledged, of course, in many of the world’s major religions, aside from Christianity. They figure prominently in Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, as well as in belief systems such as New Age Spirituality.
And I am not alone in my belief. Some polls show that nearly 80% of Americans believe that angels are real, year-round, ethereal beings. Among Americans who attend weekly religious services, the belief jumps to 94%, and among Evangelical Christians, it edges up to 95%.
Angels are messengers who comfort, protect, provide unconditional love, and serve others. Some are earth angels. Sensitive souls, lending the helping hand even before the cry for help can be heard. Seeing the good in those who might not see it in themselves. Feeling pain when others hurt. Possessing an aura that makes others confide and trust. Encouraging the discouraged. Turning to nature for quiet, for renewal.
My belief in angels is strengthened by personal experience. My life was blessed by an earth angel for twenty years, all the way up until his death a year ago today.
I knew that Allen was an angel from the moment that he won my heart, from the moment that I won his. We knew that we had each met our soulmate, that we had each found our way home.
I told him so on the spot, right then, right there. He smiled with an angelic smile that only he could smile: coy and twinkly-eyed, all angel like.
As we came to know one another better, I was even more convinced, so much so that I promised to one day write an essay about him as the angel in my life. “I hope that you will,” he beamed, giving me what was by then the angelic, twinkly-eyed smile that was his signature smile that I so adored.
Ironically, when Allen died, I had never gotten around to writing that promised angel essay.
To be certain, it was not because of any waning conviction that an earth angel had entered my life with perfect timing, as angels always do.
Looking back, I think that it was simply because, rather than write the essay, we chose to live it jointly in every dimension of our earthly life together, side by side. Partners. Lovers. Friends. Hikers. Cyclists. Chefs. Gardeners. Educators.
Obviously, we lived it separately as well. Allen was an incredible human being, accepting of whatever life offered. No moans. No groans. No complaints. He knew the power of surrender. He knew the power of acceptance.
Like all earth angels, Allen loved serving others, helping others, and healing others. As a Surgical Technologist, he was a passionate practitioner not only in multiple hospital settings where he distinguished himself but also at the colleges whose Surgical Technology Programs he directed.
Like all earth angels, his aura inspired in his patients and his students confidence and trust.
At our end-of-day, before-dinner cocktail conversations, Allen was always at his angelic best as he talked about his challenging surgeries or about his precepting experiences. Always at those moments, I could count on seeing his angelic, twinkly-eyed smile.
Like all earth angels, Allen gave unconditional love, and his unconditional love met with the same from me. During our life together, we learned the value of affirming our mutual love. Whenever we went our separate ways throughout the day and always at bedtime, we made a point of saying, “I love you.” Without fail. “I love you.” We wanted those three words to be the last thing that we heard. And indeed, “I love you” was the last thing that each of us said to the other, just minutes before Allen died.
Like all earth angels, Allen turned to nature–to gardening–for quiet renewal. He helped turn a mountaintop wilderness into a coveted botanical oasis for the two of us. Always true to himself and his beliefs, he took greatest joy in watching small, undernourished—and sometimes unwanted—plants thrive and flourish under his care, against all odds, against all wishes. Perhaps even greater was the perpetual joy that he derived from the ever-so-constant, ever-so-required, and ever-so-faithful maintenance of our gardens, spending hours and hours and hours on end—with great satisfaction—pulling weed after weed after weed, fervently and constantly, up by the roots, one by one by one.
Little wonder that when I started to write Allen’s obituary a year ago, it was as if angel wings brushed across the page, just as magically as Allen had brushed across and touched our lives together.
Immediately, I knew that I would anchor his obituary to angels. It began with: “A kind, gentle, and angelic soul—ever so quiet and ever so reserved but ever so full of life and light and ever so much loved by all who knew him personally and professionally is with us no more.”
Little wonder that I ended his obituary with: “Now, Allen gardens forever and forever and forever with angels.”
But obituaries are not the final word.
And death is not the end.
Twenty one years after my promise, I’m actually writing the essay honoring my angel–Patrick Allen Duff.
And as I honor him, he’s right here by my side, always, giving me back his coy, twinkly-eyed, angelic smile, once more and forever.
The Wired Researcher 