In the hollow of my breath, there walks people of my younger hearts...all the hearts I drove into the ideals, bickering, love, tumult, and softness of that newer part of life.
They are sanctuaries of tenderness.
I lost a person of my younger heart this week, a true friend, a talented, loving and wise man. I let his words and music stand alone:
"We are spirits, blown across the wind. We are darkness, we are sun.
We are driven, homeward to return. We are yearning to become."
(this is me singing. It was a privilege to work with you, my friend. Thank you.)
I know this passage is about remembering a lover who is presumed to be still alive, but the overarching sentiment is lovely in saying that you miss something you no longer have...you miss a person, be that friend or coworker or fleeting acquaintance...this longing remains."Secret astonishment" indeed.
"I sip my coffee. I look at the mountain, which is still doing its tricks, as you look at a still-beautiful face belonging to a person who was once your lover in another country years ago: with fond nostalgia, and recognition, but no real feelings save a secret astonishment that you are now strangers. Thanks. For the memories. It is ironic that the one thing that all religions recognize as separating us from our creator--our very self-consciousness--is also the one thing that divides us from our fellow creatures. It was a bitter birthday present from evolution, cutting us off at both ends."
-- Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek