There was a moment last week, on the fourth of July driving back from Yosemite, when I read a friend’s story of progress towards peace… His narrative of grief, and its transformation of his life…

The fireworks were going off everywhere- not in a big powerful way, here and there, small, low, like punctuation marks to the moments. I was driving across the central valley towards San Francisco, through the suburban sprawl and each and every townships offering of patriotism. Perhaps other citizenry’s fireworks as well, for there were so many small displays going off it seemed unplanned and haphazard. For 30 minutes at least I drove by countless small explosions towards where the sun had set and still left a lingering rainbow on the horizon. The little explosions seemed at once joyful symbols of human revelry, and humble gestures set against the sky’s enduring display of daily sunset grandeur. The fireworks went off just above the lit signs for gas stations and fast food chains, the billboards for vocational colleges and industrial supply warehouses.

His words wove the triumphant and melancholy story of a beautiful love lost only to begin somehow, mysteriously, to be pieced back together into his heart through the unsanctimonious process of living life after profound and paralyzing loss.

His words awakened my own desperate missing of her. I missed her so, in a way I haven’t for a long time. I felt a longing for those times, for that spirit, for a visit with my old friend… With a sadness for her passing, with a remembering of all the ways I am because of her…

6 months ago I finally started singing lessons. Amy had told me I had a beautiful voice and though it took me awhile to gather gumption, after she died I knew I had to honor my own life, and who she was to me in my life, by facing my fear and cultivating my passion. For myself, but for Amy. To carry on her spirit, and to live for the days that she won’t…

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