Reflection on Love and Loss My friend Tim died today, and though I’m easily moved, I’m surprised at how hard it seems to be hitting me. I keep bursting into tears. I know enough to let the tears flow. Tears have a logic of their own—one that I don’t need to understand. I simply obey, and let the tears fly where they may. I count on their cleansing effect. Tim was ten years older than I am. Eighty-four is a pretty good run, I guess. I knew he had esophageal cancer and was very sick, but I suppose I expected him to pull out of it. I had more years

“This is the morning view from my own front yard — a place that reminds me daily that we are more than what we’ve done.” Without having looked for it, I seem to have drawn clients who are either nearing retirement or have recently retired. As much as people look forward to retirement, when it comes, it can be bewildering. It’s pretty common for people to be so identified with what they did for a living, when their work comes to an end, so does their sense of identity. It’s a feeling of, “If I’m not doing my work, who can I possibly be?” It’s remarkably easy to mistake surface

Recently, I had an experience that reminded me of the power of sheer, unbridled aliveness. If you’re not sure what I mean, I’m talking about the sense of aliveness you feel coming from very young children. Most of us would likely say the sense of aliveness we experience is, at best, a diluted version of what we felt as children.

At 73, it’s almost impossible not to feel the effects of an aging body. Joints break down, old injuries have a way of reminding you they’re still there, and long-term illnesses can seem to bleed away energy and enthusiasm for life. Yet, as I’ve written before, I’m living the everyday miracle of feeling as young as I did when I was a teenager.

The last few weeks, I’ve been simultaneously navigating the effects of several health challenges. A nagging cough and cold, an ear infection, and the after-effects of oral surgery. It’s been a bit of a slog, and I knew enough to expect very little of myself because I was so completely drained by it.

A dear friend of mind has a particular gift. He’s long been acclaimed as being the sort of singing voice that comes along less than once in a generation. His renditions of some of the songs he sang in Broadway shows are recognized as the defining recordings of those songs.

Fifty years ago, when I was in my early twenties, I remember going for a hike in the hills above U.C. Berkeley. The trails up into those hills are very steep, so I was surprised when I met an old man on the trail (he was about the age I am now). He had a sense of sheer aliveness that I wasn’t used to seeing in people his age. We got to talking, and I still remember the conversation.

Does it make sense to believe that we have to choose between either a high level of accomplishment, or peace and well-being? On a societal level, we’ve been encouraged to think that’s the case.

How long does it take to find lasting peace? The sort of peace that, even in challenging situations doesn’t fail us? Common belief essentially suggests that it’ll be a long struggle, a great deal of work, and that, in the end, it’s likely we won’t find it until the end of our lives. And then, only if we’re lucky. The idea that finding peace requires time and effort is bizarre considering how all of us come into the world. When we’re born, we are peace; peace in the form of human beings. When a baby cries, it’s not from mental distress, it’s a signal that some crucial need isn’t being met.  Crying