If letting go implies grasping, then I am still hanging on to some memory or ideal or past life. If we do indeed, as Buddha says, suffer because we are attached, then I must be a masochist. It’s uncanny how many layers of letting go I’ve peeled away on this journey. I thought I’d let go when I closed the door behind me in Toronto. Ha! What a fool! Ron is still, four months later, thousands of miles away, capable of reducing me to tears. Or should I say, I am capable of reducing myself to tears when I revisit old stuff. So I practice…

I sometimes wish I had the seriousness to become an ascetic. Wouldn’t it be great to have ultimate control over desire? Once I got past the solemnity and austerity of it all, I’d be perpetually blissed-out in a transcendental time/space expansion module where infinite perfection simply IS. I would love everyone in that universal “every spirit is beautiful” kind of way and Henk and I would ride around the world spreading peace and love and denying every earthly pleasure that came our way.



As it is, I’ve been dancing in and out of the middle ground between asceticism and indulgence. Perhaps one day I’ll land in the sweet spot—that’s where Buddha found enlightenment—the sweet spot.

The funniest thing is happening here in this strange little town called Santa Fe. Actually, it’s not happening in town at all; it’s happening in the warm little bedroom of this beautiful man, his sanctuary that he’s offered me.



We’ve finally met, after five years, on equal ground. Both of us have let go of any expectations, any need to force an outcome, any desire to be together-- and perhaps because of that letting go, we now get to choose how we will ultimately hold each other. It feels clear. And expansive. And platonic. And loving in that universal “every spirit is beautiful” kind of way.