Coming Home

Posted in Arts and Creativity, Healing and Recovery with tags , , on March 19, 2018 by Vince.Puzick

ca-thar-sis / the transformative power of art

The HomeFront Theater Project’s adaptation and performance of Sophocles’ Ajax and the conversation which followed on Sunday afternoon was an emotionally cathartic experience whether attendees were veterans, active duty, or civilians. The event, held at the ENT Center for the Arts on the UCCS campus, was both performance and dialogue where attendees moved from audience to participants as they reflected on the wounds of war and “coming home.”


The 30-minute reading of the play highlighted the challenge of returning from war as experienced by Ajax, Achilles’ brother, and an honorable and distinguished warrior in his own right. Ajax presumes that he will be awarded Achilles’ armor, as was custom, but he is slighted when two generals bestow that honor on Odysseus. The abridged version of the play reveals Ajax’s struggle with the dishonor through conversations with his wife, Tecmessa, and his emotional outcries to the gods. While Ajax reveals the anguish and despair of his return from war, Tecmessa provides a reflective voice on the meaning of war, war’s impact on Ajax, and what his imminent suicide will mean for both her and their son.


The small cast of four (Robert Rais/Ajax, Carmen Shedd/Tecmessa, Jordan Matthews/Teucer, Raphael Siag/Chorus) delivered a terrifically moving reading of the condensed play. While they did not “perform” the play with costumes or staging, their individual and collective voices expressed the pain, confusion, and agony endured and suffered by all those impacted by war.

But the most impactful aspect of the night was the nearly hour-long conversation that happened following the reading. Dr. Max Shulman, who initiated the HomeFront Theater project upon his arrival at UCCS, facilitated the discussion which was kicked off with a panel of three from the Colorado Springs area: Dr. Phillip Morris, Director of the UCCS Office of Military and Veteran Affairs; Dr. Tom McGuire, USAFA, Ret., Associate Professor of English, USAFA; Erin Fowler, Clinical Therapist at the UCCS Lane Center, Veterans Health and Trauma Clinic.

Following their brief remarks, many of the 50+ participants revealed through their comments what a cathartic event theater, specifically, and art, more generally, can be.  It is a testament to the healing power of the creative arts.

Comments moved between insights on the play to reflections on personal experiences of those in the audience. As an aside, it is difficult to call this an audience. At this point in the evening, we were all participants in the event. The reading engaged us in an emotional experience that then gave us a way into and through our own experiences. The performance, in other words, was a catalyst into a conversation that otherwise may not have happened or, if it had, may not have reached the emotional and intimate depths that it did.

The dialogue among audience members started with a comment that Ajax, in his “prearticulate expression” of his anguish, wanted public recognition, wanted his story told, but could not fight through his pain and his isolation for either to happen. 2500 years ago, Sophocles captured the emotional and moral dilemma of the returning soldier: the desire to tell his or her story (in his/her own terms and timing), the isolation that prevents the telling, and the inability of the civilian friend, spouse, or child to understand the warrior’s experience.

Two of the wounds of war – the feeling that one is a burden on others after his/her return and the isolation veterans may experience – are what many veterans bear when they return. One veteran participant talked about the moral injury that veterans may feel. Beyond the physical trauma some may experience – PTSD and Traumatic Brain Injury, for instance – some veterans may experience a moral injury, the damage done to the soul, to their moral compass when there is a transgression to their own moral beliefs and ethical values.

As one veteran mentioned in the evening, “we may not be able to process it when you say ‘thank you for your service.’ We may not be proud of some of the things we did when we served. Sometimes we just need to hear ‘thank you for coming home.’”

Other veterans, from Vietnam Veterans to those who served in Operation Desert Storm, echoed similar sentiments about their return. The history of how we perceive and honor U.S. veterans changes with each war: the “greatest generation” of WWII veterans, the soldiers who fought the Korean War (“the Forgotten War”), those who returned from Vietnam and changed into civilian clothes before they deplaned in San Francisco lest they be spit on, and the soldiers who fought “an unwinnable war” in the Middle East, in a land that we understand so little.

Each war seems to have its own cultural and historical context; each veteran has his or her own personal frame in which their experience is situated. Each soldier, one of the veterans reminded us, has their “own narrative and that narrative is evolving. “

A veteran who served her country for 22 years and who recently arrived in Colorado Springs movingly told of her experience coming home. Her story revealed some of the tensions that can happen between family members and the returning veteran, between current service members and veterans, and the veterans themselves as they struggle to transition into civilian life. Her eyes welled up with tears, as did many in the theater, as she spoke.

Colonel McGuire from the Air Force Academy expressed what we were all probably feeling when she finished: “You told us your story, and I cannot help but honor you.”

And that, in essence, captures the importance of the evening.

It is through story-telling that we begin to understand, to empathize, to forge a relationship with others. Whether it is the veteran telling her story to another (or to a theater full of people), whether it is a civilian listening to a veteran’s story without judgment but with compassion, the act of telling our stories that gives us a chance to heal.

Thank you for coming home.  Thank you for telling your stories.



Creative Forces Community Summit

Posted in Arts and Creativity, Healing and Recovery, People, Writing on February 19, 2018 by Vince.Puzick

Let’s start with the stories.

A panel of four veterans ended Day One of the Creative Forces Summit by telling part of their story. Staff Sergeant Cory Sandoval, First Sergeant David Griego, Sergeant Curt Bean, and Lieutenant Colonel Walter Ernst shared their experience coming home and reintegrating back into the civilian life following their combat duty.


“Whatever you come back with has no cure,” LT. Col. Ernst told the approximately 200 attendees at the Summit. “It’s part of the culture of combat. You don’t come home the same (as when you went in).”

The others told parts of their stories – because the stories are all unique to the veteran yet common themes run through – that echoed those sentiments. “I deal with a lot of guilt each day,” SSgt Sandoval reflected. They also commented on the “15 Things Veterans Want You to Know” which was really informative for a civilian like me to hear.

The Summit, part of the network of Creative Forces initiatives happening throughout the country, was the launch of the community efforts to help veterans heal from the trauma of their combat experiences. The Colorado Springs region – with its military presence here – is one of eleven sites in the NEA Military Healing Arts Network.

The Network brings together the 3 Cs for creative arts therapies to foster the healing process: Clinical (Medical Research, Creative Arts Therapies, and Telehealth services), Community (State, Regional, and Local Arts Organizations, Veterans Networks), and Capacity Building (Training & Education, Digital Resource Centers, and Medical Research). These three components put creative arts therapies at the core of patient-centered care.


Held at the beautiful ENT Center for the Arts on the UCCS campus, the Summit brought various local arts organizations together with military representatives to hear the clinical support veterans receive and to hear the work of the arts organizations that currently provide community support for our veterans. The Cultural Office of the Pikes Peak Region (COPPeR) in conjunction with the Colorado Creative Industries will serve as the administrative lead for our community’s local Creative Forces initiative with support from, among others, the National Endowment for the Arts, Americans for the Arts, and Fort Carson to spearhead these efforts.

A panel of local arts organizations presented on their efforts to provide art therapies to veterans. We heard reports from the following local arts organizations:


The creative arts therapies allow veterans to tap into ways to “identify, name, and process their trauma.” That trauma may manifest itself in Traumatic Brain Injury, PTSD, or chronic and debilitating pain. The creative arts therapies give them multiple ways “in” that other therapies may not tap into. Through music, visual arts, movement, or writing, veterans are able to use the resources they might learn in their clinical sessions – tools like mindfulness, socialization strategies, expressing feelings, ways to enhance reasoning and thinking skills. The combination of clinical approaches and the community arts organizations allow veterans to treat the wounds of war and come home whole.

The invisible wounds of war, wounds that have a physical, emotional, and economic impact on the veterans, are healed through connection (engaging the veteran), communication (controlling their own narrative), and creativity (veterans want to help and serve and the creative arts allow them to tap into what they can create).

The keynote speaker on Day Two for the culmination of the Summit was a presentation by Stacy Pearsall. Pearsall, combat disabled and retired from military service, served as a military photojournalist during three combat tours in the Middle East. She is the founder of the Veterans Portrait Project which arose out of her desire to turn her photography into art and capture the portraits of veterans to honor their service. You can view Pearsall’s work on the Veterans Portrait Project website.

Attending the Creative Forces Summit was a very humbling experience. To hear the veterans’ stories, to move toward understanding the process of healing their combat trauma, and to hear their own perspective on their experience was completely enlightening. More than one of them said that they didn’t want pity or sympathy from their community, and they encouraged us to think of those soldiers who lost their lives as the real “heroes.” What I heard from them was that they want to heal the wounds that we cannot see and that we might barely be able to understand.

And it is through the arts that makes that healing possible.


I Am Involved

Posted in People on November 6, 2017 by Vince.Puzick

I was a classroom English teacher when the Columbine shooting happened that spring day in 1999.  I was also the newspaper advisor for the school paper, The Lever, at Palmer High School.  We were wrapping up the April edition of the paper when the news broke.  The staff scrambled to put together articles and commentaries about the tragedy, basically in real time.  We worked into the night to finalize the paper.  It is an unforgettable time in my teaching career.

But what is even more memorable is the next day in sophomore English class.  It was an incredibly difficult day.  We were shocked, then, at these mass shootings.  They hadn’t been part of our weekly lives.  And students were scared, confused, saddened;  we all were.  This had an emotional hold on us, in part, because Columbine High School was 60 miles north on I-25 from us.  It had an emotional grip on us, even more so, because these were teens and a teacher that were killed. We may not have known Columbine HS, but we knew school.  We looked at our hallways differently.  We looked at our libraries and cafeteria differently.

As the classroom teacher, I looked at my students differently.  And I am guessing they looked at me differently.  What would I say?  What would I do in the aftermath of this tragedy?

I let them talk.

Jesse, a muscular kid, a football player, a kid who wanted to be a boxer, said he knew some of the guys from Columbine because of football.  He didn’t know them well, Jesse said, but he had interactions with them.  I imagined the helmets cracking against each other, the grunts and groans trying to grind out a few more yards.  I imagine him looking eye-to-eye with a Columbine player.  All of a sudden, 60 miles didn’t seem so far away.

I let them talk as long as they needed to.

And then I shared that I didn’t even know what to say, really.  I said that any emotion they were feeling was legitimate.  Confusion.  Sadness.  Anger.  All appropriate.  I didn’t have anything profound to say.  We were all raw.

But I did have something to share with them,  a piece of literature.  I may have distributed it to them or I may have just read it aloud.

No man is an island entire of itself; every man

is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe

is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as

well as any manner of thy friends or of thine

own were; any man’s death diminishes me,

because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom

the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.


I re-read a part not so much for them, but for me:

    any man’s death diminishes me,

    because I am involved in mankind.


I shared with them that in all the shock, all the sorrow, all the emotions too tangled together to even make sense, I felt, we did, the loss because I am, we are, involved in mankind.

As classroom teachers, putting together a newspaper or holding together a classroom community, we need to show up every day.  Our students need to see us deal with the same loss they are experiencing.  Need to hear us talk about our emotions, get choked up, listen attentively.  Stumble through no answers.

And, sadly, we have had to do that repeatedly.  It doesn’t get easier.  We don’t get better at it.

60 miles isn’t so far, after all.  Columbine’s right up the road.  And so is Sutherland Springs.  So is Newtown.  Names of places so familiar we don’t even need to identify the state.

They’re our neighbors.

The Paseo House

Posted in People, Places on October 30, 2017 by Vince.Puzick

An Open Letter to Any Prospective Buyer,

Welcome to The Paseo House.  Look around.  Make yourself comfortable.  We certainly did for the last thirteen and a half years.

Enjoy the view out of the south-facing window, the one that looks over the Patty Jewett golf course (country club living on a teacher salary), while I tell you a little about our history with the house.


I bought the house in May of 2004 just as my daughter was heading out of 5th Grade from Stratton Elementary and into the 6th Grade at Mann Middle School the following fall.  Part of the motivation for buying the home was to enable my daughter to continue on with her friends into middle school (it’s a long story – about single parenting, her mother’s move to Florida to pursue her master’s degree, etc.). The motivation was to be in a cool neighborhood near her childhood friends as we began a single-dad household.


Hopefully  you can envision the fullness of the life lived here.  A pre-adolescent girl growing into a confident and outspoken young woman.  A middle-aged dad trying to guide her through that growth.  At one point, when she was around 16, I was washing dishes, she was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room.  Our conversation (was it about driving? about boys?) was tiptoeing up on becoming an argument.  I looked at her with my hands dripping soapy water, and said “Jess, I am learning how to be a parent to a 16-year old.”  She looked across the expanse of the kitchen and said “And I’m learning how to be 16.”  That’s what happened here:  we learned to live a rich life.

We had movie marathons downstairs in the big room in the basement.  What a great home theater that was – it’s even shaped like a theater!  From The Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Minority Report, Jeremiah Johnson, to Juno  and X – we watched our favorites, argued over the quality of each other’s choices, cheered on Seabiscuit, cringed at shared bad choices like Stepbrothers.  Wrapped in blankets, we ate popcorn in the glow of a good movie from our big screen.

And that basement, partially finished but totally funky, became the home of a third bedroom, became the site of a pottery studio, became the venue for a Super Bowl party and a Halloween gathering.  My daughter’s friends bobbed for apples in a plastic tub in the utility room. The bathroom glowed red from the decorative bulb. The basement may look a little tired — thirteen years can take its toll.


While the basement was sort of the raucous part of the house, upstairs was quieter.  Winters called for a fire in the fireplace, chili cooking on the stove, potitza rolled out on the table at Christmas, and snow-filled views out the window.  We’d watch foxes against the white snow on winter mornings.  Occasionally a deer or two would leap the fence separating the tee box on Hole #5 from our yard. From the same window and the back deck, we’d watch the golfers, wince at their missed putts, rejoice at their solid drives. cringe at their colorful language.


We had pets here, too.  Two dogs, two cats.  They slid across the wood floors.  They sat in the sun streaming through the windows.



Family members — sisters and brothers and nephews — stayed here.  They stayed on vacations and on relocations.  They recovered here and regained their footing.  There was no place to comment on the realtor’s listing documents as we put the house on the  market, but this house has healing powers.


The other day as my daughter and I were reminiscing about The Paseo House, she mentioned that she lived here for over half her life.  In all my busy-ness to get the house ready to sell, the move had not fully hit until then.  She had lived in other homes over her 24 years, but this was the longest she had lived in one residence.  That night, I made a little timeline of the houses I have lived in.  The Paseo House is #24 (this includes the various dorms and college apartments I called home for 6- or 10-month periods).  By the time I graduated from high school, I had lived in five houses, three of them with solely with my single mother.  My daughter was right in slowing us down to reminisce about this transition from one home, one life, to another.  It’s not a small thing, this.

You may be wondering why sell the house now?  Well, that pottery studio housed in the basement was the home of JK’s Creative Disasters Pottery.  And JK moved from being my friend, to my best friend, and now to my fiancée.  I found love at the Paseo House (and wooed her with Durango Chicken and Green Chile Rice cooked in a funky 60’s-style turquoise oven along the way).


My daughter and I lived a great life here, and we shared that life with family and friends for over thirteen years.  Paseo means “a slow walk” or “leisurely stroll.”  While it wasn’t always leisurely, we walked together as father and daughter, each growing in our own individual ways, our lives unfolding in wonderful ways.

As Tom Stoppard writes in his play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, “Look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”  So while we are exiting The Paseo House, it is to enter a new life, new experiences, and share our lives with loves that were born here. I’d like to think that our life here set the foundation for life’s next offerings.


We hope, as you enter, that you have love and health, and enjoy a joyful walk of your own, here in The Paseo House, with the warm morning light from the southern sun streaming in.


“Press at the Edge of Memory and Truth”

Posted in Observations, People, Writing on October 24, 2017 by Vince.Puzick

Mary Karr talks with Sherman Alexie at The New Yorker Festival 2017

October 6, 2017

nyfWhen I heard that Mary Karr was going to have a 90-minute conversation with Sherman Alexie as part of the New Yorker Festival of 2017, I had to find a way to get to NYC.  I searched flights from Denver to LaGuardia, searched lodging on TripAdvisor, mapped out an itinerary.  After I had the logistics of the trip mapped out, I realized that on October 7, the morning after their conversation, I had to be in Denver for a commitment to present at a conference.  The adrenaline rush to hear two of my favorite writers puddled into disappointment. 

But I kept at the planning.  And an unlikely solution came to me.  I’d fly out on Friday morning, arrive in the City around 3:00, find the theater, have dinner, and go listen to the conversation which would end at 8:30.  I’d catch the flight back to Denver at 10:45 and arrive at DIA around 1:00 a.m.  A long day, seventeen hours, but sandwiched in between flights would be a literary event I would not have the opportunity to experience any other way. 

In the dark theater of the School of Visual Arts in the Chelsea neighborhood, I scribbled notes in the composition notebook I always carry, sporadic chicken scratchings, scrawled out haphazardly and cross-ways to the lined paper.

So what stuck from the 90 minutes?

In the best moments, it felt like eavesdropping on two people who hold huge mutual respect for each other talking about family, in general, and more specifically about Sherman Alexie’s newest work, You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, a memoir about his relationship with his mother who died in July of 2015.  Of course, they were also “on” and their conversation had an audience; the act of being observed changes the nature of the object being observed.  We were, in essence, a part of the event.

There were awkward moments in the conversation like there are in any other conversation.  Moments when Mary’s question (it was such an intimate space that I am going to sometimes use first names), a good question, caused Sherman to pause, gather his thoughts, and in some instances, collect himself before answering.  He became choked up with some responses, like when he commented on how his mother probably saved his life:  “the first was when she quit drinking and the second was when she let me leave the rez.”

Karr’s questions were almost those of a therapist – exploring, pressing Sherman to reveal motivations behind the book, the drive to tell the story about his relationship with his mother.  And he said early in the conversation, “I had never written about her before” that he “avoided writing about her” and was somewhat “scared of writing honestly about my mother. I wanted to be truthful.”  Mary said later, “your book is very loving” toward her and it was a book that had to be written.

At one point, Sherman said something like “I knew there would be this priestly thing” about having this conversation with Mary.  So maybe the conversation was somewhat confessional since they joked about Mary’s Catholicism and Sherman’s belief system characterized by what he calls “spiritual coincidences.”

At other times, she probed about the nature of memoir writing.  She asked him if he considered writing this book as fiction.  In the first three months after his mother’s death, Sherman wrote something like 150 poems and “thought [he] had a book of poetry.”  And somehow it morphed into his first – and what sounds like his last – memoir.  “I’m not going to do it again!” he laughed when Mary pressed him about the challenge of writing memoir, a genre, she joked, that’s “very ghetto in the literature world. You’ve sunk to the bottom.”

In the midst of writing my own memoir, I was an active and reflective listener during the dialogue, listening carefully as Karr mentioned how family stories change depending on who is telling them and with the different occasions and contexts for the telling.  How we move, as Sherman said, from being “the boy on the kitchen floor,” absorbing the stories and experiences in the family, to being the storyteller, the voice for the family stories and family history.  And that shift is always a jolt as you may hold on to an idea that you convince yourself is true about your family – but perspective, time, and memory may ultimately challenge that idea.

And there it was, the heart of the conversation, the reason I was there eavesdropping: the steady pulse throughout their talk about family, truth, and memory.   To illustrate, Sherman’s memoir includes the story of his mother being conceived by rape told three different times in the memoir.  And when Sherman told how he came to write that story of his mother (and of his older sister who was also conceived by a rape), Mary expressed her admiration at his “willingness to press at all the edges of memory and truth and how stories are told in your family.”

My daughter would ask, once I was back in Colorado, if attending the conversation was a life-changing event.  I had to think for a minute.  Did the conversation change my life?  It was a once-in-a-lifetime event in many ways – but did that make it life-changing? If I had to label it something, the label would be “life affirming” or at least “affirming of a writerly life.”

It affirmed the power of stories and the necessity of telling them. It’s through sharing our experience in the world that we may give others strength and hope.

I’m left these three weeks later, summoning the courage to press at the edges of memory, to tell my one, true story.

Why “A Natural Drift”?

Posted in Writing on October 14, 2017 by Vince.Puzick

When I first started fly fishing, a guide I was with on the river told me that I needed my dry fly to have “a natural drift” as it floated on the water’s surface.  The fly could not drag across the water or look unnatural in any way.  The fly’s actions and presence had to fool the fish into thinking it was the real deal.  The phrase stuck in my head — for both fly fishing and then for writing.

I thought of all the meanings of the word “drift” —

  • be carried slowly by a current of air or water (verb)
  • be blown into heaps by the wind (verb)
  • a continuous slow movement from one place to another (noun)
  • the general intention or meaning of an argument or someone’s remarks (noun)

All of the definitions apply in my life and here, in this blog.

I suppose that a blog of too general of a nature runs contrary to all that is written about effective blog management.  It seems that blogs should be specific, have clear purposes, be well-defined.  I, for sure, see the value in those blogs with a singleness of purpose (and I maintain one related specifically to fly fishing for Angler’s Covey).  But I also know myself — and my interests and thoughts are carried by currents around me, are in motion from one place to another.

A Natural Drift will, if I can build on this metaphor of rivers and flow, have two main tributaries:  creativity and conservation.  Many of the blog posts will focus on artistic expression and the creative process — whether in visual arts, theater, photography, film, or writing.  My curiosity leads me to wonder about, research, and explore the process that artists use to develop their craft. I will also share my awe in experiencing the end results of those efforts.

And I am also in awe of our natural world around us, Creation in the bigger sense.  I grew up and came of age exploring the mountains of the Pikes Peak region and throughout Colorado.  This blog’s other tributary will advocate for the conservation and preservation of our public lands and our natural resources.  It will express my love for and awe of the natural world — how nature rejuvenates our soul, challenges our physical body, and connects our spirit to something greater than ourselves.

At the confluence of these rivers will be education and information.  As an educator for over thirty years — from classroom teacher to literacy and language content specialist at the district and state level — I value teaching and learning.  Hopefully, A Natural Drift will serve to inform, educate, and stimulate readers to be involved in the arts community in our region and in conservation efforts across our state and country.

No doubt there will be certain topics that surface and recur in this blog — topics that are the small streams and rivulets that feed those tributaries: entries from road trips and “slow movement” around Colorado, commentaries on issues I find important in my life today (free speech and the First Amendment, memory and truth, funding for the arts and art education, protecting our public lands), writing (in general) and the teaching of writing (in particular).

My hope is that as I delve into these topics and themes and share my navigations, I can create dialogue or, at the very least, stimulate thinking from those who may come across this blog, and I hope that you may be carried along on this natural drift.

My other hope is that I can support the artists and outdoor recreation industry around the Pikes Peak region in their efforts to create a rich community and environment.  If you have a need for a writer, researcher, or copy editor in print and/or social media, please contact me at  I can be found on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, too.


Eulogy for the Misfits, the Tenderhearteds

Posted in Observations, People on April 5, 2017 by Vince.Puzick

For all who feel they don’t quite fit
Inspired by and in memory of Chris Winter, 8/6/86 – 4/5/16

Sometimes this world was too large for you. Sometimes, too small.

Too large because it seemed you could not find your place.  It didn’t always feel inviting.  Didn’t offer an easy chair to kick-back, where you could sink in and be yourself.

Too small because it could not contain what you brought into this space, what you filled it with – your heart, your laughter, your humor, your spirit.

Sometimes, I remember, when you entered the room, what you presented to the world screamed that you were unapproachable, don’t touch, hands-off. Let me be. But on the inside you sought acknowledgement, notice, connection.

On other days, the exterior you presented to the world whispered “Here I am. Notice me” and your interior throbbed with loneliness, sadness, with fatigue from your struggle to be in that world that was, at the same time, too big and too small.

I could feel your state of being when we would hug – even if it was brief – because you would either relax into the embrace, body heavy against my chest, your arms embracing back. Or, on bad days, your grip would be limp, your torso rigid. Those days you needed to be held more but you desired it less.

You had such unbridled creativity and didn’t always know how to channel it. Your fascination with The Stanley Hotel, and by extension, King’s The Shining, was riveting to observe. You knew the architecture, knew the backstory. And that time you built the replica of the Titanic! You knew details about the Titanic that we didn’t. You knew answers to questions we didn’t even know to ask.

Maybe we always struggled with that, knowing which questions to ask.

You didn’t see the world as others do – and you wondered why. You saw this disconnect as something “wrong” with you – rather than seeing it, maybe, as a shortcoming in the world around you.

Sometimes I wondered, we asked, why you couldn’t see the world, see you, as we did. Was that the wrong question? Maybe we needed to ask how you saw the world.  Did you see it as too big, one vast ocean? Or too small like the chamber of a heart? How can we fit in this space that seemed sized for somebody else?

You were fiercely independent yet had such close bonds with those you would let in. And when we were in, you were fiercely loyal and loving. Which is why losing you touches us so deeply. We thought that since we were in, we knew you. We had you and you, us.

Strength to fight yet tenderhearted; bold but sheepish; spirit and flesh; engaging but distant.

Oh, how we wanted to bridge that distance.

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