Impermanence

I had the pleasure of lunch yesterday with one of the most intelligent people I know, or for that matter, have ever met. A classically trained cellist, masters in Oceanography from Scripps, software engineer, speaker of four languages, incredibly gifted artist and brilliant ecologist. His current ‘crusade’ is of climate change and the potential for catastrophic disaster it presents. To us. Now.

I should mention at this juncture that he is also a bona-fide tie dyed in the wool hippie. He is visiting for the wedding of his son and instead of the contemporary hotel or the en vogue Airbnb, he is staying in a friend's backyard yurt. 

We first met in 1992 as he was renting my cabin with the aforementioned son and daughter after his divorce. We became friends, a relationship that has withstood the test of time. He, for some mysterious reason, considers me with talents or traits, opposite, or tangential to his own. He always seems to appreciate my spin, opinions and analysis, however flawed I feel them to be. There is one small point of pride that I will always put at the very apex of the reasons for my appreciation of his opinion.

I have documented often the rise and fall of my kingdom. Even when my humble little cabin in the woods did not have indoor plumbing, he saw it as a work of in progress art. As I did. I always thought about the cabin project as, say how Picasso might rather than how Frank Lloyd Wright might. More an alternative architectural treatment than simply another Home Depot stocked box. The fact that my design and technique shortfalls led directly to its demise, though not the sole reason, was detailed yesterday during our lunch.

We had not seen each other since ’12 when we were camping in Livermore, Ca on the road with the Tour of California.

It was with deep remorse that I told him the updated story of my illness, lack of insurance, financial ruin and subsequent fire sale of the cabin. He responded with shock, eyes wide open and a ‘NOOOO’.

When the emotional impact had settled and our shared experiences in a small wooded hideaway began to surface, the good times, the solitude, the mystical quality of a zen retreat in the forest, the project itself and our respective contributions had all been internally explored, he said something as profound and validating as any I have ever heard. 

He said, ‘I was looking forward to seeing the progress on your art project, I am sorry.’

I wish I had the presence to say something about impermanence, that nothing lasts, how monks spend years on sand mandalas only to whisk their beautiful art away with a single stroke in illustration this fact, but I didn’t. All I could muster was a very weak, thank you. 

Thank you.