A Letter to Jill

Dear Jill:

Thank you so much for your encouraging and kind words. It’s always such a delight to hear from you. You are truly a beautiful person inside and out.
Forgive me for not being modest, but I do agree with you that I am “gifted” (not necessarily “wonderfully” as you so kindly put.) It is true that I do not have any talent: My singing has driven Mr. D to text “Help me! She is singing!” to his oldest child. I can barely play piano. Many a craft projects have been botched due to my inability to follow instructions. The last time I picked up a paint brush, my high school art teacher cautioned me that there is no laundry service on site. I do not possess any talent which would create or manifest through any kind of art form. I accept this destiny without any regrets or complaints because I do know that I have been given a gift.
This gift is quite simple and precious – I am able to truly enjoy and appreciate others’ creativity and talents. In the movie, Almost Famous, this girl said to the rock star something like this “A true fan is someone who loves the band and their music - so much that it hurts!” And it is the same way with me – I love written words (East of Eden or the Dream of Red Chamber, music (Mozart or Green Day, Beethoven or Led Zeppelin), paintings (van Gough or Horst Wolf (he is a local artist in Brookings.) Listening to Yo-Yo Ma play Rachmaninov’s Vocalise could tear me up; reading Leonard Cohen’s “Book of Longings” makes me smile a knowing smile; watching the actors on stage of “To Kill a Mocking Bird” gives me hope that, perhaps, the innocence lost is for the coming of positive changes. I marvel at the beauty and splendor the nature displays – everywhere, anytime. When I gaze upon the face of a two-year-old, I see how life continues in hope and fear, joy and sorrow. This is the gift that I’ve been given – to be humbled in front of others’ God given talents; to be amazed at the results of others bearing their souls; to be touched by one sentence, one note or one stroke of color.
I dearly love what Paulo Coelho said in an interview. He was asked what he wants to be his epitaph (on his tombstone) and he said “Paulo Coelho died while he was alive.”
"Why this epitaph? Everybody dies when he or she is alive." 
Paulo said, "No, this is not true. The same pattern repeating and over again, you are not alive anymore.  To die alive is to take risks.  To pay your price.  To do something that sometimes scares you but you should do because you may like or you may not like."
I so get it at what he is saying: to keep your passion about life is to live it – start running even if you haven’t run since 4^th grade; start writing even though you are not writing in your native tongue; sharing what you learned from great artists with your friends; admitting that your heart is bigger than you know; to love without reservations; to dance when the music is lovely and to cry without being embarrassed… This is what I’ve learned since turning 40 - to live is to be myself, genuinely and bravely – and I am still so new at this.
Before I close this letter, may I share with you the words of yet another brilliant mind?
“…When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain…” Kahlil Gibran's Prophet on Friendship
And this shall be my thanks to you, sweet Jill. Happy reading.

With love, MLH aka Deb