Karen's Darshan II

The Unknown makes for an unreliable dance partner. Just when you take the lead, it leans in for a dip.

This is the last chapter of the Karen saga. I promise a rip-roaring epilogue, but maybe only in book form. Thanks for following along. I will continue writing about the foibles of the Universe here on Substack. Love you all, Bruce

Twelve months ago, on this day…

…two men from Phoenix Funeral unfolded their fireman’s bag and announced, “You don’t want this to be your last memory of your beloved.”

I turned my head but sneaked a peek as they zipped Karen into the bag and slung her over their shoulder. With my beloved gone for good, I trudged upstairs to face the Marital Bed. I stared at it, and it stared back — an invitation into oblivion.

The first thought of my new life was, “I will miss the dancing.”

I have no idea why that particular thought popped in. It could have been, “I will miss her kisses” or “we will never snuggle again.” No, I will miss the dancing.

Where or why thoughts enter us is a mystery. Technically, thought is the result of complex electrochemical interactions involving billions of neurons, stimuli, memories, and emotions that pull a winning thought out of the neural soup. I’m more inclined that our thoughts think us — and not the other way around.

Dancing emerged from my neural stew, so I contemplated dancing as a surrender into Bondo. More than with sex, Karen fully let go while dancing. I would support the small of her back; she would trust my strength and take a dip into the Unknown. Hours earlier, her last breath in this world, she let go, trusting that she would be held by a benevolent universe.

Dancers quickly size up a partner. Is this person comfortable in their body? Does movement come easily? Do they signal to get closer or subtly resist? Do they sway from their nether regions, follow instinctive direction, and communicate head-to-toe? Most importantly, can they connect soul to soul and let the Bondo come in? Karen was all those things.

Karen has been gone for a year, and in that time, I’ve learned to dance with the Unknown. Put more simply, I let the road map of my life fly out the window.

When my Grief Advisory Board stipulated “no dating for a year,” I imagined that I would have a new life by day 365, and gulp; today is that day.

It took a year to realize an unexpected truth: Life works backward. The tail of the past has to catch up with the present before a new life can emerge. Jung called this integration.

“The first half of life is devoted to forming a healthy ego;

the second half is going inward and letting go of it.”

– C.G. Jung

I don’t think Jung said those exact words, but the sentiment is close enough: We must develop sufficient strength of character before “letting go of it” can have any meaning. My friend Edith Wallace, a contemporary of Jung, punctuated it perfectly:

“It takes a strong ego to sit in the back seat.”
~ Edith Wallace, Jungian Analyst and author (1909 – 2004)

For a year, I’ve been relegated to the back seat. No dreams fulfilled, no red sports car or girlfriend at my side — just twelve months cleaning out the basement of my psyche and all its shadowy bits.

I started the day throwing out piles of papers and found three pages of notes scribbled a year ago, the day Karen and I called Shelley, a medical intuitive living off the grid in Oregon. We were getting nowhere with the doctors and were desperate.

After introductions and niceties, I went to the point: “Shelley, what the hell is going on?”

My tea-stained notes captured the moment: I scribbled “FEAR.” And then: “The medical system is FEAR-BASED.”

A year later, maybe I can absorb 20 percent of that statement.

I now see the medical system like “Let’s Make a Deal.” Monty Hall opens the MRI, pulls out a scan, and cues the sad trombone.

Recently, my doctor explained, “A1C is 5.9, BMI is 34.9, and cholesterol is 159. I can prescribe a statin which will reduce the likelihood of death from 20 percent to 18 percent within the next ten years.”

And I replied, “Really? For 2 percent, I should take a statin?”

“Lots of my patients like those odds,” the doctor replied without a hint of sarcasm.

Shelley was right: The medical system is FEAR-BASED.

Twenty-five hundred miles away via phone, Shelley closed her eyes and diagnosed Karen:

“You have kidney damage from a toxin overload. Your body is starving for nutrients. Kidneys = Fear. Not letting go of fear. Indicator of blockage. Not moving what you’re holding on to. Growth/Change accompanied by loss. It’s eating you up. You have too much to live for, too much to love. Give yourself three days to indulge in your feelings; on the fourth day, box it up and chuck it. It’s like you are dragging chains. Pull it out of your body and be done with it. Like opening the door and filling with Light.”

I remember thinking, “Go for it, Karen. Girl, you can do this!”

Shelley’s protocol included internal hydrogen peroxide, slippery elm powder, alfalfa, Irish Moss, Yuva ursi, vitamin E oil, pinion salve, and several vitamins. She gave Karen a four-to-six-week plan.

Six hours later, Karen’s leg swelled up, kidneys went south, and we rushed to the hospital. Karen endured a string of indignities for the next ten days before her fate was sealed.

John Lennon said it best: Life is what happens while you’re busy making a four-to-six-week plan.

Today is Karen’s Darshan.

It’s not a memorial, remembrance, or yartzheit. Darshan is a Sanskrit term meaning "auspicious sight" of a holy person, which bestows merit on the viewer. Karen would have none of that, but I want to resolve the big question to everyone’s satisfaction: Where’s Karen?

I sent out an invite:

“The Karen sightings continue, so let’s celebrate her Darshan together.”

Today was also the culmination of my 12-month journey to “actively engage in the grieving process.” Actively grieving means not taking any experiences, feelings, inner promptings, or invitations for granted. It’s also the completion of my twelve-month vow of radical acceptance — acting on every invite without doubt or hesitation.

I’m still surprised no one called at 10 pm to cash in:

“Bruce, word on the street is you act on all invites. Can you come over right now to rub my feet?”

That didn’t happen, but what a great movie premise.

The bigger question: Did the Grand Reset I hoped for take place?

I have no idea. Spiritual transformation is like a colorless, odorless gas that gets into your bloodstream. If you’re lucky, someone will say you’re lookin’ good, but in practice, it’s is like sitting on the dock and hoping to see the tide rise. At best, you’ll notice to tighten the dock lines.

I carefully planned each hour of Darshan Day, including cooking, cleaning, setup, and music. My plan stayed on track until Carole Anne threw a wrench into my impeccable timing when she announced, “I want to drive to the burial site.”

Feeling ashamed, I had to say yes. I don’t know if my Grief Advisory Board reads this blog, but I haven’t visited Karen’s grave or even ordered a marker in 12 months. When you discover your partner alive in your being, visiting the body seems ridiculously lifeless.

We piled into the car, drove 40 minutes to Honey Creek Woodlands, hopped on a golf cart, and headed down the trail for about a mile to Meadow 2. I walked with anticipation down the wooded path until boom — the déjà vu hit full force. Twelve months earlier, while rounding that bend, my heartbeat stopped when Karen came into view, laid out in a basket, rimmed with flowers and roses on her heart. Natural burials are all about the dirt — no funeral trappings — just the real-deal-dirt of Mother Earth.

The family says goodbye to a wife and mother.

Today, we rounded that same bend to discover her burial mound covered in wildness — random brush, ragweed, native grasses, and ant mounds. Like it or not, we purchased the dust-to-dust plan, and nature delivered. I busied myself pulling weeds, making a big “K” out of stones, and resting my head on her bosom. Miko, recognized the scent instantly. Doggie Darshan is a thing.

The gravesite one year later.

I’m a meticulous scheduler, and Honey Creek was not factored in.

Back home with 75 minutes to prepare, I frantically prepared my trademark butternut squash Thai soup, rearranged the furniture, set out flowers, and set up sound for the musician.

I was not surprised that my time for reflection went out the window. I thrive on the pressure of time. After years of creating magic as an octave magician, I know how to stretch and mold time to fit the moment. Reshad called this “putting time into it” — i.e., cranking the RPMs, eliminating the dead weight of thinking, and hitting all the notes. Deadlines build pressure from the future coming in. Pressure is a creative force. Consider how the pressure of the sun’s gravitational force fuses hydrogen atoms into helium and releases the energy that powers life.

At zero hour, the soup was finished. I took my seat in the circle of chairs and greeted each guest.

I asked my old friend Daphne, a hospice chaplain, to go first. She had traveled from Massachusetts:

First up, my old friend Daphne:

“Since Karen’s passing,” Daphne began, “I discovered how many people considered Karen to be their best friend. That's remarkable. She was my oldest and dearest friend, too. Last summer, we were sitting together, and she turned to me and said, ‘I feel so comfortable with you.’”

“I was with Karen as she passed. I saw that she needed to do this dying thing in her own time because dying is a lot like childbirth. Talk about timing; I was struck by the fact that Karen passed as the Hospice nurse walked in the door.

“Last Saturday, I was at a Celtic Christmas concert when I felt Karen come near me. Maybe she was checking on me or had come to say goodbye. I think of her often.

“What is this Darshan?” Daphne continued. “We are here tonight to learn to trust. If we can trust these brief moments of connection when we speak to our loved ones, we will have found something real — something that helps us heal.”

“Thank you, Daphne.” Then I asked the group, “When you say the words, ‘Karen came to me,’ Is it a feeling? Is it a presence? Does anyone else have a Karen sighting they’d like to share?

Tracey replied, “The day before Karen’s funeral, I was feeling sick.”

“I had planned to drive to Atlanta but knew I couldn't. Karen came to me and said, ‘I don't think you should come because it's going to be stressful for you.’ And I was like, ‘It's your funeral, and you're worried about me!!’ That was so cute. It's just so Karen to care about somebody else like that.”

Lauren, Karen’s office assistant, spoke next.

“Karen came to me in a dream. I was in Savannah visiting an art show with my sister. We were walking down the sidewalk, and Karen came up to me and hugged me.” Lauren started to cry, then regained her composure. “Sorry, I know I don’t need to apologize, but Karen shared how happy and healthy she was! That’s my Karen sighting, and I love her so much.”

Next came the evening’s cameo appearance — Karen’s boss. I hadn’t seen Theodora in a year, and I was stunned at how different and younger she looked. My friend Bridget asked me, “Is that Karen’s boss?” I thought it might be her sister.”

Theodora began to share a dream:

After Karen’s death, we paused the chaplain training program. No students were coming, and we were not in a place to continue, so we took a year off. I didn't know how to proceed because we didn’t have Karen’s spirit to bring the program back.

“If that wasn’t bad enough, we had a horrible finance meeting where the board asked where we were headed. I didn’t know what to say. We were stuck.”

At this point, Theodora began to cry. I wished Karen could see her boss so vulnerable, but here it was. Theodora trudged through the tears.

“And then last month, I had a dream. Our office is housed in a historic house with beautiful stairs — imagine the stairs a bride might descend. In the dream, someone was coming down the stairs, and I looked up and thought, ‘Wow, that’s Karen.’ I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Karen came down the stairs and gave me this big, big hug. Despite our crisis, I suddenly felt that everything would be okay.

“In the dream, someone gave me this baby — a baby! — and I was holding the baby. It was a beautiful baby. But I didn’t know what this baby was about. And suddenly Karen was sitting there. Karen was very small and had the smallest hands. She was sitting like a Buddha.

"I told Karen, ‘I have this baby, and I don't know what to do with it.’ And she said, ‘Give it to me.’ I gave her the baby, and she held it. Karen was so happy about this baby.

“I didn't know what it meant. But after Karen held the baby, I woke up. My first thought was, wow, there's new life; something is happening. Maybe one of her sons had a baby, but as I thought about it, I realized our program would come back to life.

“The next day, I said, ‘Okay, I don't know how,’ but I sat down and meditated. I brainstormed and wrote and wrote and wrote, and suddenly, the energy came back. I realized how the program might work.

“I put the ‘baby’ out there — the idea for the program. It is now circulating in all three seminaries.

“I’ve had one meeting, and two more meetings are coming. I will bring this baby to these seminaries to see if we can revive the program. The courage, energy, and passion for this all came from Karen.”

“Thank you, Theodora,” I said. “That was so powerful — and wow, that baby.”

I sneaked a peek at my phone and Googled “image of baby in a dream,” and PsychCentral.com replied, “A baby can represent new beginnings, so seeing a baby in a dream might indicate a life opportunity.”

Check.

Next up was Carole Anne.

My notes were sketchy, so I called Carole Anne to get her memory of the Darshan.

“I had planned to read a poem from Karen’s dear friend Sarah because she was out of town,” Carole Anne remembered. “But that’s not what happened. As I attempted to recite the poem, I erupted from the depths of despair. I feel like crying right now because what was in that poem carried Karen’s essence.”

I asked Carole Anne, “Can I read it now?”

“Sure.”

HEY SWEETIE

Hey sweetie, how are you?

Oh Karen, how much I miss you!

I miss your calls

I miss your caring

Your listening to my heart

Your sharing yours.

I miss your touch

Walking arm-in-arm

Snuggling on the sofa

Your stroking my cheek

Yes, stroking my cheek,

Encouraging me to relax my face

Seeing me as I cannot see myself.

“Stop for a second,” Carole Anne interrupted. “As I read the poem, I felt a rush of feeling pour out — like a door opening. I couldn't squelch it. I was so choked up, Bridget tried to help. ‘Do you want somebody else to read it for you?’ and I was like, "No, no." I need to do this; I don't want to chicken out.”

“Can I continue?”

“Yes, do it.”

You, learning to speak up and out To touch your core To see your beauty To know your value To shine and love through pain.

I miss the sassy you

You, in a red dress

Low-cut purple blouse

A sway in your hips

A coy smile on your face

Eyes connecting

Seeing each other in essence

I delight in dancing with you.

“Stop again,” Carole Anne said. As I read, my ribs ached. And I thought, ‘Why is this crushing me?’ And Evie offered, ‘Do you want us to breathe with you?’ Yes, I said. But, my insides felt eviscerated and embarrassed with shame. Read on.”

You teach me

Dress as a woman

Wipe the mushrooms with a paper towel

Discard garlic with a green core.

And

Wait quietly together

Until we each find our green core

Raw vulnerable scary beautiful

You see me

I see you

You love me

I love you!

~ Sarah

Carole Anne was silent.

“So beautiful, but why was it so crushing?” I asked gently.

“By the end of the poem, I felt my whole world flatten,” Carole Anne explained. “Everything I was working toward, even my career path, had to be reassessed — just like when a fire or a flood wipes everything out, and you have to reassess your life. I had to reassess my relationship with my husband, with you, everything.

“I felt like the acorn that doesn’t know itself as a mighty oak. I wanted to grow but wasn’t quite sure how. I wanted to grow, but it takes rain, sun, and soil. I felt dissolved and suffocated.

“The next day, I drove back to South Carolina and took a walk. Karen came to me — my Darshan. Was it a dream? I don’t know, but she said, ‘You don't have to follow this career path like you've always done. You don't have to get back into that box. And I started shaking because all these people relied on me.

“I shared my experience with Bridget, and she said, ‘Karen gave you a baby, too.’ And I’m like, wow. And get this: the night before, I had a dream of being pregnant. That's fucking crazy. I'm 55, how can I be pregnant?

“So, I took my ‘baby’ and started writing again, and instead of opening a therapy practice, I'm switching to becoming a coach. Why? A wall came down during Karen’s Darshan — a wall of grief that was covering my value, my power, and self-esteem.”

Swoosh, swoosh…

“Where are you?”

“Driving.”

“In the rain?”

“It’s okay; everybody's driving slow.”

After a pause, I reminded Carole Anne, “Two days after Karen passed, Shelley, the intuitive, told us Karen was sticking around. Karen wanted to help her beloveds realize that the veils between worlds are so close, so ephemeral. She wanted to help us access the creative power of the imaginal world. That’s what I hear in these dreams and sightings and the babies.”

After Carole Anne read the poem, we all went into the kitchen for soup.

Theodora stayed in the circle, quietly absorbing the afterglow, so I sat down next to her.

“Thank you, Theodora, that was so powerful. I can’t explain it, but your story redeemed my entire year — my 12 months of striving and stressing.”

Theodora became soft in a way I had never witnessed.

“Thank you for doing this,” she said. “I hadn’t realized how Karen brought the spirit into the organization until after she passed — but she’s still with us. Over the ten years that Karen and I worked together, I could see how you were coming through her.”

“Really? Say more.”

I was feigning ignorance, but Theodora knew how I supported Karen — creating videos and collateral, editing her documents, keeping her on task, bailing out IT disasters, and giving her “rubbies” every night to relieve the stress. I had no problem being the Sherpa who got Sir Edmund Hillary to the summit.

“Tonight, I saw a new you,” Theodora shared.

A wave of tears washed over me.

“It has been quite remarkable to observe your openness,” Theodora continued. “The way you engage with people, and share your heart — as I watched, I could clearly see Karen coming through you.”

Until that moment, I hadn’t considered that my little secret could be seen.

“It’s like she’s present and with you and through you,” Theodora added.

I knew this, but at the same time, I didn’t. Reshad once said, “You don’t know what you know until someone tells you.” That’s what it means to be recognized. I felt recognized; something was freed. Was this my graduation exercise?

Ten years ago, on New Year’s Eve, this saga began.

Let me play back the scene.

Earlier that day, Karen and I were in a rickety elevator in an old medical office building when suddenly, Karen collapsed in my arms. Her doctor rushed out of his office. “Take her to Piedmont.”

We rushed to the ER, where the ER doc ran an MRI: “Your wife has a significant lesion on her left occipital lobe.”

If Henny Youngman had been there, I could imagine him blurting a mix of yin and yang, “Doc, that’s terrible, awful news. And have a Happy New Year’s.”

I hadn’t yet adopted Henny as my guardian angel back then, but he was waiting in the wings.

As the clock neared midnight, Karen and I sat in silence with Bridget who had just arrived after discovering our plight by chance. The cacophony of New Year’s in the ER played outside our door, but inside, we maintained a sanctuary.

Piedmont Hospital, 2014. Maintaining buoyancy before brain surgery,

Bridget pulled a book out of her purse. “It’s getting late. Can I read you a bedtime story?”

Bridget had spotted the book in a used bookstore earlier that day, paid $3, and put it into her purse.

“It’s from from Beauty: The Invisible Embrace, by John O'Donohue.”

She began to read:

“All through your life your soul takes care of you. Despite its best brightness, your mind can never illuminate what your life is doing. You are always in a state of knowing, but that knowing, while often lucid and deep, is more often faltering and shadowed. At times you feel immensely present in your life, rooted in what is happening to you, utterly there.

“At other times, you are only vaguely in your life; things are blurred, and confusion or distraction owns your days... Yet through all these times, your soul is alive and awakened, gathering, sheltering and guiding your ways and days in the world. In effect, your soul is your secret shelter.”¹

As Bridget read, I felt safe knowing that my soul, my mostly-ignored but ever-constant life companion, had not forgotten me in this life-threatening crisis. Bridget continued.

“Without ever surfacing or becoming explicit, your soul takes care of you. Never once while you are here does your soul lose touch with the eternal. Your soul makes sure that God's dream for you is always edging towards fulfillment even when at times the opposite seems to be the case. At times of immense suffering or the most ecstatic joy, your life breaks through the shadowing, and you come to sense that something else is minding and guiding you. This is the nature of the consolation and infinitely tender embrace your soul always provides for you.”

That reading gave Karen and me the strength to persevere. Guided by faith, we enjoyed a vital ten years of passionate life together.

As I write, twelve months after Karen returned to Mother Earth, I discovered an unnoticed passage that dug deeper into my question, “Where’s Karen.”

The dead are not distant or absent. They are alongside us. When we lose someone to death, we lose their physical image and presence, they slip out of visible form into invisible presence. This alteration of form is the reason we cannot see the dead. But because we cannot see them does not mean that they are not there. Transfigured into eternal form, the dead cannot reverse the journey and even for one second re-enter their old form to linger with us a while. Though they cannot reappear, they continue to be near us and part of the healing of grief is the refinement of our hearts whereby we come to sense their loving nearness.

I absorbed O’Donahue’s evocative and beautiful imagery — but it went down like half a meal, more passive than passionate and missing the key question, “What’s the point of life’s surreal charade?”

I turned to my comedic guardian Henny Youngman:

“I know what you’re feeling,” Henny confided like an affectionate uncle. “Sweet words but nothing to chew on.”

Henny grinned with a twinkle in his eye. “Did you hear the one how God created man in his own image?”

“Yes… Genesis.”

“That’s not how it happened.”

“Oh, really,” I smirked.

“It’s a long story.”

“Shoot.”

“God had a product development team,” Henny explained with his characteristic blurt. “Silicon Valley, venture capital. They came up with this new idea — Human Life™.”

“Henny, how about a mother-in-law joke?”

“Stay with me,” he replied. “Nobody knows the real story. The product team was pitching Human Life to God on a whiteboard and explaining, ‘In a nutshell, a young couple falls in love, marries, has children, and lives a rich life.’ God strokes his beard and challenges, ‘That’s it?’”

“My thoughts exactly,” I chimed in. “That’s it!?”

“Here’s the twist,” Henny continues. “The Product Guy continues pitching: ‘Year after year, the couple renew their vows, deepen their bond — their Bondo.’

“And God gets excited, ‘Love it! Lots of babies.’

“Product Guy cautions, ‘There’s a little wrinkle.’

“‘Which is?’ God asks.

“Product Guy shakes his head. ‘The Second Law of Thermodynamics.’

“God is taken aback — ‘Hey, wait a minute. I’m God; shouldn’t I be above the law?’

“Product Guy gets sheepish and reminds God, ‘You know… the song…’

“‘WHAT SONG?’ God is roaring.

“Product Guy sings in a girly voice:

‘What if God was one of us, just a slob like one of us...’

“‘Hold it right there,’ God commands, ‘that’s blasphemy!’

“Product Guy gets passionate. ‘That’s the magic, the hidden magic.’

“God is confused, so Product Guy pulls up the next slide in the deck — a graph. He explains, ‘After age 42, life starts to go downhill, imperceptible at first, then starts to plummet — disease, divorce, infirmities, bitterness, cellulite…’

“‘Cellulite? What’s that?’ God asks.’

“Product Guy explains, ‘The physical diminishes while the love grows.’

“‘This is your great idea?’ God asks.

“‘It’s genius,’ Product Guy exclaims. ‘Remember how we made cigarettes addictive? This time, we’ll lace the pituitary with oxytocin.’

“‘You marketers are all alike,’ God grumbles. ‘So, what’s your plan for the final demise? Consumers don’t like planned obsolescence.’

“‘Nothing a tagline can’t fix: Human Life™ NOW with a Second Consummation™’

“‘A Second Coming?’

“’No, Second Consummation. In French, the first orgasm is la petite mort, the little death.’

“‘And?’

“‘The second consummation is La Grande Mort. Bogart and Bacall called it The Big Sleep — but that’s incorrect. It’s The Big Woke.’”

“‘I’m not political,’ God reminds.

“‘Woke, awakened! Human Life reaches toward consummate love — a fusion of intimacy, passion, and commitment. They all come together in eternity.’

“‘It will never sell. Can’t rhyme any of those words in a love ballad.’

“The Product Guy sings again.

“‘Come up to my condo, Jean-Paul Belmondo. We have a leetle Bondo?’

“‘Yeah, yeah,’ God interjects. ‘1960, French New Wave, Jean Seberg in Godard’s Breathless.’

“‘You sure know your films.’

“‘I’m the original Large Language Model. But what’s Bondo?’

“‘Brand name. We made it up. It’s the immutable, eternal substance of consummate love. It’s anti-entropic. Defeats the Second Law of Thermodynamics.’

“‘Hey, you just said…’

“‘The key word is consummate.’

“‘Explain it to me like I’m four trillion years old.’

“‘In traditional cultures, the bride was escorted to the bridal chamber by her grandmothers and prepared for bed. The bridegroom was summoned, and the old women left. They would then listen for a scream and then rush into the room, and the groom would leave. If the girl had fainted, the women would revive her and remake the bed, replacing and taking away the sheet. The bloody sheet was exhibited to the guests the next morning.’

“That’s disgusting.’

“‘Yes. But in the Second Consummation, the surviving spouse is impregnated with the fruits of their life together. He becomes fecund with love.’”

“‘Fecund?’

“‘The physical diminishes while the soul grows and ripens.’

“God shakes his head, ‘In real life, the widower runs off with his new girlfriend — in a sports car. Not sure you thought this through. There’s a lot of Hazard in this product. I’m meant to be the Absolute.’

“‘God is subject to Hazard.’

“‘That’s blasphemy!’

“‘ Come on, we know your dirty little secret. The universe is making it up as it goes along.’

“God whispers, ‘Shhh, don’t let anyone know.’

“‘Don’t worry, religions are designed to protect the faithful.’

“‘There’s a lot here,’ God agrees. ‘But this Human idea comes with a lot of obvious defects. But, let’s go with it. The hidden prize inside sells it.’

“‘The hidden Bondo?’

“‘Exactly.’ God stands to shake hands. ‘And while you’re at it, let’s go big — power the entire universe with Bondo.’

Henny lifts his violin to underscore the point, then adds, “The product guys are jubilant; they fold their hands in prayer, ‘Blessed art Thou, Ruler of the Universe…’

“God will have none of it. ‘Stop with the fawning and get to work.’”

My head was spinning as Henny Youngman finished. He lifted his violin, and strummed a few bars of Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

Henny put his violin down and teased, “So you found the prize inside.”

“I did.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“The Bondo? Don’t know. My quest for a partner flew out the window.”

“Like the roadmap.”

“Yeah.”

“What about Bondo?”

“It’s the only thing that matters.”

“Not many people know this,” Henny concurred.

“Yeah, it’s lonely.”

“Look at me, living on the road, cheap hotel rooms — just to give people a little Bondo.”

“I don’t know how you do it.”

“‘Cause the prize is inside.”

“Which means my quest for Bondo is over?”

Henny shrugged, “In a way.”

“Shit.”

“Look, take it from Uncle Henny. Make life your partner, and you will never be lonely.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Don’t worry about it…” Henny exclaimed in his mother tongue — an existential Yiddish.

“Don’t worry?”

“You have no choice.”

As a $5 one-time gift, support my work with a cup of coffee.
LINK: Buy Bruce Miller a Cup of Coffee

1. O’Donohue, John. 2005. Beauty: The Invisible Embrace. Reprint edition. New York: Harper Perennial.