“Tell me things,” I say.

In the past, this is something he would say to me when he wanted to connect with me, and it seemed to him that I was preoccupied with something. Heck, I was always preoccupied with something when the kids were little, which is why he took me out of town and away from the chores of the house every chance he could.

Right now, in this moment, he has my complete and full attention.

Today, he muses a little about the changing state of his own mind and confusion. He’s thoughtful, not fearful.

“I treat my mind with careful, loving skepticism,” he tells me. 

I know there are times when it’s hard for him to decipher what is real and what isn’t, so I have tried to be especially careful about what is on the TV. No confusing or disturbing images.

No easy task in today’s world. 

“Life is like pushing through veils at this point,” he continues. “And it requires this diligent checking and counter-checking the information I get from my ordinary senses.”

It’s quiet right now, except for the deep woof of a big dog in the distance and the occasional sploosh of car wheels through puddles on the road.  We’re thoughtful. I think about what he said, and wonder just how long he has been pushing through veils. He’s been so tired for a such a long time.

“In ways, it’s kind of fun,” he tells me.

Hm. I didn’t expect that! He looks past me to someplace beyond while he continues talking.

“It’s actually kind of gratifying to be able to manipulate and play with the constant distortion of input I get from the outer world.” 

Well, of course. This disease, this life even, is a series of paradoxes. And my beloved has lived his whole life inside the body and brain of a mystic. I surmise that for him, it’s not a completely uncomfortable place, this place of veils. It’s certainly not what he would choose for himself, or me, or anyone, but he has learned to trust what Is. And over the years, he has taught me much about that. Love just Is.

There’s this delightful and edgy place in the universe where words are just way too limiting to accurately describe an experience. But gosh, you try anyway, because you are The Poet. Over and over, you push the lexicon to the edge of understanding. How can one use words to describe an experience for which there are no words? You live in a land of contradictions, of metaphor. You create and re-recreate realities.

Is that a tree you see? Well, no. It’s something else. It’s life itself, it’s home. Or possibly a roadblock, a molecule, a sentence. 

It’s pain. It’s ecstasy.