People tell me I hide behind my camera and my need to watch, rather than feel, and I suppose that might be true. I will not soon forget the gather of the horses at the tree where Paul Moshimer decided to hang himself and end his life. This is something I expect Paul knew how to do, he had been called to the scene of many deaths in his career as a fire chief and first responder.

Pamela decided to take the horses out to the tree late in the morning, she makes her decisions from the heart and carries them out suddenly. In minutes, a dozen people appeared and began scrubbing and brushing the horses, tying their tails into braids, putting flowers and ribbons in their manes, getting halters on.

Pamela insists the horses look magnificent wherever they go, and they did, all groomed and gussied up.  it was joyous to see them preening with excitement and anticipation. They seem to love to go out and show off. Pamela, a former Philadelphia carriage driver,  said she would ride Piper, a horse she is especially attached to and wear a dress that Paul bought her in New York City after they got married, she said it was the last dress he bought her.

Pamela is a regal presence, she is, like Paul, a commanding figure.  The two of them were made for magazine covers and photographs, she hates the term, but they have star quality. She grew up in the jungles of South America, then moved around the United States, and is deeply connected to the Sioux culture and faith system. She is tall and dominates almost every space she is in. The horses walked slowly from the farmhouse down to the pasture where the tree is, they circled it four times, as is the Native-American custom, and then turned inwards towards the tree to say goodbye.

Clearly, the horses sensed the emotion and sadness around them as they turned towards the tree, where Paul was found. They stood still, in silence and respect,and seemed to turn somber, to reflect the mood around them.

When I got home last night, several people called me to ask me if I was okay, and how I felt. I asked Doug Anderson, Paul’s friend and a poet, the same question, and he answered, “upside down and sideways.” A good answer, I thought, to a question that really can’t be answered or even asked.I don’t have that kind of mind.  Maria sat quietly at the fire and went into a deep meditation, I was taking in every person, every car, every gust of wind, the fire, the firekeeper’s work, the clouds in the sky.

It seems like a few minutes ago that I was standing in a cow pasture with Joshua Rockwood, the young farmer unjustly accused of animal cruelty and abuse and awaiting trial, and I saw a message from Blue Star Equiculture, the voicemail said it was urgent, I needed to call.  I had already gotten several messages asking if I had head the news, but I didn’t know what the news was. I had turned off my phone when I started walking with Joshua. When I called,  Pamela came on the phone and told me what had happened, I asked her if she wanted me to come. She said yes, please, Maria too.

The next day, we left for Massachusetts.

That day, I stood in the pasture trying to absorb the news that Paul was dead, I just couldn’t process it.  Pamela told me how he had died, and that made it all the more stunning and beyond my comprehension.  I left Joshua’s farm, called Maria and the wheels started turning. If you are a journalist and a writer, you learn to detach yourself from things and feel them later.

I don’t yet know how I feel really. I am not a sorrow thief, Paul’s death is not my tragedy, it belongs to Pamela and his family and oldest friends perhaps. Paul and I had gotten close and truly valued one another, but I do not want to steal anyone else’s sorrow, what I lost is not the same as what Pamela and his daughters and the young souls at Blue Star lost. That is an important boundary for me. I feel fine.

My lover and partner is here with me, so is my work, the animals, my blog, my writing and my photos. I have no grounds for speaking sadly of my life. Paul’s loss is an enormous thing, because he was an enormous man, he was a great friend and great presence that carried weight. A difficult space for anyone who knew him to fill. He and Pamela had the gift of knowing how to look, to stand out without seeming to want to, and it helped draw great attention and flocks of people to their farm.

But when I thought about it, sitting by that tree, I found some clarity, some understanding.

Even though Paul always wanted to be a better man, he was very much a man. His life was about being the rescuer, not the rescued, about being active, not helpless, about being powerful, not crippled, about being one who helps the sick, not who is sick,  about giving orders, not taking them, about control, not surrender. I don’t know what happened inside of his head, he did not choose to tell me, but I can imagine a man like that choosing not to embark on the path our culture has chosen for older men who once were strong, and are growing weaker and more vulnerable.

I am at the age when people have started opening doors for me and offering to take things out to the car. I have always been the helper, never the helped. I don’t care for it. And Paul was in much more pain than I am in.

If I could not imagine Paul killing himself, neither could I imagine him in a nursing home, or in a wheelchair, or of asking anyone else in the world to take care of him, even if they wanted to. That may seem selfish to many, and perhaps it is, but it is also very much a part of the powerful man. If there is one thing we own in our lives, to which we have irrevocable title, it is our lives.

I believe it is for me to understand, not to judge. In many ways I recognize this searching and intellectualizing as the hiding place it is, it is much safer to observe and consider than it is to let go and feel. I know Maria feels this is the way I have dealt with my own sorrow and pain, my own shame and disappointment. This is perhaps one of the most powerful things Paul and I shared, with were both disappointed in ourselves, felt shame and sadness about some of our decisions.

But I know I lost something too when Paul died, and I feel it, a bit more each day. Each morning, I look in my inbox for his wisdom, his thoughts about my writing, the videos and music and essays he loved to chew over. Each morning, my heart sinks when I see they are not there. And realize that he is not there, and will never again be there.

Paul had to process life in his own truth, and I need to do the same. I will not steal anyone else’s sorrow.

I am proud to be the documenter. There was a firekeeper at the farm the last four days, and if there ought to be a firekeeper, then there ought to be a story teller. To me, one is as precious as the other.