A thoughtful man named Larry sent me a message the other day, he said he was in a library about ten years ago and picked up a book at random, he started reading it and was “stopped in his tracks,” he said by one passage. He has carried that passage with him everywhere since then, he said those words changed his life, they are his motivation to be a catalyst that helps him to redefine what it means to get older.

He attached the passage:

“I’m not nearly as afraid of dying as I am of the hinges inside my mind and soul rusting closed. I am desperate to keep them open, because I think that if they close, that’s one’s first death, the loss of hope, curiosity and possibility, the spiritual death. After that, it seems to me, the second one is just a formality. I want to oil the hinges, force the doors to stay open.”

I loved the passage, it moved me, it spoke my heart. I wondered who wrote them.  It took me five or ten seconds to realize that these were my words, I wrote them, they appeared in Running To The Mountain, the book that marked the beginning of the spiritual and personal journey that led me to the country, to my farm, to writing about animals.

How humbling that they meant so much to Larry, that he took some trouble to find me and thank me.

I took these words and went for a walk with Red out in the woods. I read them again. I have a tic about reading stuff I have already written, I never do it, I have never looked at Running To The Mountain since it was published more than a decade ago.

But there it was, a decade ago. Prescient words. These are the words I live by, I thought. Are they true? Have I remained true to this idea? Are the hinges in my mind rusting? Have I succumbed to the first death? Are the doors of my soul still open?

I think so, this is very much what I still believe, very much what I practice, very much how I want to live and do live. Since I wrote that book, the oil of life has been in my veins, the doors swung very wide I started my blog, became a photographer, ended a 35 year marriage, left urban life behind, moved to the country, to the natural world,  wrote about animals and rural life, acquired donkeys and cows and sheep and goats and country and work dogs. I committed myself to a creative life, a spiritual life.

I found love. I resolved to never be defined by others, to live my own life.

I left Bedlam Farm for a smaller, different version, the next chapter. There are more to come, Maria and I talk day and night of change, of the next thing for us.

My new wife and have kept the doors open. For better or worse, we have shared our lives with the world on our blogs, in our work, in our open houses and teaching. Ours is a creative life.

The hinges are quiet, they are well oiled, they move freely back and forth. No rust there I think, except maybe in my knees sometimes. And maybe in my heart, once broken, now whole again.

I fear the first  death much more than the final one. It is so hard to romanticize and regret the past, condemn the young, doll up the past,  drink from the stale wine of nostalgia,  dread change, speak poorly of one’s life and the world around it.

It is a sacred covenant, a trust to have someone like Larry carrying my words around in his pocket, using them as a guidepost for his life. I thank you for that, Larry, it means much to a writer to hear that, we never really know what impact our work has been. I believe I have honored that covenant, I have lived those words and live them still.

I am privileged to be alive, and I will stay alive as long as I have anything to say about it. Hope, curiosity and possibility are all in the air,  just around the corner.