“Cultivate the habit of being grateful for every good thing that comes to you, and to give thanks continuously. And because all things have contributed to your advancement, you should include all things in your gratitude.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Pamela Moshimer Rickenbach of Blue Star Equiculture posted a video this weekend in honor of Paul Moshimer, her husband and my friend. Paul killed himself at the Blue Star farm last summer, he hung himself from a big and beautiful pine tree. Everyone who knew him mourned him deeply and misses him.

And everyone who knew him was stunned and bewildered, as is often the case with suicide. No death is easy to bear, but suicide brings its own special pain and sorrow. I did not know Paul long, and perhaps not even well, but we became close friends in the time we had, we talked in one way or another almost every day. He came and visited me at the farm just before he died, we were both looking forward to the things we wanted to do together.

Paul wanted to sign up for my writing class, he had been inducted into the Fabulous Old Men’s Club that Scott Carrino and I had begun. He was eager to join, we had a great first meeting. We were not to have another.

Last week, Maria and I visited Pamela at Blue Star, we all went out to lunch at a great Chinese restaurant in Palmer, Mass. Pamela turned to me at one point and said “you know, I hope, that Paul loved you so much. He admired your bravery, your willingness to speak your truth and face the consequences. I hope you know that.”

I do know it. Paul told me that in some of his regular messages to me, and he told me the same thing to me when we were out taking photos together early in the morning here at the farm. It is a shocking thing for someone like me to hear – the idea that I am brave. I was a valium addict for 30 years in a life-long effort to curb anxiety, and was in one form of therapy or another for the same length of time.

I have experienced fear or anxiety every day of my conscious life, it has eased greatly in the past few years, and ironically, since I have faced some of the greatest challenges of my life in that time. Paul sat in the living room with me and told me he admired my willingness to speak my mind in my writing, to be direct and not be afraid to say what I thought. He asked me if I could teach him to do that.

He and Pamela were beset by some especially cruel attacks from the lunatic brigades of the animal rights movement, and he wanted to protect her and the farm from them. But, he said, he was afraid. It seemed he had other things in his life he wanted to share, but was afraid to share.  Speaking out might just bring more attacks.

It might, I said.

“Paul,” I told him, “I do not ever see myself as brave, I try to be authentic. But perhaps it isn’t such a good thing to always be honest about what you think.” I felt like I ought to warn him. People often get upset when you are honest and open about your feelings. They get angry. They are sometimes hurt. Your family may not like what you write. Some people don’t want to think, they don’t want to think too deeply about things, and I should tell you what I have never written, and that is I have paid dearly and often for writing what I think. Maybe you should think about it, ” I said, “I am careful about teaching something just because I do it. It isn’t for everyone.”

He told me about some of the pressures and challenges of his life, and I wondered if he needed any more. I was perhaps more prescient than I realized, I saw Paul’s sadness and yearning, but I did not understand what it foreshadowed. I wanted him to know that when you stand in your truth, there is a great reward: a sense of self, strength, purpose. It helped diminish the fear I have lived with all of my life, when I never spoke my truth. That is terror. There is not much more frightening than that.

But the truth is I pay for it all of the time. The truth is that very few people really want to hear the truth, theirs or anyone else’s. There is no turning back for me now, it is what I believe and who I am, but I am no longer surprised by the fear, anger and sometimes even hatred that it generates. Besides, I said, my truth is my truth, everybody has their own.

Paul told me that being brave in my writing was a beautiful thing.  You are a Truth Teller, he said. And my words have power, he said. Perhaps I didn’t realize what a gift it was, to me, and to others. How much good it could do. How much thought it could provoke, and understanding. How much strength it could relay to others, as it had for him. He was, he said, inspired by it. I tend to dismiss things like that, I am not usually inclined to believe them.

We talked long into the night about it, and when we were done, I felt a great sense of peace and ease about my work, and his respect for it. Paul was an imposing and thoughtful man. A life-long First Responder and Fire Chief, he knew a lot about bravery. He had saved many lives.

Paul had given me a great gift in his friendship with me, a sense of reinforcement and peace about my work. Look what you do for people with your truth, he said, and I did what I always did when I hear something like that, I blush and mumble and change the conversation. I want to be able to do it, he said. Okay, I told him, let’s get to work in the Fall.

Paul didn’t stick around for my class, but  Paul’s gift has stayed with me. If my truth – bravery was his term – could spark love in a good man like that, then I should value it and honor it and accept it.

Pamela often reminds me that Paul loved me, and what he loved me for. I am still shocked by it, but also moved by it. It was his gift to me, his legacy. Whenever I face a choice – to speak my mind or flinch – I remember what Paul said to me. And I tell my notion of the truth. I try to be brave. It is the highest calling of any writer to be brave and provoke thought.

So I was grateful for Pamela’s video this weekend. Truth is hard to speak sometimes. Painful for me,  sometimes painful for others. Some people will fear you for it, some people will even hate you for it.

But some people will love you for it as well, and that is worth everything. Thanks for the gift Paul, I wanted to acknowledge it. We all miss you. I can only imagine how much Pamela misses you, but I can tell you that I miss you too. And I will be as brave as I can be for you. And for me. And maybe for somebody else.