I’ve been married to Maria for more than five years, but almost every day, I find new reasons to love her. Standing in the pasture on this blistering hot day, swarms of flies and bugs swirling and buzzing, even the dogs were slugging, I looked up and saw this striking figure of a woman shoveling manure out of the pole barn, dressed in knee-high boots and a flowing red gypsy skirt, and a sharp black vest.

It was a cross somewhere between Willa Cather and Frieda Kahlo. You are always you, I thought. In your studio, in the barn, on the horse, shoveling manure, digging holes, planting flowers. You are always you, you are never anyone else, you have found yourself, and you are always you, no matter what  you are doing, where  you are, who you are with.

You are not like anyone else.

You could never be mistaken for anyone else, no matter what you are doing.

This is the artist inside of her, but also the human being. This is the gift of identity. I told her this when we got back into the house. “You are always you,” I said. “Oh,” she said, startled, somewhat shocked at the idea. “I hope that’s true. I’m glad to hear that.”