Several people have asked me what I miss about Maria, and it is an interesting question for me.

Maria and I have been together for nearly a decade now, first as friends, than lovers, then husband and wife. Those years were a period of great change for both of us, and in a sense, we were reborn, we gave rebirth to our lives.

Since then we have only been apart for short periods – me on a book tour or two, her to travel to Gee’s Bend, and we were never that far away or completely out of touch. India is different.

She is far away, and mostly out of touch. Watching her drive off last Sunday in her car in the middle of a blizzard was a kind of heart episode of its own. I knew this was going to be a different experience.

I am not a macho man, I have always lacked the prerequisite testosterone other many have, but I am also a strong and determined man, I have experienced a lot, and found my own strength I can take care of myself. I don’t need to pretend to be strong, I miss her a lot, but I am also appreciating the experience. Getting to know myself again.

I love being a writer for many reasons, one of them is a license to look at your life, and every now and then, even get paid for it.

Our lives now were unimaginable when Maria and I first met, we were both despairing and lost. We were determined to put our lips to the world..and live our lives. And we are.

I can’t really write about myself, I can’t see myself all that clearly.

Maria has changed, I can surely see that.

When I met her, she rarely smoke, and never smiled. I don’t think I did either.

I’m not sure I saw her smile in the first year or two of our friendship, I knew she was unhappy, but she never said why and I knew better than to ask. We were easy together, but never spoke about what was happening to us. We do now.

Over these years, Maria has developed a radiance and light that is very powerful, sometimes almost blinding.  It was always there, struggling to come out. It’s out.

It happened gradually, so that I only became aware of it in that sense a couple of years ago. It is an inner light, a radiant smile, a passion for life, a creative genius, a sort of sun that lights up the world around it.

I think I miss that radiance the most, along with the obvious.

I run around the farm lighting candles, I sometimes sit in my chair staring out the window, forgetting to meditate but meditating. A meditation on love and separation. Sometimes, I walk in circles, sometimes it feels like I’m shrouded in fog.

Yesterday, I felt some sorrow and pain. Today is good. I am not going outside much, not driving the car. I eat my meals standing up in the kitchen, I am avoiding people. Sometimes, I feel sorry for myself, like the old days. Sometimes old sorrows return.

Maria’s brightness and love of life is infectious, it is difficult to feel sorrowful around her, sometimes impossible. She loves so much of life it pulls me along. See that tree, that bird, did you hear that interview, read that book, see that painting?

I miss her great love of her work, her ideas, the artistry that infuses our house, the farm, the bathroom, the windowsills, our bedroom.  I miss her love of nature, of trees, of the birds overhead, our animals, our woods. She is so very alive. I am in awe of this trip, she gripped it in her teeth and just conquered it.

It is hard not to miss her, because art is everywhere, it is not confined to her studio. Colored bottles, stones, pieces of wood, birds nest, orphaned plants.

Her touches are every surface and table top and wall in our home.  The farmhouse is a gallery, she is the curator.

As she came to life, so has our little farmhouse come to life, filled with color and green and flowers and all kinds of uplifting hues. I miss her ability to transform every corner of the world – her own clothes, sense of style, our old kitchen – into a kind of art, even our Frida Kahlo bathroom.

I miss her physical being as well, I am fond of her body. I miss touching her breasts sometimes.

Sometimes I feel old and grey around her, especially when she is gone. I have to make my own color and light, and I am not as good at it as she is, I am not as open, or warm or radiant. I do not light up the space around me the way she does.

When she is gone, the farm seems quieter – I do love quiet – the hues darker, the animals quieter and more contained. I believe in solitude, it is when we come to know and understand ourselves. I cherish it.

In the mornings, then again at night, I miss the way we talk to one another, share our lives, figure out life. It is sometimes hard to get up in the morning, we are so engaged in talking, arguing, sorting things out. I know what it is to be alone, I know the difference between temporary solitude and the real thing.

And of course, I miss loving her and being loved.  I am not used to it, and I do not ever take it for granted. I am so glad Maria took this trip, and glad I did not go. She needed to know that we can be apart, and so did I. The trip has revealed her great strength, something else that was there, but has emerged gradually and over time.

She knows for sure now that she can take care of herself too.

You can’t really miss it, yet it is difficult to see someone change and grow if you are close. Her soul is on fire and out in the open now, her spirit released.

One day our time apart will not be temporary, and I am not morbid about that, but grateful to see it and for both of us to experience it. I missed  her, but I survived, and did more than survive. I was not expecting so challenging a week or so difficult a week, and it’s good to know that I can handle that also. I suppose that is what we are about.

It’s good to see all of this and think about it and chew on it. Somehow, our relationship seems to just deepen and deepen.

Our lives together are not perfect, no ones lives are, and we have our difficulties. I don’t wish to be sappy about it.

But I suppose missing someone is a measure of love. I would be so much sadder if I did not feel this powerful emotion of missing her. That would be so much worse.

Missing Maria reminds me to be happy and grateful for what I have, not for what I don’t.