A close friend asked last week to speak to me, we were both busy, we agreed to talk on Sunday afternoon.

My friend – her name is Eve Marko – is a remarkable women, a writer, intellectual,  Zen teacher social activist, passionate dog lover and a loving friend.

Eve is a gifted blogger and thinker, she  has always reminded me of the great moral philosopher and author Hannah Arendt (Eichmann in Jerusalem.

This new medium is a great force for liberation, sometimes overlooked in our rush to sell things.

Her writings about life with Bernie after the stroke, and after his death, have been extraordinary and free of pity and bathos. She has flattered me by following my blog for some years and reading it closely.

She is opened up in a particular way right now. Bernie, her husband and partner in social activism for 33 years, died a few weeks ago. His stroke three years ago that took away his fierce independence and mobility. It has also prompted Eve to see life in a new way.

Eve says she has had a gripping education in vulnerability. She worries about me and my vulnerability. She called to reach out to me, to offer herself as a person  I can call in the middle of the night when the darkness comes knocking.

As a friend.

What  Eve wanted to talk to me about was her feeling that I sometimes showed great pain and vulnerability in my writing, and she worried about me at times, she wanted me to know that as I grew older, my dependence on other people would deepen, and the number of things I could do for myself would shrink.

She was offering herself as a person who wanted to help. It was so generous, I was so pleased.

She said when we talked that I seemed a complicated person, capable of experiencing great pain and  great joy.

She wasn’t sure sometimes if I was in great pain and distress or simply reflecting on my life. I told her I have often been in great pain, but I am more than content with my life than ever. Being young does not guarantee happiness.

And one thing – pain – does not preclude the other – happiness.

Eve was concerned that I might be afraid to ask for help or show my vulnerability in some way other than in my writing.

She said this would become more and more important as I grew older and was  more dependent on others, as Bernie had been.

It was a generous and compassionate concern, and I appreciated very much the idea that some one as remarkable and accomplished as Eve was offering a hand of friendship. I can see that both of us might need that.

I think we all need that, really. I think she was talking in part about aging, she said as she and I got older – we were both about the same age – we would become more dependent.

Eve and I can talk openly and honestly with one another, and I told her I view aging differently than many people, perhaps even than her. I don’t do old talk, for one thing, it is not healthy.

I have not had a severe stroke, but I see older and dependent people almost every day, and I have no blinders on about where life will eventually take me.

I am better at being old than I ever was at being young. I am happier, more in love, more creative, more productive, more engaged with the world than ever before. My blog and photography and my wife and many good doctors have guided me through these turbulent years, I am grateful to them all.

This blog has become the focal point of my writing, and I have never been this free to write, or felt so relevant and  useful, or loved writing so much. Free at last. I get paid to think, and to encourage other people to think. It’s one of the best jobs on the earth.

My most vulnerable time is not now, as I grow older, but long ago, when I was a child. I learned then that I was truly vulnerable, I didn’t need to wait to get old.

I learned it every night for years. I have never felt as safe as I now  feel in bed next to Maria.

Over the years, I have learned that showing one’s vulnerability is essential to authenticity, love, and true creativity.

An honest and useful writer can see and acknowledge the worse parts of himself, and every one of us – you as well as me – has some worse parts.  I write about them all the time and people think I must be crazy or depressed.

There is no such thing as a perfect human, only people who like to think they are.

Whenever one human being hates another, or sends another a hateful message, they are showing their vulnerability, not their strength.

Every great or even good writer shows his or her vulnerability, it does not mean they are falling apart, any more than I am, it is because the ability to show one’s vulnerability to the world opens the path to many of the good things in life.

Showing vulnerability is opening oneself up to love and trust.

It is the very essence of good and honest writing. It is the way to compassion, empathy and humility.

It is the foundation of authenticity. It is not getting old that I fear, there is nothing much I can do about that. It is lying to myself.

I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t know how to be perfect. I don’t want to be perfect. I want to accept who I am. I want other people to accept who I am.

The minute I stopped lying to myself, Maria and I found one another. The minute I showed my vulnerability my blog took off. People are sick of packaged lies.

Some people, I know, like to sneer at this or roll their eyes, but I can tell you, it has been my salvation.

I tell my writing students that writing is all about vulnerability, every piece of good writing ever shows vulnerability in one way or another. So does every great work of art, and every true leader.

I did lie to myself and to other people for many years, I could not show my vulnerability or write about because I was terrified of it, and hiding it taught me to be deceitful and to avoid the reality of my life. The opposite of vulnerability is arrogance and avoidance of feeling.

When I couldn’t be vulnerable, then my life was a lie, to myself and everyone else. And I could not find love or peace.

You can’t find love and connection in deceit.

I believe I have to acknowledge my pain gradually and continuously. My pain, I think, was and is the experience of not having what I need, emotionally, spiritually, literally. It is a place of loneliness, hiding and lovelessness.

For  you cannot love another human being if you do not open up your soul and show your vulnerability to them as well as your heart.

We are all broken, we have all fought our battles, most far worse than mine. But only the few ever share their experience of pain and brokenness. It is something most of us are taught to hide. I sure was.

In our world, especially among men, there is a dread of revealing vulnerability, is considered an indulgence or a weakness. Real men don’t show vulnerability.

It is anything but weakness. It is the very definition of strength and peace of mind. I have no secrets to keep,  I am free, my soul is light enough to fly.

This is what Maria did the other night when she performed her Belly Dance in front of an audience. She was showing her vulnerability and in so doing, opening herself up to strength and love and friendship. She saw the world in a new and different way.

I can’t ever go back to lying about myself, the ability to be vulnerable is bridge that once crossed, can never be walked back. To back is a form of death.

To be vulnerable is to trust that the grip of fear and emptiness is not the end of the journey, but the beginning. This does not mean I am living in misery or darkness, my life is full of joy, color, love, light and meaning.

Getting older  is good for me, I will savor it as best as I can for as long as I can.

Acceptance is the antithesis of fear, and fearlessness is authenticity’s first cousin. I am broken. I am fine.

Vulnerability is not about whining or lament. It is about truth.

What I learned is that it is important to share and weep over my lost and past pains so that I can leave them become free. Free to live freely in a new place without melancholy or sickness.

I told Eve I looked forward to upgrading our friendship, I would be proud to have her as a friend. I am proud to have her as a friend.

I don’t think I’ll be calling her at 3 o’clock in the morning, I am not in that kind of trouble or mired in deep depression. I’ve gone to the place of pain again and again will bring it into the light. It is who I am.

One day I will be proud and happy to leave it behind.

Oh, and Merry Christmas.