As a child, I thought my dad was great. He was so different from all the other dads. He was the Captain of a large ship traveling all around the world and in spite of the fact that he was never home, I felt connected to him. And in the rare occasions when he came home, he would bring toys and goodies from all these exotic places he had been to. Sometimes during the holidays, he would take me with him. At night, on the bridge, he would teach me about the stars and the tides and he would tell me stories about explorers and pirates who, before him, had sailed the seven seas. I would spend my days exploring the ship’s every nook and cranny. It was not unusual to find me nosing about in the engine room or sitting on a kitchen stool licking the remaining of a cake batter off a wood spoon. These were the happy days for me.
When I moved out on my own, I naturally chose to live by the river where I could see the ships pass by. Still today, I live in a beautiful city by the ocean. In the bay leading to the port, there are always large ships which have dropped anchor while waiting for a dock to free. Ships of all origins and sizes, some full of merchandise, others waiting to fill their hold. Every time I walked by and saw the ships, I felt a pang of nostalgia. Beautiful memories, some genuine, some perhaps not so much, resurfaced. And once again, I felt connected.
A few years ago, my dad came visiting for the first time with his wife. I was delighted to show him around and especially to show him the bay and its ships. I thought he would be touched be the heritage he had left me. Touched by the fact that I could never look at a ship without thinking about him. About the fact that he had made a difference in my life, that wherever we were in the world, there would always be water to connect us.
We walked to the sea just my father and me. We sat and watched a distant light, our mind drifting through times and memories. It was a beautiful summer day; the breeze was warm and the sun about to set. Then my dad did the unthinkable: he spoke.
“I hated working on ships. I hated everything about them. I am not one of those old sailors who are moved by the sea. I never liked it.”
I watched him for a moment, puzzled. He had just torn apart the most precious memories, if not the only happy ones of my entire childhood without a flinch. But his obliviousness was genuine. We were like two ships passing in the night.
When I walk to the sea now and watch the ships anchored in the bay, I see ships. And I hope for them an unfailing lighthouse on their path.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
False Memories
For as long as I can remember, every time I wondered about my family and the reasons why we were so hostile, I had the feeling that something significant had happened around the time I was four or five years old. It seemed to me that before that, we had normal interactions. In any event, I hardly have any memory of my childhood from that age on until I was well into my teens. This is actually the first subject I brought up when I first met with John. I thought it was odd that feeling I had. It felt like I had been sheltered from crucial information. No amount of therapy managed to get me to the breaking point. We tried, but every time my mind went completely blank or refocused its attention towards something apparently more manageable. It really frustrated me. I wanted answers and they were slow coming. That’s when I started doing research on hypnosis.
So, there I was, sitting in the hypnotist’s office. I was prepared to let him do his tricks on my mind, but only under certain conditions. I knew enough about the subconscious to know that false memories could easily be created if he was to start projecting preconceived opinion into the hypnotic regression. And if indeed he was wrong to start with, it could taint my entire recollection of things, making it difficult afterward for John and me, to differentiate between repressed memories and false memories. I had enough on my plate without creating my own tragedies from scratch.
Therefore I asked the hypnotist to regress me to the age of four, without suggesting a setting or a location. He was allowed to ask me details about the rooms, the time of day, whether there were people around me but nothing about their interactions. I was afraid he may start asking leading questions and that was a scary though. If I was witnessing something of importance, he would let me observe for a while; otherwise, he would suggest moving forward by a few months.
These were my conditions and he agreed. I did not feel comfortable discussing the most intimate part of myself with a complete stranger, especially when I did not know myself what could be found in the first place.
So, there I was, sitting in the hypnotist’s office. I was prepared to let him do his tricks on my mind, but only under certain conditions. I knew enough about the subconscious to know that false memories could easily be created if he was to start projecting preconceived opinion into the hypnotic regression. And if indeed he was wrong to start with, it could taint my entire recollection of things, making it difficult afterward for John and me, to differentiate between repressed memories and false memories. I had enough on my plate without creating my own tragedies from scratch.
Therefore I asked the hypnotist to regress me to the age of four, without suggesting a setting or a location. He was allowed to ask me details about the rooms, the time of day, whether there were people around me but nothing about their interactions. I was afraid he may start asking leading questions and that was a scary though. If I was witnessing something of importance, he would let me observe for a while; otherwise, he would suggest moving forward by a few months.
These were my conditions and he agreed. I did not feel comfortable discussing the most intimate part of myself with a complete stranger, especially when I did not know myself what could be found in the first place.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
The Altered State
Marco was not exactly thrilled with my decision to meet again with the hypnotist. He was uneasy with the idea that a perfect stranger could play with my mind and, who knows, make me do bizarre things or change me into a different person. I would lie if I’d say that the idea didn’t cross my mind, but surely there had to me more to it than just what we see on TV. Never-the-less, I went. The desire to know what had happened to me was critical by then, there was not much room left for caution.
However, prior to even considering the use of hypnosis, I had done some research. I knew that it could be used as a tool in combination with therapy, but I was not too sure about what it entails exactly. Here is what I had found out:
Hypnosis is an altered state of awareness, one were the mind remains clear, alert and focused on something. It does not feel frightening or eerie as one might expect. During a session, you feel very relaxed. You can hear everything around, the sounds outside the room, a car down the street and you remain aware of everything that is going on around you as well as what your unconscious is revealing to you.
The reassuring part was that no one under hypnosis can be induced to do anything against his will. Whatever moral and ethical codes you hold in a normal waking state will still be in place under hypnosis. Just like you cannot be made to do anything against your moral code, you will not say anything that is embarrassing and will not reveal more than you are comfortable doing. Usually, if a hypnotherapist's suggestion conflicts with your value system, you simply bring yourself up out of hypnosis; you just "wake up." You are in complete control at all times.
And finally, mastering the art of hypnosis does not necessarily mean that one is qualified as a hypnotherapist. In my case, he called himself a hypnotherapist in spite of the fact that his training did not include a single class on therapy. Furthermore, he was incapable of recognizing or understanding a person’s basic state of mind or emotion and possessed no compassion what-so-ever. Still, he chose as a line of work, to help people heal their sorrow. Of course, at the time, I was unaware of such facts. Still, it is precisely his brutality in dealing with delicate matters which helped me move forward.
However, I must warn you to be cautious before you decide to use the same path. I strongly believe that I was able to make the most of it because I was tremendously insightful, I had already done a lot of work with my own trustworthy therapist and I had a great support system. Furthermore, I was very clear on what I wanted to achieve. In other circumstances, his gross incompetence might have caused much more grief that enlightenment. In retrospect I don’t regret what I did, but should I have known that every qualified therapist had basic understanding of hypnosis; I would have asked John to perform it instead, I would have been in better hands.
However, prior to even considering the use of hypnosis, I had done some research. I knew that it could be used as a tool in combination with therapy, but I was not too sure about what it entails exactly. Here is what I had found out:
Hypnosis is an altered state of awareness, one were the mind remains clear, alert and focused on something. It does not feel frightening or eerie as one might expect. During a session, you feel very relaxed. You can hear everything around, the sounds outside the room, a car down the street and you remain aware of everything that is going on around you as well as what your unconscious is revealing to you.
The reassuring part was that no one under hypnosis can be induced to do anything against his will. Whatever moral and ethical codes you hold in a normal waking state will still be in place under hypnosis. Just like you cannot be made to do anything against your moral code, you will not say anything that is embarrassing and will not reveal more than you are comfortable doing. Usually, if a hypnotherapist's suggestion conflicts with your value system, you simply bring yourself up out of hypnosis; you just "wake up." You are in complete control at all times.
And finally, mastering the art of hypnosis does not necessarily mean that one is qualified as a hypnotherapist. In my case, he called himself a hypnotherapist in spite of the fact that his training did not include a single class on therapy. Furthermore, he was incapable of recognizing or understanding a person’s basic state of mind or emotion and possessed no compassion what-so-ever. Still, he chose as a line of work, to help people heal their sorrow. Of course, at the time, I was unaware of such facts. Still, it is precisely his brutality in dealing with delicate matters which helped me move forward.
However, I must warn you to be cautious before you decide to use the same path. I strongly believe that I was able to make the most of it because I was tremendously insightful, I had already done a lot of work with my own trustworthy therapist and I had a great support system. Furthermore, I was very clear on what I wanted to achieve. In other circumstances, his gross incompetence might have caused much more grief that enlightenment. In retrospect I don’t regret what I did, but should I have known that every qualified therapist had basic understanding of hypnosis; I would have asked John to perform it instead, I would have been in better hands.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Great Dive
Recently I read an article written for a French newspaper. It was obviously written during the Olympic games of Beijing. I thought it was very well written and a beautiful reflection on life. I thought it would be nice to share it with you.
Pierre Foglia
La Presse
Pékin
The Great Dive
A perfect dive is a difficult dive, but so well executed that it looks easy. The same principle applies to all sports of demonstration: gymnastics, synchronized swimming, figure skating. The same could be said about arts, dancers must not look as though they were dancing or writers writing.
The difference is that once a dive has been executed, the diver disappears. His final act is one of disappearance. In that, diving is much closer to life. I mean to death.
All sports, all art forms aim for perfection. The diver, also, tells us what perfection is: to disappear without leaving a trace.
That’s exactly what I was telling you earlier: diving teaches us the way to die.
When we die, right after the great dive, there where we arrive shaking ourselves off like divers coming out of the water, seven judges mark us on the pirouettes we made in life, and multiply it by the degree of difficulty, very important the degree of difficulty. It makes all the difference.
We are marked on the splash, the swirl, the foam that we leave behind upon exiting.
A perfect life is the one that makes no splash. The humblest, the most subdued, those who will have gone through life like a knife blade slices the water without making a splash, those will be the ones getting the 10.
Pierre Foglia
La Presse
Pékin
The Great Dive
A perfect dive is a difficult dive, but so well executed that it looks easy. The same principle applies to all sports of demonstration: gymnastics, synchronized swimming, figure skating. The same could be said about arts, dancers must not look as though they were dancing or writers writing.
The difference is that once a dive has been executed, the diver disappears. His final act is one of disappearance. In that, diving is much closer to life. I mean to death.
All sports, all art forms aim for perfection. The diver, also, tells us what perfection is: to disappear without leaving a trace.
That’s exactly what I was telling you earlier: diving teaches us the way to die.
When we die, right after the great dive, there where we arrive shaking ourselves off like divers coming out of the water, seven judges mark us on the pirouettes we made in life, and multiply it by the degree of difficulty, very important the degree of difficulty. It makes all the difference.
We are marked on the splash, the swirl, the foam that we leave behind upon exiting.
A perfect life is the one that makes no splash. The humblest, the most subdued, those who will have gone through life like a knife blade slices the water without making a splash, those will be the ones getting the 10.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Forgiveness
A few days ago I received an e-mail from a friend of mine. He is a Lutheran pastor in a small community. Every week he sends me a copy of his latest sermon. I am not especially religious, but his sermons are always written very intelligently. I believe they are rather more intended to provoke a certain reflection than impose a path to follow. This week, it was about forgiveness. Not an easy subject to cover at the best of times. Although it may seem effortless for those who have nothing to forgive, for those of us who have truly been hurt; it is not an easy process. Is it even a realistic one?
It is without contest a terrible waste to go through life bitter and full of resentment. It not only impoverishes even further, but it also confers greater powers to the offender. How can one move on when the mind is clogged with constant reminiscence of the difficult times? I believe one cannot, but forgiveness? I am not so sure.
As I was reading his sermon, I thought it was a very Christian concept, one in fact that can make me quite uneasy. I remember the days in church when the priest would profess the value of turning to the other cheek. Not that I wish to promote violence in any form or shape, but how many of us have experienced first hand the danger of such gesture. I am all for a good leap of faith, but after a while, there is also the concept of self preservation which has to kick in. Most abusers understand from the beginning that what they are doing is wrong. Do you really expect them to feel any sense of shame or remorse at striking the other cheek too?
It is honorable to think that we should be able to reach out to those who’ve hurt us and forgive, perhaps even forget and who knows, maybe even embrace the abusers and restore a nice healthy relationship with them, as if nothing ever happened. Would this be forgiveness or sheer madness? There are these extraordinary people out there who perhaps could do such a thing. I am not so sure I could be so generous myself; or rather I think this generosity would better serve my own healing.
Forgiveness is hard. I don’t believe that only hard work is rewarded to the fullest. I think that life is hard enough in itself. And sometimes, the path of least resistance is the one that makes more sense. By that, I don’t mean to wish ill or seek revenge or even to be forever haunted by the pain that was inflicted, but to let go and move on. You may never understand the motivations of your aggressors, their moral shortcomings, the circumstances which led to their actions but you can understand that most people are not born totally bad, that something made them what they were, that their might be mitigating factors to these otherwise horrific acts and that, might be enough.
Having been victimized does not make you a victim. And by understanding it, you can regain control over your own life. You learn new ways. Be a better person. There doesn’t need to be a constant mental connection with the abuser. It is possible to let go. Thus free yourself and move on.
My friend quoted Henri Nouwen in that there is a step beyond the realization that we need not be victims of our past…The step of forgiveness. According to him, forgiveness sets us free without wanting anything in return. I am asking you, is it not just as benevolent to wish your abusers no harm, to offer a healing distance without pretense, and not care anyone more one way of the other?
It is without contest a terrible waste to go through life bitter and full of resentment. It not only impoverishes even further, but it also confers greater powers to the offender. How can one move on when the mind is clogged with constant reminiscence of the difficult times? I believe one cannot, but forgiveness? I am not so sure.
As I was reading his sermon, I thought it was a very Christian concept, one in fact that can make me quite uneasy. I remember the days in church when the priest would profess the value of turning to the other cheek. Not that I wish to promote violence in any form or shape, but how many of us have experienced first hand the danger of such gesture. I am all for a good leap of faith, but after a while, there is also the concept of self preservation which has to kick in. Most abusers understand from the beginning that what they are doing is wrong. Do you really expect them to feel any sense of shame or remorse at striking the other cheek too?
It is honorable to think that we should be able to reach out to those who’ve hurt us and forgive, perhaps even forget and who knows, maybe even embrace the abusers and restore a nice healthy relationship with them, as if nothing ever happened. Would this be forgiveness or sheer madness? There are these extraordinary people out there who perhaps could do such a thing. I am not so sure I could be so generous myself; or rather I think this generosity would better serve my own healing.
Forgiveness is hard. I don’t believe that only hard work is rewarded to the fullest. I think that life is hard enough in itself. And sometimes, the path of least resistance is the one that makes more sense. By that, I don’t mean to wish ill or seek revenge or even to be forever haunted by the pain that was inflicted, but to let go and move on. You may never understand the motivations of your aggressors, their moral shortcomings, the circumstances which led to their actions but you can understand that most people are not born totally bad, that something made them what they were, that their might be mitigating factors to these otherwise horrific acts and that, might be enough.
Having been victimized does not make you a victim. And by understanding it, you can regain control over your own life. You learn new ways. Be a better person. There doesn’t need to be a constant mental connection with the abuser. It is possible to let go. Thus free yourself and move on.
My friend quoted Henri Nouwen in that there is a step beyond the realization that we need not be victims of our past…The step of forgiveness. According to him, forgiveness sets us free without wanting anything in return. I am asking you, is it not just as benevolent to wish your abusers no harm, to offer a healing distance without pretense, and not care anyone more one way of the other?
Friday, September 12, 2008
Something Dark
It is hard to consider child abuse, and especially your own, to reflect on its possible occurrence, the triggers, the instigators or abusers, the when, how and why without tainting the process with your own adult view of things. The fist time it was suggested to me, I though it was completely ridiculous. Me? No way! I would never let anybody do such a thing to me, I would fight back. Plus, I would remember if it had happened, how could anyone forget such a thing? Then again, how would an innocent child react in such circumstances?
What if, as Marco wisely pointed out, I didn’t have a choice? Perhaps I was too little to know better or to do anything about it or to fight back. Perhaps fear made me forget… Perhaps like in the movies, someone had threatened to hurt my cat if I told? What if nobody believed me? What if they thought I was responsible, that it was me the bad one? I felt so incredulous. But… wouldn’t I remember…?
Useless to say, the intricacies of the human mind are vast. Thanks to John I got to understand a bit more of it. It seems that many factors could actually cause the brain to block a traumatic event from consciousness. This means that something could have happened to me and I may not remember it. But I am getting ahead of myself, here.
On that afternoon, Marco and I discussed several theories involving alternatively each member of my family and their interactions with each others. Anything was possible, even the fact that perhaps nothing happened at all. Marco was not especially set on trying to make me believe either way. Oh, I’m sure he had a theory of his own, but he did not share it with me. Instead, he played devil’s advocate and let me think my own stuff through.
By the time we finished our third cappuccino, it was time to shake off all that caffeine with a walk in the cold. Walking can be quite conducive to thinking. And after a short while, Marco inadvertently threw the final punch at me:
“Loulou… How long have we known each other?”
“I don’t know… Twenty years perhaps”
“Do you realize that during all that time you have never talked to me about your brother? Initially you did mention that you hated him and had cut all ties but you could never quite tell me why that was. I remember thinking it was odd. I mean, you know how much I care about my own brother. I can’t imagine not talking to him…”
“…”
My intuition suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew something terrible had happened. I couldn’t tell you what and to which extend, but there was something dark. That’s when I knew that I would go back to see the hypnotist. I needed to know.
Marco was not exactly thrilled with my decision. He thought that guy was bad news. But if I was set on going, he was set on coming with me.
What if, as Marco wisely pointed out, I didn’t have a choice? Perhaps I was too little to know better or to do anything about it or to fight back. Perhaps fear made me forget… Perhaps like in the movies, someone had threatened to hurt my cat if I told? What if nobody believed me? What if they thought I was responsible, that it was me the bad one? I felt so incredulous. But… wouldn’t I remember…?
Useless to say, the intricacies of the human mind are vast. Thanks to John I got to understand a bit more of it. It seems that many factors could actually cause the brain to block a traumatic event from consciousness. This means that something could have happened to me and I may not remember it. But I am getting ahead of myself, here.
On that afternoon, Marco and I discussed several theories involving alternatively each member of my family and their interactions with each others. Anything was possible, even the fact that perhaps nothing happened at all. Marco was not especially set on trying to make me believe either way. Oh, I’m sure he had a theory of his own, but he did not share it with me. Instead, he played devil’s advocate and let me think my own stuff through.
By the time we finished our third cappuccino, it was time to shake off all that caffeine with a walk in the cold. Walking can be quite conducive to thinking. And after a short while, Marco inadvertently threw the final punch at me:
“Loulou… How long have we known each other?”
“I don’t know… Twenty years perhaps”
“Do you realize that during all that time you have never talked to me about your brother? Initially you did mention that you hated him and had cut all ties but you could never quite tell me why that was. I remember thinking it was odd. I mean, you know how much I care about my own brother. I can’t imagine not talking to him…”
“…”
My intuition suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew something terrible had happened. I couldn’t tell you what and to which extend, but there was something dark. That’s when I knew that I would go back to see the hypnotist. I needed to know.
Marco was not exactly thrilled with my decision. He thought that guy was bad news. But if I was set on going, he was set on coming with me.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Visitor
Fish and visitors smell in three days said Benjamin Franklin. No truer words were ever uttered!
Recently, I had a visitor stay over at my place. Even though I do enjoy my privacy enormously, I was happy to have him over for a short while. We were not particularly good friends, rather acquaintances from a long time ago. Still, spending some time with him, chatting about the foolishness of our youth and the journey travelled so far was an enjoyable perspective. I had taken some time off work and planned on showing him around. So far, everything was fine.
The troubles started the moment he landed. I had forgotten his true nature. Actually I had known him so very little that I was really unaware of it. Distance and years had done their toll on my memory. I thought that at some point we all grew up. I was wrong. And for the next seven days, I would be reminded of it constantly.
My visitor, George, it turned out, was far more interested in listening to his own voice repeat ad nauseam the same insipid stories than engross himself in this wonderful new culture in which I now lived. It became so pathetic that I had to actually apologize for interrupting his monologues, to point out places of interest and pieces of art, only to be acknowledged with a curt nod and a resentful silence; he was annoyed at my lack of manners or interest, was I told. Not only did he spend seven dreadful days and evenings talking solely about himself, and let me tell you he is not that interesting in the first place, but it turned out that he was also terribly competitive, judgmental and loud in his believes. And this can be quite uncomfortable, especially when his disdain would focus on someone nearby. Obvious sexual orientations, excess of weight or ethnis were amongst his favorite targets. No matter what the subject of conversation, every sentence, without exception, made allusion to some sex he supposedly had, to something smoked or to the pretensions of some expert friends of his. It was rather pathetic.
The funniest moment happened around the third day. I am an avid reader; my home is crammed with books. Not only do I have an overflowing bookshelf right in the hallway, but there are piles of books everywhere. That afternoon George was commenting on the fact that he was very surprised there were no books in my home. He had somehow thought of me as a reader. As far as I was concerned, it was another one of his brilliant remark that did not require an answer. What could I reply to that? Never-the-less, the morning after, when he got up to be fed breakfast, he noticed a large pile of books located by the couch. Within a minute, he was shaking his head in disbelief. He actually thought that the previous night while he was asleep, I had deliberately piled up books around so that he would think I read a lot. He could not phantom how I intended to make him believe that they had been there all along…
The morning after his arrival I had a moment of panic. I briefly considered the possibility of asking him to pack and leave. But I am a fair person. Considering I was also at fault for inviting him in the first place, I figured I should make an effort; it was after all, only six days of my life. However, as Albert Einstein once said, sit besides a beautiful woman for an hour and time passes like a minute, sit on a hot stove for an hour and it will feel like one hour. Needless to say, the length of those days did not go by unnoticed; I had time to appreciate every minute of it. Thankfully the weather was on my side and we were able to roam freely outside. It would have been unbearable otherwise. I have to admit though; it was surprisingly easy to block him out of my mind. I remember bits and pieces, but for the most part, I enjoyed to the fullest the last of summer days.
His coming was mostly a vast waste of my time, save perhaps for the wonderful realization that I have made a lot of progress in my life. I am definitely not the same person I was at nineteen.
On the last night, I drove him to the airport and after a few minutes we parted. I was walking away when I stopped and turned around. Apparently, my visitor had already passed the gate for he was nowhere in sight. For a moment I was baffled, I could not remember whom it was I had just dropped off. That night, I headed home with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
Recently, I had a visitor stay over at my place. Even though I do enjoy my privacy enormously, I was happy to have him over for a short while. We were not particularly good friends, rather acquaintances from a long time ago. Still, spending some time with him, chatting about the foolishness of our youth and the journey travelled so far was an enjoyable perspective. I had taken some time off work and planned on showing him around. So far, everything was fine.
The troubles started the moment he landed. I had forgotten his true nature. Actually I had known him so very little that I was really unaware of it. Distance and years had done their toll on my memory. I thought that at some point we all grew up. I was wrong. And for the next seven days, I would be reminded of it constantly.
My visitor, George, it turned out, was far more interested in listening to his own voice repeat ad nauseam the same insipid stories than engross himself in this wonderful new culture in which I now lived. It became so pathetic that I had to actually apologize for interrupting his monologues, to point out places of interest and pieces of art, only to be acknowledged with a curt nod and a resentful silence; he was annoyed at my lack of manners or interest, was I told. Not only did he spend seven dreadful days and evenings talking solely about himself, and let me tell you he is not that interesting in the first place, but it turned out that he was also terribly competitive, judgmental and loud in his believes. And this can be quite uncomfortable, especially when his disdain would focus on someone nearby. Obvious sexual orientations, excess of weight or ethnis were amongst his favorite targets. No matter what the subject of conversation, every sentence, without exception, made allusion to some sex he supposedly had, to something smoked or to the pretensions of some expert friends of his. It was rather pathetic.
The funniest moment happened around the third day. I am an avid reader; my home is crammed with books. Not only do I have an overflowing bookshelf right in the hallway, but there are piles of books everywhere. That afternoon George was commenting on the fact that he was very surprised there were no books in my home. He had somehow thought of me as a reader. As far as I was concerned, it was another one of his brilliant remark that did not require an answer. What could I reply to that? Never-the-less, the morning after, when he got up to be fed breakfast, he noticed a large pile of books located by the couch. Within a minute, he was shaking his head in disbelief. He actually thought that the previous night while he was asleep, I had deliberately piled up books around so that he would think I read a lot. He could not phantom how I intended to make him believe that they had been there all along…
The morning after his arrival I had a moment of panic. I briefly considered the possibility of asking him to pack and leave. But I am a fair person. Considering I was also at fault for inviting him in the first place, I figured I should make an effort; it was after all, only six days of my life. However, as Albert Einstein once said, sit besides a beautiful woman for an hour and time passes like a minute, sit on a hot stove for an hour and it will feel like one hour. Needless to say, the length of those days did not go by unnoticed; I had time to appreciate every minute of it. Thankfully the weather was on my side and we were able to roam freely outside. It would have been unbearable otherwise. I have to admit though; it was surprisingly easy to block him out of my mind. I remember bits and pieces, but for the most part, I enjoyed to the fullest the last of summer days.
His coming was mostly a vast waste of my time, save perhaps for the wonderful realization that I have made a lot of progress in my life. I am definitely not the same person I was at nineteen.
On the last night, I drove him to the airport and after a few minutes we parted. I was walking away when I stopped and turned around. Apparently, my visitor had already passed the gate for he was nowhere in sight. For a moment I was baffled, I could not remember whom it was I had just dropped off. That night, I headed home with a smile on my face and a spring in my step.
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