Mortality

For the last several weeks, I've been grieving over the loss of a friendship. It's been a bit bewildering, since I couldn't imagine what I'd done to offend my friend Coastie. We spoke on July 3rd about getting together with an old shipmate of mine for the 4th, agreed that I'd call when I had directions for her the next morning, and though I called several times the next day, she never answered.

Typical of me, I wondered what I might have said or done that she hadn't responded to my calls. I also wondered if something was really wrong, but after three or four days, I dismissed that nagging thought, because her husband or her daughter would call me.

Coastie is the last woman I dated seriously. We ended the romantic phase of our relationship five years ago, and after a cooling off period of about a month, we resumed our friendship. I admit it was difficult at times, but when either of us has needed someone to come through in a pinch, the other has been there.

Coastie has been married for about three years to a guy I genuinely like because, quite frankly, he's so much like me. I did the photography for their wedding. Last month, when she turned 40, I called to wish her a happy birthday and was on the phone with her when her husband and daughter sprung the "surprise" on her. I know from experience that it's next to impossible to surprise her...she notices things, which was why I fell in love with her all those years ago.

Hers is not a friendship I'd care to lose. Even though she's married and has other obligations now, and she's moved the San Francisco Bay Area, she's on that short list of people I know I can rely on. I'm on her list, too.

So, when she called to say she'd be stuck in LA for the July 4th weekend and would I like to hang out, I jumped on it. She's fun and funny and my daughters adore her, too. It was a simple thing to ask my old shipmate if I could bring along a friend.

On the 4th, I called when we hit the road. I called again when we got closer. I called when we got there. I checked messages often. Not a word from Coastie.

Several days later, I called and paraphrased Billy Crystal from "When Harry Met Sally". "So, either a) you're out of cell coverage, b) you forgot to charge your phone again and can't get your messages, c) mad at me for something and don't want to talk to me, or d) desperately want to talk to me but trapped under something heavy and can't get to the phone."

It turns out that she'd had a heart attack.

At least, that's what the the ER docs think happened.

Another doctor thinks it was a muscle spasm in her chest that caused the shooting pain in her left arm and shortness of breath. Another thinks it was an anxiety attack.

She called yesterday to apologize for not calling before, but she's been in the hospital off and on for three weeks. She's 40. She works out and she's got no family history of heart disease. And she's had a couple more "episodes" since...and no one knows what's causing it. She hadn't checked her cell phone messages since July 3rd.

Knowing her, she's not telling me everything. I am concerned for her, and for her daughters and her husband.

And somehow, the knowledge that she's a tough, resourceful lady isn't very comforting at the moment. Yesterday, Coastie sounded like she's been brought down more than a few notches.

How Do You Tell When It's Hot In Wyoming?

My dad sent me these, taken in a friend's back yard.





Things like this do not happen in San Diego.

My Apologies

This has been a hectic week, and I apologize for not writing. It isn't that I haven't wanted to.

I haven't even checked in with my usual blog-reads.

I put my kids on a plane last Saturday, and that tends to make me want to retreat a bit. In this case, quite a lot. One would think that over the years, sending one's kids off to their mother's house would get easier, but it does not.

It actually gets worse.

It doesn't help that my older daughter has called three times since, just to talk. That's about as close as she gets to saying, "I don't want to be here. I'd rather be home with you, Dad."

The night before my girls left, my older daughter took me to see "Evita" at the Civic Theatre downtown. For her birthday this year, I'd given her a pair of season tickets and a promise of transportation to and from each show for her and whomever she'd like to take with her. She has taken me to both shows so far.

After the show, I picked my younger daughter up at the babysitter's and took them both to the local book store for the midnight Harry Potter vigil. We wore round Harry Potter glasses, with me wearing mine over my real glasses. We were in a book store after all, and it's not possible to spend two hours in a book store without reading anything. Actually, it would have been possible for me to spend two hours in a book store without reading anything if I had not brought my glasses.

The rest of my time has been spent working on curriculum development for a new course my company is introducing next week. Those of you who are still around and have read me for a while know that I'm not a half-bad writer. I've got a way with words. Unless I'm doing technical writing. Technical writing is excruciating. When faced with technical writing the next day, I will grind my teeth in my sleep. Given the choice, I would eschew technical writing in favor of, oh, say, prunes rolled in oil-soaked sand. Though my boss is delighted with the product, I find myself merely relieved that the writing part of it is done, leaving only the presentation part, which is only slightly less unappealing.

I also rebuilt my best friend's computer this week. He experienced a motherboard failure in an eMachines computer, and good luck finding a motherboard to fit in the eMachines case. I managed to get him into a new computer for less than three hundred bucks, which is pretty good for an afternoon's work, if you ask me.

Tuesday afternoon was my biweekly lunch with RadiantSmile, and we had an excellent time talking about...stuff. She still faces the battle with her son's father, but there has been good news on that front lately, and she was her old sweet/funny self. Twenty minutes after I dropped her at the airport again, she sent me a text message: "U r wonderful thk u" Thanks, Hon.

On Wednesday evening, my friend SundayChef took me to see Shakespeare's "The Comedy of Errors" at San Diego's Old Globe Theatre. I enjoy Shakespeare and I am unashamed. I am also happy to report that I have passed this on to my older daughter, who asked for "Othello" on DVD for Christmas, and gave me "Henry V".

Incidentally (and I write this with the full knowledge that I may be alienating the Star Wars fans among you), Hayden Christensen as the child-murdering Anakin/Darth is nowhere near as evil a villain as Kenneth Branagh's Iago, who manipulates his friends into murdering each other.

As if I hadn't enough to do, I have also spent some weeks beta testing an add-on aircraft for Microsoft's Flight Simulator. I joined the testing team late in the process, when the project was nearly finished, but I was able to spot a few things that others missed, and so (I think) justified the developer's invitation. It was quite an honor to be asked, since I was the only tester who is not a rated pilot, and six of the other seven testers either fly the Beech King Air professionally...or own one. (Yes, own, at five million dollars a copy. I paid $35 for mine, thank you very much, and unlike real jet fuel, virtual gas is free.)

If you're still here...I appreciate your patience with me.

I'm back now.

The Best Birthday Gift Ever

[ding-dong]
(Englishman opens door. A large figure in a flowing, black robe stands there. The figure is holding a scythe.)

GEOFFREY
"Yes?"
(A pause.)
"Is it about the hedge?"
(A pause)
"Look, I am awfully sorry, but..."

GRIM REAPER
"I am...the Grim Reaper"

GEOFFREY
"Who?"

GRIM REAPER
"The...Grim...Reaper."

GEOFFREY
"Yes, I see."

GRIM REAPER
"I...am...Death."

GEOFFREY
"Yes. Well, the thing is, we've got some people in from America tonight, and..."

ANGELA
"Who is it, Darling?"

GEOFFREY
"It's a 'Mr. Death' or something. He's come about the reaping. I don't think we need any at the moment."

ANGELA
"Hello! Well, don't leave him hanging around outside, Darling. Ask him in."

No, I did not receive Monty Python's The Meaning of Life on DVD...I already had that. What I got from my daughters was a 12" Grim Reaper plush toy ("Your comforting bedtime bath buddy," as it says on the tag).

Actually, that's not quite correct. True, I did get a Grim Reaper plush toy, but what I really got for my birthday was a nudge-and-a-wink from my daughters, who are growing up secure in the knowledge that their dad not only gets their jokes, but isn't offended at being the butt of them sometimes.

It's not an unsophisticated joke...and the fact that they knew I'd get it means more to me than anything in the world. I love that the girls are comfortable needling me once in a while.

As a father, I sometime catch a glimpse of a milepost as my relationship with my daughters deepens as they grow up. Quite often, these mileposts...even at a glimpse...take my breath away. These two young women really are amazing.

Until Then...

Just this.

The Cosmic Yes

You're already familiar with this concept. You are.

It's everywhere. Movies refer to it -- In Tin Cup, Kevin Costner says, "A tuning fork goes off in your heart and in your balls."

He's speaking, of course, of a perfect golf swing, the moment of contact between the club face and the ball, but life is like that, too. You're cruising along, thinking of something else entirely, and DING! a moment of purest enlightenment.

And when that happens, how do you react? You shout, "YES!" That is the Cosmic Yes.

It never happens when we're looking for it, though, does it? You try and try and you just can't find what you're looking for. Think about all the things in your life that you'd like to have but seem to be eluding you. You know what it is for you...for me, it's been finding a woman to spend my life with.

Friends tell me, "you'll find her when you're not looking." Thanks, I'd say, just exactly how the hell is that going to happen?

Lately, though, I've begun to connect things in my head. Martial arts and Zen both teach that the path to understanding is through doing-not-doing, mind-no-mind, being-not-being. Concentrate, but don't work too hard at it. Keep doing it until it becomes second nature, until you needn't think about it. Let understanding come to you.

My golf instructor used to tell me not to hit the ball. "Swing through the ball, but let the club do the work." I never got that until this morning, sitting in my kitchen in shorts and a t-shirt, watching daylight sneak in through the marine layer, years after I last swung a club.

You feel the tuning fork when you're not looking for it.

So. What's that got to do with today?

I have no idea.

I woke up early this morning, tossed and turned a bit, and finally got up around 5:30, feeling at peace with the world. Today is my birthday. At 2:58pm Pacific Time this afternoon, I will be exactly 44 years old.

I'm at a time in life when most men ask themselves how they got where they are. They wrestle with the question, as though the answer will somehow bring understanding. And because the answer doesn't come, they look for it elsewhere: a new Corvette (or a classic one), a younger woman...

I already know how I got here.

By not really thinking about it too much.

DING!

Yes.

Epitaph

Betty threw down the gauntlet on this one.

Okay, I did, by asking her to write a book MeMe.

Awww, who cares who did?

What would I have for an epitaph? Honestly, I've thought about it, but haven't come to any conclusions yet. There are two possibilities at the moment.

1) Enlightenment: "Oh! Ha! I get it now!"

2) Challenge: From Illusions, by Richard Bach -- "Here is a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished: If you're alive, it isn't."

Terror in London

"To all those who stand beside us, we thank you."

This from a British naval officer serving here as part of a military exchange program. He wrote all of us at the command this simple and eloquent expression of gratitude after reading Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld's statement on yesterday's bombings in London, which I'll use to close this post.

This simple thank you made me think about how it felt on the afternoon of September 11, 2001 when I watched on CNN as the Marching Band of the Queen's Own Guard played the Star Spangled Banner for the first time in the history of the Changing of the Guard. I had spent much of the day directing a part of the security efforts at the base where I was stationed, overwhelmed by the sense that as Americans, we were very much alone in facing a remorseless and nearly invisible enemy. The Queen's simple gesture of solidarity removed that feeling entirely.

I did not know it then, of course, but I had friends and former shipmates who were among the dead and wounded in the Pentagon. Most of us in this country lost someone, or knew someone who was wounded. We all know someone who knew someone personally affected by the attacks that day.

It struck me that the UK has a smaller population than we do, and though fewer deaths and injuries occurred in London yesterday than in New York and Washington and Pennsylvania on 9/11, I wondered about the relative impact of the attacks yesterday. It's hard to find real numbers of wounded from 9/11, but in terms of the number of people personally affected, yesterday's bombing is on a par with 9/11.

Watching reports from the British rescue workers searching for survivors amid the underground wreckage, I am reminded of the episode of The West Wing entitled "Isaac and Ishmael", in which Rob Lowe says that in all of history, terrorism has never succeeded at anything other than solidifying the resolve of its targets.

As a young nation, we haven't any ceremonies that compare with the Changing of the Guard's 500-year history, so we can't offer anything as monumentally symbolic as Queen Elizabeth II's expression of sympathy and solidarity that evening. All we have are our actions.

As Secretary Rumsfeld wrote, "This morning, the civilized world watched with concern as the people of London saw the face of violence and brutality. We offer our deepest sympathies to the families who have lost loved ones and to those who were wounded.

"Too often the global struggle against violent extremists is discussed in a context that can distract from the harsh reality that its victims are innocent mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, and neighbors we see and work with every day. Images from London have shown faces filled with tears and shock. Such faces are sadly familiar to us here in America. However, reports from London are already telling of calm passengers, compassionate strangers, and courageous rescuers. And that too is familiar -- the grace and humanity that contrasts vividly with the hatred and violence of terrorists.

"The London attacks have a special resonance for the American people -- for America has no stronger or closer ally in the world than Great Britain. We are bound together by a common heritage, a common language, and a deeply shared commitment to freedom. As President Bush indicated earlier this morning, the United States will stand with the British people with unflinching resolve.

"Though it is not yet known with certainty precisely who is responsible, we do know terrorists' intentions. They strike without warning and without regard for human life in the hope that they can frighten and intimidate free people -- to change our way of life. And they won't stop until their side or our side has prevailed.

"But if these terrorists thought they could intimidate the people of a great nation, they picked the wrong people and the wrong nation. For generations, tyrants, fascists, and terrorists have sought to carry out their violent designs upon the British people only to founder upon its unrelenting shores.

"Before long, I suspect that those responsible for these acts will encounter British steel. Their kind of steel has an uncommon strength. It does not bend or break.

"The British have learned from history that this kind of evil must be confronted. It cannot be appeased. Our two countries understand well that once a people give in to terrorists' demands, whatever they are, their demands will grow.

"The British people are determined and resolute. And I know the people of the
United States are proud to stand at their side."

I certainly am.

Books

Daisy tagged me...and I am going to tag Erica (because I know she reads at least as voraciously as I would like to if I had the time), j2 (because anybody who likes the Swedish chef is okay in my book), Erin (because it might inspire her to get started on her blog) and Betty (because she's got it goin' on...and I apologize for tagging you twice, Betty...I know your revenge will be served just that much colder).

Number of Books I own: 182

Last Book I Bought: My Dog Skip, by Willie Morris. I'm reading this for the "book rapport" group at my church. It falls into the category of "Books I Would Never Think To Purchase On My Own But Now That I'm Reading It, I'm Enjoying It Immensely". I know that some of you may be surprised to learn this, but I am not a dog person. I do not dislike them, but my connection with them has been a sad one. When I was a boy, I had a relationship with dogs that was shaky, at best. Our first dog, a mostly-beagle mutt named Pepper, chewed up my blankie and bit me in the process. I don't remember how old I was, but I do remember that the blankie was so far gone that my parents had to have "the talk" with me about being a big enough boy that I no longer needed a security blanket. I was probably three, so they were right, but I still blamed it on the dog. Shortly after that (and too soon for any trust between us to be restored), Pepper contracted Distemper and had to be put down. A while later, we got two cats, whom we named Romeo and Juliet. Romeo was My Best Pal growing up, though we only had him for 8 years or so. As house cats go, Romeo was...to borrow Mike Myers' phrase..."friggin' huge." He weighed 28 pounds, and not an ounce of fat on him. Romeo was bigger than our neighbor's beagle, Tuffy. When Romeo was in our back yard, Tuffy would charge the fence, barking up a storm, and Romeo would studiously ignore him. More than once, I'd see Romeo hop the fence between our yards and casually stroll across Tuffy's yard, and Tuffy would simply sit and watch him go. He'd learned the hard way that Romeo was the real owner of that back yard, and my folks had a couple of vet bills to prove it. Romeo was smart and affectionate and playful and patient with my sister and me. I don't remember him ever being as snooty as non-cat-people accuse all cats of being. In fact, when he'd come into the house in the morning, he'd walk right by his breakfast bowl and climb into bed with me, wriggling his way under the covers and making himself comfortable by pressing against my side with his back. When I got up to have breakfast, Romeo would get up and have his breakfast, too. Years after his death, when I was about 14, another neighbor's dog, Snoopy, solidified my mistrust of dogs by biting me after I'd been told it was okay to pet him. I wound up in the emergency room, and still have scars on my left index finger, so for many years, I just accepted the fact that dogs and me had no chemistry.
And then along came Chessie. A year or two before I married her, my ex-wife bought a tiny toy poodle who very quickly adopted me as her real owner. It took me a while to get used to her little nuclear heater routine, but during our winters in Chicago and Maine, I really came to appreciate Chessie's love for the comfy spot between my legs when I was in bed at night. Before my older daughter was born, Chessie was our baby. She herniated a disc (which apparently is a common problem with poodles) and we had to choose surgery or euthenasia. Neither of us could stand to lose her, so we gladly paid for the surgery. The vet called after the procedure and said he wasn't sure she'd be walking again within a month, if at all, so great was the damage. He was very sorry he hadn't been able to do more. We were allowed to see her the next day, so I went in on my way home from work...Chessie was nestled on her favorite blanket in the recovery kennel, but when she saw me, she leapt up to her feet and danced around the kennel. The vet was genuinely amazed, and chalked it up to the power of love. Chessie was with us for several more years, and loved the idea of a baby in the house, never once showing jealousy at the attention she had to share with this pink interloper. She had, however, lost a bit of control over her bowels, so whenever she got excited, she'd bark out one end and let out little pellet from the other. Answering the door became an exercise in extreme physical agility; at the sound of the doorbell, Chessie would charge at the door yapping her delighted welcome and depositing a trail of carpet mines we'd have to dodge on the way to the door and apologize for if the visitor was coming in. I admit that after I'd stepped on a mine or two and had to hop one-footed to the door a couple times, I took to bellowing at Chessie to shut up as I threaded my way through the minefield...but I don't feel responsible for how she met her end: a sleeping baby, knock at the door, Chessie barking and mining under foot. My ex-wife place-kicked Chessie so hard she hit the wall about three feet up, breaking one of her forelegs so badly that the choices were to amputate or put her down. I wasn't home at the time, but my ex-wife felt guilty enough to tell me the story, finishing it up by blaming her actions on my "hatred" for the dog as evidenced by my frequent reaction to her barking and mining on my way to the door. I sat with Chessie on our bed for a long time, both of us shaking...her with pain, and I with a mix of tenderness for Chessie and rage at my wife. That was the afternoon I finally understood the woman I married.

As I said, my connection with dogs in this life has been a sad one, and I doubt that I will relate Chessie's full story to the group at church next Monday evening. Through Morris' book, though, I am discovering the joy of befriending a remarkable canine, an experience I missed as a boy. Whether you have ever owned a dog or not, this is a book you should read.

Last Book I Read: The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde. Imagine a world in which time travel is not merely commonplace, but sometimes unavoidable, and public fervor for literature is greater even than our real-life passion for sports. This is the first book in the Thursday Next series, in which the intrepid Literary Detective Thursday Next enters not just Jane Eyre's world, but the original Charlotte Bronte manuscript itself in order to prevent the evil Acheron Hades from destroying one of the world's great pieces of fiction by kidnapping the young governess. Fforde's England is populated by such wierdnesses as "Baconians" (who go door-to-door, trying to convert people to their belief that William Shakespeare's plays were in fact written by Francis Bacon) and pet dodos produced largely by their numerous owners using "home cloning kits". One of the most popular plays in Thursday's home town is "MacBeth", which is played to packed houses by members of the audience and heckled by those not on stage, as though it were The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It's actually even funnier than it sounds...

Five Books That Mean A Lot To Me:

1. Dune, by Frank Herbert. I read this book while I was in high school, deep in the throes of puberty, and I related to Paul Muad'Dib like few other characters before or since.

2. Odd Girl Out, by Rachel Simmons. If you've seen the film, "Mean Girls", you will recognize The Plastics when you read this book. I received this book as an unexpected gift on a first date, and have been amazed at the insight it's given me regarding not just my daughters, but women in general. As she handed it to me, my date said, "This book changed my life." I have no doubt. Whether or not you have (or have been) a daughter, you should read this book. Simmons explains that aggression is a normal human emotion, and how society forces girls to sublimate their aggression by teaching them that their role is primarily the nurturer...there are few accepted avenues for girls to express their competitive urges, so that girls often either become devastatingly cruel or the victims of such cruelty. She coins the term "girl bullies", and talks about the ways in which girl bullies and their victims can be affected throughout their lives by things society simply ignores or passes off as nonsense. I am not doing justice to her work at all, and for that, I apologize. Read it.

3. Illusions, by Richard Bach. Though Richard and I have never met in person, I have flown across Europe on a stormy night with him and spent a summer barnstorming in an old, oil-dripping biplane, selling ten minute rides for three dollars a pop. We are both reluctant writers, he and I. As he puts it, "If I can turn my back on an idea, out there in the dark, if I can avoid opening the door to it, I won't even reach for a pencil." Like him, an idea must seize me by the throat and demand I that I set it on paper.
Reading Richard's story of Donald Shimoda, the modern-day Messiah who tried to turn his back on what he was and escape into the air, is a voyage of self-discovery every time I read it. This book contains perhaps the greatest Truth of my experience: "There is no such thing as a problem without a gift for you in its hands. You seek problems because you need their gifts."

4. The Martial Artist's Book of Five Rings, by Miyamoto Musashi (interpreted by Stephen F. Kaufman, Hanshi 10th Dan). Musashi has been standard reading for those seeking to get ahead in business for many years, but most translations make it difficult to glean anything useful from the great Samurai's teachings. I bought Kaufman Sensei's interpretation after I had been studying martial arts for a year or so, and have found it to be much easier to understand. I had long considered myself to be a warrior, in the sense that my service in the military was more of a calling than a vocation, but after reading this book, I began to be able to quantify what it means to me to be a warrior. The nine basic attitudes of the warrior, as written by Musashi:

"1. Think honestly within yourself in all your dealings with men.
2. Constant training is the only way to learn strategy.
3. Become familiar with every art you come across.
4. Understand the Way of other disciplines.
5. Know the difference between right and wrong in the matters of men.
6. Strive for inner judgement and an understanding of everything.
7. See that which cannot be seen.
8. Overlook nothing, regardless of its insignificance.
9. Do not waste time idling or thinking after you have set your goals."

5. One Continuous Mistake, by Gail Sher. The subtitle of Sher's book is "Four Noble Truths for Writers" and it is not a spoiler to list them here:

1. Writers write.
2. Writing is a process.
3. You don't know what your writing will be until the end of the process.
4. If writing is your practice, the only way to fail is to not write.

I know that this seems at odds with my penchant for eagerly avoiding writing, a la Richard Bach. One Continuous Mistake is about overcoming that avoidance. It is indeed a problem whose gift I need.

If there is a single guiding principle to my writing, it comes from Sher, "The greater the depth at which you tap your own personal truth, the greater relevance your writing will have to humanity."

A Child is the Ultimate Weapon

I stood there, powerless, while RadiantSmile sat on my couch, weeping.

She'd spent the night last night, sleeping on my couch after being bumped off her flight back home. Every other Tuesday, she flies with her four-year-old son to San Diego so that his father can exercise his 50% visitation, and we usually get together for lunch...it's a sweet spot in those weeks for both of us, I think, and those visits always feel too short.

Her son's father is a diminutive cop, with all the worst personality traits that go along with Small Man With Authority Complex. I haven't seen how he behaves with their son, but two weeks ago, I saw the boy's reaction when it was time for him to go to his dad. Granted, he'd had a great day throwing coins into fountains and eating ice cream and goofing around with my daughters, but while most kids would simply pout or whine or even cry when a day like that comes to an end before they're ready, this little guy crawled under my coffee table and refused to come out. He can be as defiant as any four year old, but his whispered protest was not petulant, it was plaintive: "I don't want to see my dad."

The boy is in therapy, with anger and anxiety issues. Already.

This morning, RadiantSmile got a message that she's going to have to come up with more money to stave off the latest assault by her ex, which stems from his refusal to accept less visitation when their son starts school in the fall.

So I'm standing there in my living room this morning, looking at this dear friend of mine and wondering where it stops. She asked me, "Do I have to just give up my son because I can't afford to fight this any more?" I have no answer, no words of consolation for this gentle, anguished soul.

I know that sometimes, simply saying, "It's going to be okay," is enough, but in this case, it seems a weak offering, a poor response from a man who just 15 hours ago was declared her hero.

I am angry, and I am sad, and I want to fix this for her (even though I know I can't). After dropping her off at the airport, I called and left her voice mail because I'd forgotten to tell her I love her, and even those words uttered as comfort and an honest expression of friendship seem insignificant.

On my way in to work, I thought about how often people use their children as the implements of the torture they inflict on each other. When a relationship dies, we naturally seek separation and closure, but when there are children to be raised, closure is more difficult to find and there can never be separation without also giving up on the child. It is easy to focus all of one's frustrations on one's ex-partner, to attribute to them all of the reasons we have to be angry. Without a degree of integrity, it can be remarkably easy to use a child as a means of revenge.

My ex-wife did it to me, doing all she could to limit my access to my daughters in retaliation for the unpardonable sin of holding her accountable for her infidelity. In our custody fight, I fought not for my right to see my daughters, but for their right to see me. This is no small difference. I did what I could, always keeping in mind the best interests of my children. Now that they are older, I think they understand that, and it colors our relationship deep and rich and true.

When she's asked, I've advised RadiantSmile to remember that all of her actions need to be about her son, and what is in his best interests. She was already doing that, of course, but I know she appreciated hearing it from someone who understands and has been there.

She faces a dilemma that is greater than the one I faced, because she lacks the resources to continue the fight against the relentlessness and remorselessness of her son's father as he uses the boy to exact his revenge against her for having the child in the first place. In her son's best interests, she may be forced to give up her son, even though it's clearly not in his best interests. A classic Catch-22.

How would the real mother of the baby brought to Solomon have reacted when he pulled out his sword, had she known that saving her child's life meant releasing him to a life of anger and bitterness and pain?