A New Star

Duncan and I crossed the street and meandered through the park as we have done more times than I could count. We bypassed the soccer hoards, skirting the edge of the park, around the four baseball diamonds to the low hill below the memorial where Dunc's bunnies roost. I dropped his leash and watched him explore, sniffing through the tall grass, under the low boughs of the pine trees and let him just be. He was graceful and cautious, diligent in his sniffing as only dogs can be, careful and vigilant, oblivious to my presence. And then when he was done he turned and smiled in my direction, ambled over, licked my cheek and dipped his head into the grass at my side, pushing himself against me, rolling over onto his belly to look directly into my eyes and the blue sky beyond. He was free to wander but he wanted to be there with me as much as I wanted to be with him, so I took his paw in my hand, leaned down and kissed it.

I am grateful for his presence by my side and will not take a single moment for granted. I am lucky to have him in my life and to feel a bond with such a special creature. And as I looked at him laying next to me, his paw cradled in my hand I thought of our blog friends Michael and Miguel and their own Golden companion Duncan, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge this afternoon after a day of being treated like a prince, given all the treats he couldn't enjoy when he was healthier, loved as much as he deserved. Their hearts are heavy tonight, no doubt, but I have been reminded of what a precious gift I have been given, what a tremendous responsibility it is to love and care for a soul as remarkable as that of a Golden but also what joy and happiness it brings with it. And tonight, on our last walk before bed, we will venture out, Duncan's nose to the grass while my eyes scan the sky for that new, bright star that has taken its place in the heavens, set to forever shine down on those who loved it so much in the brief time it was here.

Bless you, Michael, bless you, Miguel, and godspeed to your friend and companion. You are in my heart.

Measuring the Moon

"Dreyfus once wrote from Devil's Island that he would see the most glorious birds. Many years later in Brittany he realized they had only been seagulls... For me they will always be "glorious birds." (Harold and Maude)

We watched the moon rise from the top of Rebel Hill tonight, silent and pale, with only a few small patches of clouds interrupting the vastness of stars hovering in space. I'd spotted it as Duncan sniffed the scrawny trunks of the locust trees which have either tragically or blessedly been planted amid the plaza of cement down between the four baseball diamonds. I happened to glance over my shoulder to see it erupting from the eastern horizon and gasped aloud at its suddenness and the silence with which it rose. Duncan startled at my breath, his body going tense and his face reading mine for some indication of what had happened. He followed close at my side as we hurried across the parking lot and up the hill behind the park and rec building to the path winding up from the memorial. It was where I'd led Elijah last Easter, where he'd told me I'd never be alone as long as I thought of him while Duncan and I sat on the low stone bench looking out over the plains and the mountains and the city which rises up between them.

Duncan sat next to me and together we watched the moon, amazing in the ascent we all take for granted. There is magic in the way she climbs the night and I've been told that her size on the horizon is exactly the same as her size when she reaches the highest point of the sky, that she is no bigger at the beginning than she is at the end, that it is nothing but a trick of light and angles. So I measured her with my thumb, holding it up close to my eye. She was as big as the nail but far brighter and much more beautiful. I let Dunc's leash fall and while he sniffed the edge of the walkway for bunnies, I spread out on my back and played with the clouds. Several drifted past which looked exactly like Santa's eyebrows, mustache and beard, all floating independently of each other, hair without a face to grow on. They seemed not to move at all until I looked past them at a small quiet star when their pace would suddenly seem to jerk and accelerate as the wind caught them and pulled them toward the north. Looking directly at their mustached center they stopped again until my eye rediscovered the star. Over and over I did the trick, and sometimes it seemed that I could see and feel the spinning of the entire world beneath me as the sky moved without moving. After many long minutes my clouds grew bored with my game and turned into something else entirely before moving out over the golf course and beyond my field of vision.

Later, much later, at an hour when Duncan is used to the sound of my sleeping, we ventured back out across the street and up the hill. The park was silent and the traffic had found a den to curl up in and sleep until the early hours when it spills out over the world again. Such silence, broken only occasionally by the appearance of a single car on Bowles, its solitary rush and hum almost beautiful as it moved alone, the sound of its wheels cracking across the pavement like a song, like the fall of snow, like everything and nothing. How is it that one sounds like music but the symphony sounds like madness? The moon had made much progress and not even Orion could match her brisk pace. We sat in the same spot and with Duncan at my side I raised my thumb to my eye, held it as close to her pale body as I could and gasped again. It's true. Light and angles and the horizon had played a trick on me, but I prefer to call it magic.

We should all make time for the rising of the moon. Every once in a while.

Two Suns

It rained this afternoon, not much, but enough to cover the street and cause the tires to slush up water in fine misty sheets as the cars passed, a sound that is not without its own peaceful merit. Duncan and I walked an hour after the clouds were swept away to the east, dark and low with lightning just barely visible even in the daylight. The sidewalks had just started to dry around their edges when we ventured to the park. The sun carved a place for itself between the mountains and a new row of clouds that had risen over the rounded tops of the foothills, shining a concentrated layer of gold across the city and into our eyes. The park was vast and empty and strange for a Sunday afternoon, as silent as it gets only after the dark has risen and even the late night Frisbee players have faded into the shadows. There was no tug on Duncan's leash and we walked side by side without haste or destination, comfortable with the laziness of our steps, not caring where we went or how long it took to get there, glad only to be out in the cool, rain-scented air together. Climbing the hill below the memorial, following the path up, with the sun in our faces, the sidewalk before us glowed brilliantly, as radiantly as though there were two suns, one setting from above, one reflected on the wet walk and rising up from below. Through the parking lot at the top of the hill and across the wet grass above the amphitheater, we stood and looked down on the lake. The trees and tall willows along the shore, even the foothills and the city along their base, were black as we gazed into the sun and its reflected twin, moving together at the same pace along the same path, never to meet but always lighting the other's way into the horizon. We stood for a long while watching their progress and as the sun, our sun, the one above, met the black line of the mountain silhouettes, I strained my ears for the sound of the hiss as it extinguished against the damp horizon. When it did not come we turned and walked another long and lazy route home.

Touched

Duncan and I climbed the low hill at the base of the memorial, passing through the silent and empty prairie dog town that edges the side of the lake. The clouds were thick and settling down low and the northern skies offered brief but wide stripes of lightning. Near the top of the hill and at the edge of the park we passed The Shepherds, who'd joined forces with several other big dogs and their companions. They all turned our way and watched us walk by, leashing up their dogs until we were out of range. Duncan didn't notice them, content as he was to drag the heavy stick we'd found along the receding shore of the lake. We skirted the edge of the memorial and came down along the path that winds up from the parking lot. There's a point where the trail turns and as we neared it a wiry bunny, his face turned directly into the setting sun, leapt from the tall yellow grass right in front of us, less than two feet away. Duncan froze and I gasped, tightening my grip on his leash. The rabbit, a dusty brown with long white feet and tall ears tipped also with white, did not see us. His nose quivered and he took a slight hop forward and except for a quick twitch in his tail, Duncan did not move. I heard people on the trail behind us and turned slowly to wave them to a standstill, which they readily did once they spotted the rabbit edging toward us on the path. The skinny little thing thing moved forward again and stopped no more than a foot away, its nose twitching and eyes straining to see us through the thick evening glare. Duncan leaned slowly forward and the rabbit leaned up, too, and for the briefest of moments it looked as though their noses touched. The rabbit suddenly stiffened and jerked away before bolting back into the brush and down the side of the hill. Duncan seemed too dazed to move, the stick still dangling from his mouth. I could only smile while my heart raced in my chest. The small group of people behind us jogged up. "Did you see that?" they asked. "Did they actually touch?" "That was incredible," they exclaimed, patting Duncan on the back. We milled around a moment while Dunc strained and pulled on his leash, leaning as far forward as he could in the direction the rabbit had gone.

I have never seen such a thing. I did not expect to see it tonight but I'm happy I did.

Golden Moments

The storm passed over us with only a few flashes and claps of thunder, not even enough to ruffle Duncan, who sat by my side on the patio, pawing at the wood chips that fill the flower bed at the edge of the cement. It wasn't until later, when we walked across the park, bypassing the baseball games and making our way to the top of the memorial that we were able to enjoy the show. From where sat on the low brick bench we could see far out over the eastern plains, nearly to the edge of the city lights where a tremendous storm raged in the skies above Almost Kansas. Further in, not far from the park but far enough to shield us of from the sounds of the rockets, a fantastic fireworks display lit the skies. From our hillside perch we looked down on it, which was a bit like peering down on a colorful and fast blooming garden, with dandelions of gold and red, flaming pansies of blue and green and tall columns of exploding snapdragons. And behind it the lightning storm, which we could hear and feel all these miles away. Duncan sat next to me, panting from the climb in the humidity, resting one foot atop the toe of my shoe, his head cocked at each bright burst and the streaks of orange light arcing across the sky, illuminating the entire horizon from north to south. It reminded me of an evening spent in Lake Bluff, on an estate which overlooked Lake Michigan. John and Betsy and I had gone there to sit on the winding wooden walkway which descended the side of the bluff to the boat dock below. We sipped wine and beer and smoked grass and watched an enormous storm over the lake, far away on the Michigan side, with fingers of lightning that seemed to spread hundreds of miles. We hardly spoke to one another, instead keeping our faces turned eastward, our eyes on the black clouds and thick streaks of rain. We were content simply sharing the moment, not commenting on it, not laughing or joking, just being together. Those are the kind of friends I love the most, the ones who can share and keep a silence, who can sit beside you and witness, maybe reach out a hand or smile and who know the importance of golden moments.

Visitors and an Ordinary Walk

When my dad announced several weeks ago that he and his friend Jane planned on overnighting in Denver, he said, "Would it be possible to go on a walk with you and Duncan? Jane and I have talked it over and we think it would be a great thing to experience, if it's okay with you, of course."

I smiled into the phone and told him, "Well, I have to be honest with you, our walks are just like any ordinary walk. The clouds do not part, angelic choruses do not burst into song and there certainly isn't a beam of golden sunshine that follows us around. We just walk. It's really quite mundane. I'm afraid you wouldn't be very impressed."

But they insisted and when they arrived yesterday afternoon I was more than willing to take them with us to the park and around our usual spots. I was glad to have them but also a little nervous. Duncan tends to assume that when others are present I'm distracted, which he thinks means is reason enough to attempt to get away with murder. I don't know how many times we've gone over this lesson, but I am not distracted, perhaps more in tune with our walk simply because we have a reputation to protect.

And so we ventured across all six lanes of traffic on Bowles, which my dad rightly remarked upon as being "a bit dangerous." I laughed and told him that last winter when the snow and ice were piled up there and Duncan and I were standing in the median waiting to cross I'd envisioned my own death by sliding down the ice into oncoming traffic.

The park was wonderful, although a bit quiet. We walked down to the high school and then up toward the memorial. On the way we spotted several bunnies and dad and Jane got to witness Duncan's hunting skills live and in person, which I thought was quite exciting. He put on a full show for them, going rigid, lifting one paw slowly and letting it hang in the air, bobbing lightly before setting it back down. We climbed Rebel Hill, which offers a nice view of Littleton, the mountains and the eastern plains and looks down on the prairie dog town, which Duncan alternately shows mild interest in or utter indifference.

On the way home dad asked. "Was that a typical walk? Was that the way they normally go?" Except for the pace, which Duncan prefers to amp up a little more, it was a pretty typical walk, and as I'd explained, no angels burst into song and the sun did what it normally does which is take no notice of us at all. Even Duncan, who tends to act up, was well-behaved, only pulling on his leash every now and then. He even sat on the curb before crossing the street, waiting for me to give the all-clear command. It was an ordinary walk, except for the fact that dad, who I haven't seen in eight years, and Jane, who I'd never seen at all, were there with us. It felt good showing them the places I cherish, the places that inspire me and the places Duncan has led me to. And it was good to be in a place that is my own, to know the trails and the roads and to be able to point things out, to show others that that little boy, who, as my dad likes to tell, peed on the doctor the instant he was born, has made a place for himself in the world with a dear friend he calls Duncan.


*Please pardon my comb-over look. Dunc had given me a bath right before the picture was taken.

Killdeer

The secret of a good walk is to allow the walk to guide you, lead you where it will and not direct its course or decide what kind of walk it's going to be. On countless occasions I have been in a terrible mood, reluctant to spend more than the most cursory amount of time outside being dragged around by Duncan, only to discover that the walk would be the best, most forgiving and therapeutic part of my day. Likewise, there have been afternoons when I felt as though I lived in some grand Hollywood musical, as though the walk would take place in Technicolor, with little cartoon birds alighting on my shoulder while fauns and bunnies traipsed along beside us, sniffing flowers and singing in harmony to the song of the sun and the swaying clouds. On more than one such occasion I've been disappointed to learn that Duncan did not feel the same way, that he was grumpy or reluctant and that Walt Disney was not in charge of animating my day. You may think the path leads one way and if you're not willing to take a chance or have some silly preconceived notion of what a walk should be, you'll likely discover it will take you in a completely different direction altogether.

I had a terrible day. My sinuses and ears have been acting up, my cough, although not racking, is annoying and unproductive, my doctor offered the wrong treatment for it and the two night-time cold capsules I took last night kept me drowsy and foggy until well past noon. It wasn't until Duncan pulled me out of the apartment and across the park to Lilley Gulch that I felt as though I was actually a participant in my day. The air was hot and the sun in my eyes would've been uncomfortable if didn't feel so damn good on my face and arms, warming my throat and the tip of my nose. The reeds along the creek have sprung up almost overnight, growing over last year's dead, yellow stalks, offering lush new homes to the birds that nest there. If you skew your field of vision just right you can erase the homes and streets that line the gulch and imagine you're alone in the foothills, which always roll west ahead of you, turning a welcome shade of green as they near the mountains. The birds were mostly quiet, except for the lowing of the Mourning Doves and the faraway high-pitched cry of the killdeer which nest at the dry, rocky base of Rebel Hill.

Their voices beckoned and so Duncan turned and followed the path to the creek, where I jumped across while he waded a bit, then up between the tall rows of lilac bushes, now white and browning throughout and completely void of the perfume which lasts only as long as those delicate days before the heat sets in. We came out into the wide field on the southeast edge of the lake where the ground rises up and turns yellow with the tiny petals of a million wildflowers. We teased the prairie dogs, who barked at us and stood protectively over their pups and eventually Duncan spotted a killdeer and set off in her direction. I knew her game and kept my eyes open for the chicks, which scurried around for shelter in the tall grass. Duncan eventually caught onto her broken wing antics as she led us further away from her nest, but I brought him back around and we followed one chick, a scurrying, scrawny, fuzzy thing, for several minutes, Duncan's nose quite close to its tiny, bald little tail, practically pushing it forward while its mother screeched at us from nearby, huddling in the grass and playing as though her wing were broken. Our chase was short-lived and we headed up the hill, around the memorial and back down into the lower side of the park where the baseball diamonds sit and the crowds had gathered for an evening of America's national past-time.

Our walk was like killdeer; it started in one direction, seeming to be something solitary and quiet, but turned another way and became something playful and more social. It was wonderful watching Duncan discover the chick and follow close behind, his tail wagging, his sniffing low and gentle, his gate easy and careful.

And that is the secret to walking in the world. Let it lead you, open your eyes to discoveries unexpected and unplanned, look for beauty in the rugged places as well as those settings where you expect to find it. This is the way to experience the world, and to let the world experience you.

The Wisdom of Children

This afternoon Mike and I took Elijah to the park for some much needed play. Duncan came along with us and while Elijah climbed the jungle gym and slid the slides under a warm, blue sky, Duncan and I strolled down to the lake to enjoy the sun bouncing off its smooth surface from a hundred different angles. The ducks and a few straggling geese swam lazily just off the bank and a hundred joggers, speed-walkers and roller-bladers darted past us. Mike and Elijah joined us and together we decided to visit the memorial and climb Rebel Hill. While Mike looked over the plaques and strolled the smooth brick courtyard, Elijah, Duncan and I followed the path to the top of the hill to overlook the lake, most of Littleton and Denver off in the distance. I took a seat on brick bench and Elijah leaned against the short wall opposite me. He was smiling and happy, but he watched me in that way he has, as if he's reading me and nothing is secret. This is a child I have a connection with like no other. I was present at his birth and was the first person to see him just before he entered the world. He single-handedly saved me at my grandmother's funeral and has touched and changed me in ways I never expected. I am as close to him as I am any of my friends, his mother and father included.

"This is one of my favorite places," I told him.

He looked around, about as amused as a four year old can be by a view of the mountains and the city.

"Sometimes when I'm very lonely and missing my friends and family Duncan and I come up here and we sit and look out on all the people passing below and it makes me happy," I explained.

He thought for a moment, the mountains and setting sun behind him, his head aglow with the last strong light of the day.

"Well now when you come up here you can remember me sitting here with you and Duncan and never feel lonely again."

I think it would be impossible to think of anything else.

I will miss him terribly when they leave tomorrow. He is my angel and one of the best gifts the universe has ever given me.

Light

I miss daylight. And sunsets. Especially the sunsets.

Eight years ago when Ken and I first moved here it was difficult for us to find much to like about Denver, but the one thing that continually amazed me were the sunsets. Having grown up in Idaho I thought I'd seen some pretty spectacular evening skies, but none has compared to those I've seen here, and each time I hear the chorus of John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" I have to sigh and agree.

Colorado Rocky Mountain high.
I've seen it raining fire from the sky.
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullaby,
Rocky Mountain high, Colorado.

I worked late tonight but somehow managed to slip outside just as the sun was setting and catch a few shots on my cell phone.

The sun was caught between the clouds and the mountains and quickly, even as I was fumbling to take the pictures, it changed from blue and gold to crimson and everything that stood against it became the blackest of silhouettes.

And then it seemed that December said a sweet goodbye to Autumn by placing the most brilliant leaf in the sky.

I wish I could've been in the park with Duncan. I wish I could've stopped and marveled at it and then turned my eye in his direction, just in time to see his color change, became redder, but somehow softer, more touchable. I would've bent down and hugged him, as I often do, but in that light it would've been even more wonderful.

By the time I got home it was dark but still very warm. We climbed the top of the Columbine Memorial to look down on Denver spread out all around us. This is what we do on warm nights. The sound of the traffic faded away and I laid down on the stone bench and looked up at the orange clouds, which weren't moving so much as mingling. Duncan jumped up and curled around my shoulders. He placed his paw on my chest and licked the top of my head as he likes to do when we settle down for the night. I closed my eyes and thought that I could fall asleep only to wake up later and wonder where I was; perhaps I'd imagine I was flying, looking down on a million glowing cities. It would've been strange, but with my dog curled up, almost on top of me, it would've been an exquisite dream from which to wake.

Night Snow

We awoke to snow, and although Duncan didn't get a long walk this morning (more like a quick pee, a well-thought out poop, and a quick jog once around the building before I left for work), he saved it up for tonight's long romp in the park.

I can't think of many things that make my dog happier than snow. Shortly after Ken brought him home it snowed and he spent his first days with us plowing through drifts bigger than himself, chasing after powder that rolled ahead of him as he careened forward. Duncan loves the outdoors, loves wind in his face, loves playing fetch or tug of war, but little compares to his joy at playing in the snow. While I spend all year dreading it and then enduring it, he revels in it, delights in snapping at it and rolling through it.

Tonight at the park he was finally able to release all of his pent up energy. The plans he must've made this afternoon as he gazed out the window while it fell, then stuck to the ground. Looking across Bowles he must've seen the park, white and pristine with fields of unmarred snow waiting for him, calling to him.

Once again we were the only ones out so I took him off-leash to run free. Considering it had been seventy-three degrees on Monday, today's temperatures seemed almost unendurable. I've never been a fan of the cold or snow, I do not ski or snowshoe or participate in any of those other winter sports. I spend the long, cold months in sweaters and heavy socks, sitting on the couch reading, occasionally knitting, watching movies. We could not be more different, homebody me, who hates sports and Winter, and my ball-crazy, snow-mad dog.

Because it was so cold I worried all day about our walk and how displeased Duncan would be with me when our nightly trek was cut short. Maybe Duncan knew this and came up with a plan to distract me. I'll never know, but somehow whatever he did worked and we spent more than an hour playing and chasing and rolling around in the stuff. I even managed a snow angel, my first since college when a group of us got drunk and did them naked on the field behind a church. When Duncan tried an angel his came out more like an albino ink-blot test, but I'm not judging. His approach to keeping me out was direct but not aggressive. Rather than allow me to focus on how miserable my feet felt or how my nose wouldn't stop running, he distracted me by doing little more than standing in front of me, blocking my path and demanding I play his favorite winter game, Kick Snow in Duncan's Face. It's very simple: he positions himself down low in front of me while I turn my foot sideways, scrape the snow up in one swift moving arc and kick it in the direction of his head so he can leap forward, snap at it and watch as it rains down, catching in his muzzle and ears, coating his nose and eyebrows. We did this for over an hour, leaving a strange, sideswiping trail as we moved across the covered fields, up the hill and to the top of the memorial where we sat in silence, side by side, looking down on the empty park, the loud orange clouds and the city spread out all around us. When it was time to go he stood up, grabbed his leash and led me back down the hill to a nice, undisturbed patch of snow where we resumed our play.

I wonder what he thinks when I take him out into a world remade in white. I'm meticulous about rotating out his toys, giving him his Buddy for a few weeks before exchanging it for his Baby and then eventually replacing that with his Berry. Does he think I'm in charge of the snow, too; that I pick and choose when it falls and when he can enjoy it. There was a desperation in his play tonight, as if he wanted to get his fill of it before it went away again. Does he love me more in the snow, or come April, when the wind turns warm and he can turn his face into it, does he love me more all over again? Or does he just love me?

I know that I could watch him play all day in the snow. And all day in the grass. Or all day in the leaves.

I could watch him play all day.

Columbine

Sometimes you wonder where you'll find inspiration–your art or your story–and you're so busy looking for it that you're surprised when it finds you. That's the way I felt this afternoon in Clement Park as Duncan and I passed through the baseball quad and worked our way up the walk toward Rebel Hill. I was surprised to discover a fleet of news crews in vans and trucks and even one or two helicopters hovering overhead. I hardly noticed that the memorial was finally open.

My Columbine story, as insignificant as it really is, began on that morning in April in 1999 while I was sitting at my desk at CDW. Ken and I were leaving for Denver the next morning and while I was killing time between editing a couple of magazine ads, I went online and saw the report on Yahoo News. Something terrible had happened in Littleton. The magnitude of the horror was something I still can't comprehend, but I remember thinking, "On choir tour in 1989 I sang at that school. I stood right there."

The next morning, after checking into our room at the downtown Denver Holiday Inn, we walked the 16th Street Mall and saw for ourselves the impact Columbine had on this community. An enormous card, the length of a city block, had been set up and people were standing, three and four deep, waiting to sign it, their hands trembling, tears in their eyes and on their cheeks. Everywhere we looked we saw the same dazed expressions; no one could believe it happened here.

Needless to say, it was a terrible time to visit Denver. We could not have picked a less enjoyable weekend to check out our new home. There was no escaping it, not in the restaurants over lunch, not in the bars and clubs, or at the zoo, not in our hotel room. Even on our way out of town we passed Al Gore's motorcade leaving the airport as it made its way toward Littleton. It wasn't until we were home that we felt relieved of the weight of the tragedy.

Shortly afterward I was speaking to my father on the phone, explaining that I'd just returned from Denver and that I was considering moving there.

"Whew, Denver," he sighed, in that radio announcer's sigh of his. "That must've been tough, and not very fun I bet."

I thought for a moment, as I often do when speaking to my father. "You know, it was an incredible experience," I began. "It was horrible and you're right, it wasn't any fun, the whole city was grieving, but I got to see that. I got to see that community pull together, was able to witness the grief and the comfort they imparted on one another and it was an amazing thing to be a part of."

Our strengths and virtues are not tested in times of peace and silence; they are tested by crisis and cacophony and Denver and Littleton passed that test. This city certainly doesn't want to be remembered because of Columbine, but it doesn't want the rest of the world to forget either. If it can happen here–in this middle-class Mormon community–it can happen anywhere.

That April day as I read about the shootings I had no idea that I'd soon live half a block away from the school, which Duncan and I occasionally walk around. It's always held this strange awe for me because something so terrible happened there and yet it looks like any ordinary school. The kids I see arriving in the morning look like any regular high school kids. Passing the front doors and moving around toward the library side, where most of the true horrors occurred, has always made me catch my breath.



This afternoon as Duncan and I entered the memorial, which won't look truly beautiful until the spring when the grass and the flowers come in, I experienced a new feeling. All around me were the actual families and friends of victims, I was surrounded by students who'd had to run for their lives. As I walked around the wall and read some of the selected quotes that had been mounted on plaques, I felt my awe of the building and the shootings fade, replaced by awe of the people and their ability to grieve and then find a place for their grief as they returned to their lives. It was overwhelming and as we left I couldn't help but cry. It felt good to be there and felt like this community, where so much anger is to be expected, has found a way to forgive.



"Hatred never ceases by hatred; by love alone it is healed. This is the timeless and eternal law. Forgiveness is primarily for our own sake, so that we no longer carry the burden of resentment. Our hearts are already heavy enough."
The Gatekeeper
(Columbine High School Memorial)