“Remember what our Guru says: Be a scientist of your own spiritual experience. You’re not here as a tourist or a journalist, you’re here as a seeker. So explore it.”
—Richard from Texas, Eat Pray Love, page 164
My husband died sitting in a massive Arts and Crafts-style oak chair he’d made in our garage. His sister, the costumer for a major filmmaker, helped him sew the leather cushions on her industrial machine. I was at work when I got the call from the coroner’s office. That was when I learned that they don’t call to wish you a good day.
The day everything changed forever.
It was a complicated marriage—aren’t they all? By the time he died, 17 years into it, we were living in different towns, though we saw each other on weekends. We still owned a house together, shared a dog. But most of his co-workers thought he was divorced. We weren’t. We were family and stayed that way till the end. He was 48 years old; I was 42.