legacy and be manna for those of us still struggling to awaken to

life as it is.

        On February 2, 2008, just as the sun rose over the East

River, the time of day that was Michael’s favorite time to write,

he died in the ICU unit at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer

Center in New York City.

        Michael and I were together for 32 years. Our relationship

was a dance of shared interests, talents and capabilities. Over

the years we both had public relations careers, counseling and

healing careers and a strong interest in spiritual exploration and

helping others. We shared parenting. We loved to travel

together. We were passionate about creating art and writing.

We ran his business together out of our home for the past 14

years. In short, we were best friends, as well as lovers and husband

and scientific fields. He loved the multitude and variety of

projects which utilized his avid scientific mind and knowledge.

        Then there was his spiritual life. He was always a seeker.

For over 35 years he studied in different traditions. One of the

traditions that he became most proficient in was the Pathwork,

where he studied for over 20 years and became a Pathwork

helper and teacher. With commitment and diligence, he created

the first index of the 258 Pathwork lectures, given by Eva

Pierrakos. Among the many groups and classes he led were couples

groups, a process group for students at the Core Energetics

Institute in New York City, a workshop on the Power of the

Word, and a Pathwork group in New Jersey. I assisted him and

learned from him how to lead groups. He completed four years

of Integrated Kabbalistic Healing training and became an

apprentice teacher, where once again we had the privilege of

working together. His work as a psychotherapist, helper and

healer was sensitive, intuitive and empowering of others.

        Michael had a vivid artistic life. He loved creating: sculptures

with driftwood and wax candles, hanging macramé designs,

steel sculptures and stone walls. In the past 15 years, he

focused his creativity on writing poetry and memories of his

family of origin, while also investigating chaos theory, the

breath, and peripheral vision. He kept a notebook of ideas he

wanted to explore in the future, and on vacations gathered

driftwood and bones for sculptures he intended to make.

        Curiosity was the glue that tied all of these forms together.

He was endlessly curious and avidly engaged with whatever life

presented. I always knew that when I was exploring an idea, if

I shared it with him, he would immediately be engaged, offering

many different and enticing strands to explore.

      He was a natural artist. He created from within and never

formally studied art or the writing of poetry. He always had his

own vision. When he was well into his poetry, he began consulting

with Sondra Gash, a mentor of writers and poets, who

described him as a solitary artist, one whose art came solely

from his own exploration.

        While he was a solitary artist, he was also a family man. He

treasured being a father to two daughters and was endlessly

proud of being able to give them varied experiences in the

world. He fostered their curiosity and passion for creativity. He

didn’t care about material things or how much money they

would earn. He wanted them to love their lives and do what

they love. He was the same way with me. He is the only person

in my life who consistently wanted me to have my own creative

expression. He always supported my longings.

      So the world has lost a unique and inspiring being. And we

have the gift of these writings to inspire us to delve more deeply

into life and become the fullness we already are.

      Friday afternoon, two days before he entered the hospital

for the final time, he wrote his last pencil edits on the manuscript

he had been working on for the last year, and he saw the

cover designs for the first time. After he died, I discovered

these two poems among the ones he had not chosen for this

book. I want to share them with you.

        “The Blue Thread,” written in 1999 while we were vacationing

at the beach, describes how he wrestled in this lifetime

emotionally and deeply longed to free himself. His illness was

the unexpected blue thread which unthreaded his shroud. The

callus fell away and he was left open, with a heart full of tears.

        The second one, “Music,” is how he lived day to day. He

loved music. He put a radio or CD player in every room in the

house, including his workshops. When he entered a room, the

first thing he did was turn them on; he even kept his old reel-to-

reel and box of reels from the 60s in his office. His voice

was always off key, but he sang anyway and always said, next life

I’m going to give myself perfect pitch. During his illness he

never had an acupuncture treatment without his iPod and in the

last days of his life we sang to him, gave him musical therapy

with live guitar and harp, and placed his headphones in his ears

to play non-stop his favorite classical music.

to their vision.