People sometimes think a sabbatical is a vacation. And though I joked to that effect at times, it is not. It is a chance to step back from teaching for (in my case) an academic year, to rebuild and decide what direction to take with one’s future (I already taught a class this summer, but this is officially coming back now). I loved being an academic, it was my dream job; but after all that, I admit there were moments when I thought about doing something else with the last couple thousand weeks of my life (noting that 40 years is about 2,040 weeks, and if I am lucky and attend to my health a bit better, I might have that long). Being a public educator and scientist is a really difficult place to be right now. I understand why people in my profession are leaving, not just the profession, but the States, though I think we as a country will be lesser without them.

Something happened on that walk. I still felt the grief of loss that occupied the silences between the bustle of everyday life. But something else began to take over: a sense that it was all part of something bigger, that life and death and light and darkness were all one and essential and part of a broader cosmic unity. I miss my best friend, but I will carry with me all that we experienced together—until the day that I, too am gone. I hope to have letf behind some positive memories for others, as well, when my time comes. I also take with me, not only the memories, but an imperative—to live in such a way as to honor the memories of those lost along the way.