The Mountain Is High, The Valley Is Low

We've been mourning and remembering a friend we lost this week to cancer. I had known him since the '80s; he was the partner of a long-time friend of mine. I can't remember exactly the first time I met him, but I think it was here in Lexington when my friend was visiting and brought him along. Since that long-ago day, I've had many visits with the two of them, both here and in the various places they've lived together.

We all enjoyed walking, talking, and eating, and spent a lot of hours in those pursuits when we were together. It isn't often you come across people that you feel that in tune with, and our conversations were always wide-ranging -- anything from philosophy to the right way to make an omelet to urban planning (sometimes all in the same chat). It's hard to say goodbye to someone you've hashed over the meaning of life with, especially someone as gentle and kind as Jot was.

On the day of his cremation, I came up with an impromptu memorial service to try to honor him in a manner I thought he would approve of. It started with playing the song "Everett Ruess," which I know he loved, and which could almost have been written about him: he had much in common with that other artist, dreamer, and free spirit. I went to my book shelf and found Thich Nhat Hanh's Old Path White Clouds, a life of Buddha. I decided to open it at random and read the first thing I saw, which turned out to be the Buddha's explanation of the Four Noble Truths. I kept going back and pulling other books from various traditions off the shelf, sometimes seeking out remembered passages and other times just skimming the pages for inspiration. Sacred chants, philosophical passages, poetry, music, readings from the Bible . . . by the time I'd finished, two hours had passed. I think Jot would have liked most of it.

In the midst of all the sorrow, I've been thinking about what a remarkable, irreplaceable thing a human soul is. Life and death are a great mystery to us all, but it seems to me a waste for the world to give rise to such a beautiful thing as a human spirit, only to take it back into a void. I want to believe that the spirit lives on somehow, in a way we don't completely understand, and I hope that is the case.

One of my most vivid memories of Jot is of the day he and I went for a long, long walk in San Francisco's Bernal Heights. I was big on printing out walking tours from the Internet and enlisting my friends to go along with me when I was visiting. On this particular March day, several years ago, it was just Jot and me. It was sunny and warm, almost hot; I had to roll up my sleeves as the day progressed. It was an ambitious walk, up some pretty steep hills, and the directions weren't all that easy to follow, which meant a lot of deciphering and backtracking.

Fueled by pastries and coffee, we had set off to conquer the Heights, not quite realizing how long a walk it was. It was off the beaten track, not involving any famous sights or tourist attractions, just a lot of houses, staircases, hidden paths, public gardens, and confusing streets. It was very maze-like but rather pleasant. We'd get hot and out of breath, rest a little, and then move on. There was no rush and nothing in particular we were trying to achieve other than finishing the walk. I remember seeing a small snake in a garden at the top of the hill, crossing paths with a mailman multiple times as he went on his neighborhood rounds (probably shaking his head at us), stopping often to consult the map, sweating, and, at last, admiring the view from a park at the top.

Jot took my picture up there, with the Golden Gate Bridge visible behind me, way off in the distance. It remains one of my favorite photos of myself and somehow captured what I think of as my best, true self -- smiling, adventurous, and quite present in the moment. On the way down the hill, we came across a small playground, and Jot took another picture as I was coming down the slide. I look sort of silly, but it was that kind of a day.

After a three-hour walk, we were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. I said jokingly to Jot that since we had been to the top of the mountain, people were going to ask us what wisdom we had gained while we were up there, and we'd better think of something to say. He seemed doubtful at first, then thought about it for a minute and said, "The mountain is high, the valley is low." Then he chuckled.

Well, there's no arguing with that. And that kind of encapsulates Jot, a person who was willing to climb steep hills just for the fun of it, find joy in simple things like a modest wildflower or a meandering conversation, and then poke fun at himself at the end of the day. I didn't realize at the time what an enduring memory that day would become, but when I think back on it, how free and easy it all was, and how bright the sun was shining, I'm grateful for the impulse that led us to climb that hill just for the heck of it. And for a companion who never questioned the value of so much walking with no particular place to go.