Adieu

I received a most troubling email yesterday.

I have, for nearly 17 years now, been harassing two people. Seeking their approval at every turn. Making their days a little harder with my unrelenting quest for attention and acceptance. I have, in word and deed, been stalking them. They are the letters editors for the New York Times.

The email announced the imminent retirement, effective at day's end, of one of the editors. It advised that it was being sent to those like me who had been the most offensively consistent in spilling our every conceivable thought before them for review. It gave both the email address and phone number for the person vacating the premises, with the clear anticipation that some of us would unburden our sorrows upon her.

Within seconds I called her. "How could you do this to me" my opening salvo. I thought of saying there were not two, but three certainties in the universe, death, taxes and Tom and Sue (that being the names of the editors) but I refrained.

Not satisfied with merely indicating my displeasure in a call, I immediately followed up with an email retort. She had been my therapist, listening almost daily to my ranting and raving, my ups, downs and often sideways ruminations. My occasional cheerleader when she notified me " your letter is being considered for publication." And over time, she had become a friend. Whether she wanted to or not.

In quick response, I was informed I would soon be receiving my bill for our literally thousands of sessions, and she hoped that my insurance would cover it. My illusions that my writing had been something other than the act of unburdening myself, something to be cherished by the recipient, now dissipated and dashed.

In truth, I will surely miss my friend. She has become someone I have grown close to. Sure it was in part because she has tolerated my obsession without complaint for over 6000 days. But it has really been because I feel she has been of like mind, a kindred spirit who, given the opportunity, would have voiced many of the same concerns as I, would have similar laments and feel the same sentiments, whether of joy or sorrow, that often bubbles up in me. In some ways, in some alternate examination of my intention, I feel I have been able to speak for her.

She is a kind and caring woman, a most capable and devoted editor. I will greatly miss my almost daily monologue with her, or more accurately, directed at her.

My friend, may you find great meaning in your days ahead, as you edit the rest of your life. And, should you wake one early morning without anything of note on your plate, you are welcome to ask me to forward my comments on any pressing matter. I will gladly allow your edits. As long as there is no charge.