So, I’ve decided: my life is not stranger than fiction. My life is precisely like a real life, filled with joy, sadness, large and small risks, successful experiments, failed ventures, good people, weird and bad people, health, illness, disappointments, met and unmet expectations, and lots and lots of loss.

The differences I spoke of in my last entry turned out to be, as I had thought, irrefutably irreconcilable. There was simply going to be no way for the two of us to pursue a life path together with the clash in values that had emerged.

In an incredibly brief meeting yesterday, we parted ways peacefully and amicably. It took less than ten minutes at a local coffee shop to exchange keys and trade a few personal items from car to car.

While there are residual feelings of sadness and loss, feelings that I imagine will hang around for some time, at this point those negative emotions are offset by a profound sense of relief.

I tried. She tried. In the end, it simply didn’t work.

In the movie Stranger than Fiction, IRS auditor Harold Crick (Will Ferrell) is asked by university professor Jules Hilbert (Dustin Hoffman) what his favorite word is.

“Integer,” is the reply.

Now, that isn’t a bad choice for an accountant.

I’ve often thought about how I might answer that question; I believe what I’d say is “epistemology.” It is a word with such lyrical quality and, additionally, has great meaning to me as an academic. Epistemology is the branch of philosophy concerned with the nature and scope of knowledge, asking such questions, “what does it mean to know?”

Of course, one does not have to be an academic, scientist, or philosopher to love that word or be concerned with epistemological issues. How it is we know, how we come to know, and what we count as knowledge, are concepts everyone deals with in everyday life, in our ordinary and not-so-ordinary interactions with others.

Naturally, what we know, or think we do, bumps up against the elusive, oft-debated, and intellectually-and-emotionally-charged notions of “truth” and “reality.” What is true? What is real? … are questions we do not typically spend a lot of time thinking about, mostly because we tend to take a lot of things for granted. But our differing beliefs about what we know as true and real, as individuals, groups, organizations and nations, are the source of immense miscommunication, angst and conflict in the world. Perhaps we could and should spend a little more time paying attention to how it is we know what we know.

As I write this, I am in the midst of a gigantic inner struggle about the nature of reality: about what I think I know. Over the course of the last couple of weeks or so, a significant person in my life has expressed a worldview about our shared experience that is hugely at odds with my own. In fact, where once there was some sense of shared understanding, and a mission of mutual purpose, it all seems now to have been replaced with confusion, defensiveness, anger and distance.

Our versions of reality are, to me, incomprehensibly disparate. They are, perhaps, totally irreconcilable.

So, here I sit with my thoughts: about the nature of reality. And relationship.

Breathing in and out, in and out. Alone. Confused. Finding myself, once again, in the middle of a life that’s stranger than fiction.

Senator Edward M. Kennedy, the last of the brothers, died and was buried this week. Along with millions of others, I will miss him.

It’s been reported that Kennedy wrote a letter to Pope Benedict XVI earlier in the year, asking for the prayers of His Holiness, as he struggled with the brain cancer that ultimately took his life. In that communication he admitted to being “an imperfect human being.”

Of course, yes, he was imperfect. So were Jack and Bobby. So is everyone. We are, after all, human. Despite his imperfections, however, he was a giant of a man... doing so much for so many for so many years.

David Horsey published an editorial cartoon last Thursday, with this Kennedy quote:

If by a liberal, they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind; someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions; someone who cares about the welfare of the people, their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights, their civil liberties; someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicion that grips us; if that is what they mean by a liberal, I am proud to be a liberal.

RIP, Teddy.

Last March, I posted an entry entitled “Really: Who Are You?” – an essay where I attempted to outline, as clearly as I could, some views on the meaning of my existence. Since that time, it’s been a summer of continuing reflection as I significantly changed most of my vacation plans in order to address health issues and to confront, once again, the matter of my mortality.

As I was browsing some of my older computer files yesterday, I came across a document composed sometime in 2004. [That was the year I found myself struggling to redefine my identity after being involuntarily displaced from long-term employment (with the Oregon University System) and commenced a process of job-search (and high stress) that ultimately lasted three and a half years.] I entitled that 2004 file “Personal Mission Statement” – which I restate here:

The multiple purposes of my lifetime on this planet are to:

• Nurture my intellectual, emotional, physical, and spiritual selves
• Have deep and meaningful relationships
• Experience life to the fullest and live until I die
• Show up, be present, and tell the truth
• Be involved, yet free of attachment, and, above all things
• Be true to myself.

Amazingly, I still stand by these statements of purpose.

This is my life.

I have a European friend who, like me, at this moment, is on vacation. And, somewhat parallel to my experience, it appears that her time “on holiday” is not exactly all red roses and vanilla ice cream. (Whatever that might mean...I just made that up.) I know of this through her tweets...as I listen to her voice (on Twitter) speak of tears and pain.

Now, my vacation does not feel as viscerally low as hers sounds. However, I did schedule my vacation time this summer to relax, re-charge, and re-energize. And it’s not turning out that way at all.

Life: how cunning and clever you are. Mentsch tracht, Gott lacht. (Man plans, God laughs.)

My first week of vacation was scheduled for the week of June 22, and I had plans to re-visit Santa Fe and take lots of photos. Well, you know what happened then...June 22 was the day I ended up scheduling my prostate biopsy. The entire week was devoted to that procedure and my recovery. No break there.

I tried to be philosophical and say, “well, I’ve always got the time away in Oregon and two days of the Oregon Country Fair!” This weekend was supposed to be another photo-filled few days for me in my old stomping grounds, at one of my favorite events in the universe.

At the time of my biopsy, it didn’t much occur to me that I’d still be recovering this far down the line (it’ll be three weeks tomorrow from the day of the procedure). But, recovering, still, I am.

Because of the rather unpleasant symptoms associated with this bumpy recovery process, I’ve been advised to limit my physical activity. And, since my visits to the Country Fair typically involve hours of walking with heavy camera equipment, I decided against attending at all.

Bummer.

Not that my time in Oregon has been a total waste. Actually, quite the contrary. I’ve had time to visit with a few of my favorite people in the world, which has been quite delightful.

However, here’s what I recognize: I’m not rested. I’m not relaxed. I’m not re-charging. And, I’m mildly depressed. My body issues have tended to dominate both vacation periods, necessitating a change in my photography plans (my preferred time-off, relaxation activity).

I feel out-of-control and cheated. You know, the “life is not fair” kinda thing.