We drove to the end of the land, to a land where we don’t belong, yet we are welcomed. To a land where the view is sublime, yet the surroundings sobering. Where the flood robbed him of furniture, but not of spirit.

We entered the home of a genius – no furniture – but consumed in art. Stacks of paintings – boxes, closets, walls…full. Each as wonderful as the first, the last. Each an incredible discovery. Each one a blessing.

And he gave me three paintings…I wanted to pay. I wanted to give him something in return – yet he would accept nothing – saying that at nearly age 90 he had provided for himself, though I am unsure just how. And I worry.

I want to laugh. I want to cry. I want to let the world know that this….this…is why I do what I do.

This is why we all do what we do – and why my colleague Tom is a giant among men, and why we all need to continue…to continue.

And I feel so unworthy. And I feel so desperate to do something.

And I feel so lucky.