There is a opera house in Paris. Walking through its’ doors there are steps that lead you into the past. Within its corridors are the voices of long since gone. There are the seats of dignitaries and the aristocrats. How many generations have taken their seats, how many governments have come and gone. How many performers have brought smiles and tears. How many have come before us. How many more will come again.

There are small circular rooms at the end of some corridors. They transition the corridors at ninety-degree angles. Mounted on its’ curved walls are four straight flat mirrors two each opposite the other. When standing in the center the reflection as it almost disappears into infinity seems to distort time and place.

A few days before in Amsterdam I watched in amazement and wonderment when the first violinist become one with his instrument. There were a few around him struggling to keep up. You could see it on their faces, but on his was a smile. The intricate movements of his fingers and hands seemed simple and delicate. His body moved with the violin in a way that it was difficult to see where the two ended and where they begun.

It was staring at van Gogh self-portrait; I could feel my skin tingling. Somehow he had entered into the paint and became one with it. His intensity radiated out and penetrated my being.

All these things and many others I glazed upon wondering how life was so different now. The transition was still taking place and would continue even to the present moment.

It had started when my son stopped breathing. It was then I began to understand the impact it would have. For all the choices and decisions were made for what was best for him and no one else. In those following hours and days I could feel my life dissolving. It was a new feeling, as if watching from a distance of a world changing. Maybe it would have been possible to stop it back then, but I chose not to, unable to lie to myself any longer.

It would take many years to have some sort of normal life again, but even this is mostly seen from the outside. For the transition is ever changing. It quietly shows a continuing different way of looking on and understanding the world. It has taken many steps so far and after awhile you forget some of the ones taken. It is only when something happens and a memory comes back of how you use to respond, do you understand what has been learned.

The feeling that was once new and the discomfort that it brought has seemed to fade away. But I know it has become a part of me now and flows through my veins with every breath.