A note from Aunt Marj

Hello everyone, I am Alex’s aunt Marj, Buzz’s sister. When Steve and I moved to Corvallis from Pennsylvania in 2007, we were fortunate to stay at Buzz and Pat’s home until we found an apartment. I had just retired as a massage therapist and Alex expressed a desire for some massage. He was a sponge for it. He was willing to try anything I suggested, Lomi Lomi on the table, Thai massage on the floor. And he was so curious, asking me questions about technique, and what did this stroke do and why was I doing that? Questions that many times I had no answers to but it was a very enjoyable time, just the two of us.

We had moved my father to Corvallis in 2006 and I was happy he would be with Buzz and Pat and whatever children were living there. I learned that Alex would ride his bike to his Grandpa’s, stand under his window and call Dad on his cell phone to let him know he was there to play cards. Because Alex is so engaging it makes me happy to think about the conversations they might have had. My father was a Dale Carnegie student and believed in the power of positive thinking, Alex also believed in the power of the mind. I read that Alex consulted his two dead Grandpas when he was riding the Lost Coast race in California, so maybe that’s something they discussed. When our Dad died Alex went to extreme measures to get to Corvallis from where he was living in Montana. He was a wonderful grandson to my father, it’s obvious by the smile on my Dad’s face in pictures we have with Alex by his side. Rest in peace, Alex, and in the knowledge you touched our family very deeply.

Love, Marj


A note from Aunt Sally

In the following words I will try to tell you the story of the time our grandchildren spent with Alex over three days in Corvallis.  It was actually three years ago during the week  of July 24th, which is Cole’s birthday.  He would be turning 10 during our visit at Camp Pat.
Pat and I had returned from a few foggy days at the beach with the kids and were happy to see the sunshine and…squeels of delight when they saw Alex.  Alex had them promptly put on an old t-shirt and grubby shoes…they were going down to the river to explore!  We did not see them for several hours so Pat and I walked down to the bridge to a happy group discovering bugs, water skeeters, fire flies and making floaters down the river….they were wet and happy!
On the return up the hill we heard some discussion about Alex giving Cole a Mohawk haircut!…..his hair was long for a 9 year old.  They were all excited and good to go but I was hesitant(being granma in charge and needing to bring the kids home in one piece and looking the same!)  After much pleading I said “Yes” and out came the clippers and electric razor!  I figured we could shave his head if it was too bad…..We have a video of the process and it is hilarious…I will send it so you can enjoy the wonderful right of passage Cole experienced with Alex into teenaging. There was much hooting and excitement as Alex carefully and artistically gave Cole the haircut of his life!  I will never forget it!  Thank you Alex for your spirit of adventure that infected us all that day.
But, Alex was not finished with his blessings to us…it was time to decorate the cake for Cole’s 10th birthday.   Alex had a plan: he brought a few beautiful leaves and small branches from the garden to put on top of the cake and he finished  it all off with a little chinese paper parasol.  I t was exsquisite,(sp) creative, one of a kind ,fun and whimsical all at the same time…a real delight and wonderful celebration Alex presented to Cole.  It was received and enjoyed by all.
I am honored with knowing Alex as I remember those special moments of seeing how he lived a full authentic life, true to himself.
Whenever I see a Chinese paper parasol today I think of Alex and those magical moments he spent with Cole, Katherine and Hayden and the many gifts he continues to give and I am grateful.
-Sally Marston
Notes to Alex

From Beth Nolan, August 10th, 2014

Hello, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Beth. Alex and I were partners for 2 ½ years starting in the fall of 2011. Our relationship was full of kindness, compassion, acceptance, adventures, nature and love. Alex taught me to give generously, love deeply, live simply and to be present.

Our days together were filled with hikes, runs and rides in beautiful places, trips to the coast with friends to run naked on the beach and swim in the ocean. Home cooked meals (which usually consisted of veggies, nutritional yeast/hippie dust, dates, and always lot of cinnamon). Alex filled my life and our home with magic- loves notes and poems and little surprises of crystals, precious stones, marbles and feathers he’d find during his adventures on the trail.

I am so sad that he is gone. But, I also feel such gratitude for him, his life and our time together.


Alex had a way of looking at the natural world that was almost unwordly. Where I would look up and see a beautiful forest, hear leaves blowing in the wind, smell the air, and watch the animals and birds doing their thing. Alex would see the depth of the forest and it’s connection to the animals. He could see, not just the sunlight through the trees, but each ray of sunlight and the energy each ray held. He understood, on a spiritual and almost cellular level, the connection each plant and animal had to one another and how THEY and WE are connected to the rivers, oceans, wind and sun. It blew my mind and heart wide open and was one of the things I admired the most in him. It’s also the piece of him that I will strive to embody for the rest of my life.



Alex’s favorite day of the week was Friday. There are several reasons for this. First and foremost, Friday was ALOHA Friday. According to Alex this is the day the Hawaiians emphasize being casual, playing outside and enjoying family and friends.

Alex’s Aloha Friday’s usually started with a long run up the mountain or ride in the orchards. Followed by Bike Club with the students from school. Alex would text me photos of the kids at the donut shop, ice cream shop, coffee shop and coop- their reward for a good ride. I was under the impression that the school had a policy against refined sugars and caffeine. One time I asked Alex if he was supposed to be letting them eat all that sugar and coffee. He shrugged and said, “It’s, fine, the kids know to moderate themselves”. Maybe that was true, but I also knew that Alex was never one to follow rules.

Afterwards, he might ride his bike around town, running errands or go home and relax on the floor. According to Alex, 10 minutes of lying on the floor, eyes closed, taking a break from any motion or busy work, allowing his body to be supported by the ground and earth was just as good as an hour of meditation.

Later that evening, he would teach the silent yoga class at the studio- his favorite yoga class to teach each week. Home for dinner and his Aloha Friday was complete. He had filled it exactly the way he wanted- with solitude in nature, connection with other, relaxation, cooking and yoga. All of the things that fed his spirit and made him happy. I don’t know how many people can say that about their day, but he always could.


Prior to Alex and I dating, he was my yoga teacher. All his yoga students can attest to the fact that Alex wasn’t your typical Bikram teacher. Most of the time, he would spend the 105 degree, 90-minutes class telling stories in between poses. The stories could be anything- from how he got pulled over by the Ashland motorcycle cop on his bike and given a $280 ticket for coasting through a stop sign, to educating us about the largest nut in the world which happens to be the coco de mer (aka- “the love nut”), or Turkish bath houses, or telling us one of his latest jokes- which got chuckles from a few, but confused looks from most.

The stories he shared, as outlandish as they were sometimes, always held a lesson about life and yoga. One such lesion he shared in class years ago, made a lasting impression on me and I have reflected on it many times in the last 3 weeks. Alex told our class, “The only way out is through”. When we enter the hot yoga room, we are committed to being there for the entire 90 minutes. And during those 90 minutes, uncomfortable things will come up, whether it be physical, mental or emotional. But we’re committed to staying in that hot, sweaty room, accepting what presents itself, honoring it and moving through it. “Life is the same way”, he said. You can’t crawl under it, jump over it or run around it. You also can’t avoid it and hope it floats on by. You breath and move through it- experience the pain, the discomfort, the vulnerability. And, at the end of those 90 minutes, or the painful life experience, you receive your reward. In yoga, the reward is a detoxified body, a calm mind, a nourished spirit. In life, the reward is growth, strength, understanding and a deeper appreciation for this one wild precious life.

“The only way out is through”. Whether Alex knew it or not, his presence, the sacredness and security he created in that hot, sweaty room and his beautiful, quirky stories, metaphors and analogies helped carry people through some of the toughest times in their lives, myself included. By reflecting on his life and the lessons he shared, we will continue to learn from him in his death.


Thank you all for loving Alex and continuing to hold his spirit in your heart. If he could speak to us today, I believe he would say “ALOHA”, which he always reminded me meant- hello, goodbye, and (most importantly) I love you.

Notes to Alex

A Note from Jane Acker

My name is Jane Acker, and for nine years, we lived just through the meadow and up the hill, and although we didn’t get to know Pat, Buzz, McHale, Alex, and Adam until the last few years of our time in Corvallis, once the connection was made, we sure made up for lost time.

Our family moved away from Corvallis in 1995, and although we’ve maintained a close friendship in the intervening years, the period when I knew Alex best was thus his middle school years. Alex was unlike many boys in that 12-14 age group in some significant ways. At a time when it’s pretty common for noses to be the wrong size for faces, and for arms, legs and feet to lead uncoordinated lives of their own, Alex was both strikingly handsome and possessed of natural athletic grace, qualities that shone throughout his life.

And in the past several weeks, I have been reflecting on more profound aspects of Alex that were evident in his young adolescence but revealed their significance far more fully in his adulthood. Like most of you, I have been rereading some of Alex’ blog posts and other writings, and one that Pat brought to my attention, from the Dolomitesport blog in 2009, captured some powerful themes for me. Alex’ contribution to the blog describes vividly and very personally his rides over some of the most challenging passes in the Dolomites, and in his introduction, the blog’s editor comments insightfully on Alex’ remarkable strength and incredible attitude.

And that brings me back to Alex’ 8th grade year. I will summarize one aspect of it that, in retrospect, is powerfully evocative: Alex, wearing shorts, and our daughter Katherine, rode their bicycles to school every day for all of 8th grade. I’d like to take a few minutes to deconstruct this statement for you.

First: “Wearing shorts.” For whatever reason, Alex had decided that his emerging identity required abandonment of long pants, and he persisted in this commitment through cold, rain, snow, and ice. Frankly, on many occasions, it seemed ridiculous, but he was indifferent to appearances, the opinions of others, or indeed, to common sense. There is a fine line between teenage irrational stubbornness and mature courageous adherence to conviction, and Alex as an adult knew where that line was. He was truly intentional in his thoughts, words, and actions, with a passion that animated every hour of every day. Although tolerant of the beliefs of others, he was unafraid to hold tight to what he knew was right for him.

Secondly: “With our daughter Katherine.” When we first got to know Pat and Buzz, I asked Katherine, who was in Alex’ grade at school, if she knew him. “He’s in my band class, one of the percussionists, SO annoying!” I guess Alex had noticed the impact loud and unexpected noises could have on classmates and took full advantage. Nonetheless, they became good friends, and when Alex came up with this bike riding project, Katherine signed on. I will note that Katherine was not at that time an eager riser. Morning was a tough time of day for her, especially as she was still too young to drink coffee.

Yet for that entire year, she was up and out extra early on her bike, knowing that Alex was waiting at the end of Jackson Creek Drive for their ride. His vision of this undertaking, his commitment to the project, and his belief in both the satisfaction and the fun of the ride, got her going, and indeed, they even recruited a third friend to meet them for the last leg of the trip. Even as a boy, Alex was truly a charismatic person, and he continued through adulthood to inspire others through his teaching and the extraordinary example he set in so many ways.

Finally: “rode his bicycle to school.” Unless you came by helicopter this morning, you will have noticed a very significant hill that lies between here and the flatter ground to the south and east that leads to Cheldelin Middle School, and that’s the route they took every single morning. It’s not the Dolomiti, but the strength and determination that Alex brought to the Italian mountains were evident all those years ago.

Most of us, cyclists or not, are willing to put up with the challenge of going uphill for the sake of what you see at the top or how easy and pleasant it is to go down. Certainly Alex appreciated broad views and the effortless speed of the descent. Yet Alex also embraced the ascent. The pain and difficulty of going up were precious to him. He did not limit his joy in life to the parts that were easy or even happy, but extended his full acceptance to all that was hard, finding there the possibility of growth and increased understanding and self-awareness.

With legs burning, sweating, gasping for breath, Alex scaled the heights and reached the loftiest of peaks. He sought challenge and did not shy away from what was daunting or even frightening. So now, facing the truly awful challenge of life without Alex, it is time to summon our courage and endurance and emulate him to the best of our abilities. Even as a middle school student, Alex was ready to confront the rigors of going up. Inspired by his example, perhaps all of us he left behind can do likewise.

Notes to Alex

A note from Alex’s colleague Debbie Murphy

I apologize for not sending this sooner. Perhaps it will help to expand just a little more, the picture of who Alex was to so many people.

An introduction:  I worked with Alex at The Siskiyou School for a few years before I retired a year ago.  I no longer live in Ashland, so it has taken awhile for the news of his passing to reach me.  I am deeply saddened by his loss and wish to extend my heartfelt condolences to his family, of whom he always spoke so fondly.

My sixth grade class was one of the first that Alex taught when he came to our school.  They were a challenging bunch of rowdy 12 year olds, but he was a miracle worker with them.  Because of the Waldorf system, 6th grade was the first year that my class had ever experienced a new teacher for math.  Every day was a dance as the new teacher (Alex) and the students (25 of them!) got to know each other.  I was coming to the end of my career and he was just starting his.  I relished watching him teach because he brought fresh ideas and energy.  I enjoyed my role as a mentor and observer, but Alex really didn’t need much advice.  He had great intuition about how to reach the kids.

I usually was in the classroom working on lesson plans and correcting papers while Alex taught.  One day, I heard a loud slap against the blackboard and a collective gasp from the class.  I quickly looked up to see what Mr. N-B was up to!  He had just attached a $100 bill to the board with a magnet.  He told them that he was willing to put his cash on the line. If every student got an A on the math test the next day, he would donate the money to our 8th grade trip fund.  What a buzz!  A couple of thoughts were racing in my head:  he was just a young guy working 2 or 3 jobs to make ends meet – how could he afford to do this?  (sort of the mother in me I guess)  And would the students understand the message?  Well, I didn’t interfere with his plan.  So…everyone vowed to study hard and get an A the following day.  I checked in with him before the test to see what he thought would happen.  He was pretty sure his money was safe, but he was honestly willing to give up the money if need be.  As the students settled in, hard at work on the test, both Alex and I slowly walked through the classroom checking over shoulders to see what was happening.  Within minutes I caught his eye and said, “Your money is safe Mr. N-B.”  Sure enough, the usual suspects hadn’t really put too much effort into their studies and they didn’t get As.  It was a bit of a gamble for him, but it definitely caught the attention of every student.  They came to realize that he had real faith in their ability to do well.  His approach was inventive for sure!

Another time, the students were having a really hard time understanding about adding and subtracting unlike fractions.  The concept of converting the fractions so the denominators would be the same just wasn’t getting through.  Alex noticed two girls who were dressed practically identical from the waist down, but had different shirts.  He brought them up to represent two different fractions (9/8 and 3/8 for example).  Everyone had to draw the two girls into their books.  He showed the class that these fractions could be worked with because the denominators were the same and allowed them to just work with the numerators. From that point on, he just had to mention the Emily/Tori fraction and everyone got it!  In fact, at their 8th grade graduation, the class honored each of their many teachers by repeating phrases that had stuck in their minds as a result of their constant repetition.  The phrase they attributed to Mr. N-B was “and the denominator stays…THE SAME!”

I gather that you have heard many memories of Alex over the past few weeks.  He was such an amazing young man – a real gift to humanity.  He was inspiring and caring.  Thank you for bringing him into the world to share with the rest of us.  He is truly missed.

Blessings on your family,

Debbie Murphy


Notes to Alex

The Messenger by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird
Equal seekers of sweetness
Here the quickening yeast, there the blue plums
Here the clam, deep in the speckled sand
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half perfect?
Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work,
Which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium. The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here, 
Which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
And these body clothes, a mouth with which to give shouts of joy to the moth, 
And the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam, telling them all, over and over,
How it is that we live forever
Notes to Alex

A Note from Carl Niedner

I have many stories about Alex, but I will share one.   I once made the mistake of telling him about the railroad trestle I had found trail running in Ashland.   That, in itself, wasn’t the mistake.   The mistake came later.   Of course, as soon as I mentioned the trestle, I knew we were going there.   The thing is 200’ high in the center span, if it’s an inch.   They give you open steel grids to walk on, or the railroad cross-ties, with six-inch gaps.   The steel grids bounce and flex when you walk on them, and some of them are not completely tied down, and, if a train comes – which has never happened in the dozen or so times I’ve run across the thing, but is bound to happen eventually – then God help you.   So as soon as the word “trestle” left my mouth in Alex’s presence, I knew we were going there.   Word, deed, fait accompli.

The next morning, we decide on a hike rather than a run, and leave the car where the tracks pass near the road.   We hike in for an hour or so, and came to a tunnel.   This is a small tunnel, maybe 150 yards, and you can see light at the other end.   Immediately afterward is the steep shortcut trail that cuts off another two miles of track with a switchback and a Really Long, Dark, Curved Tunnel.   I start up the shortcut, and Alex asks where we were going.

Now comes the actual mistake.  Terminally honest, I explain about the shortcut, with a sinking feeling, instead of just lying and saying, “this is the way to get to the trestle.”

After a few minutes of friendly debate, we agree to go look at the mouth of the other tunnel, but there will be no coercion, and we’ll turn around and come back after we’ve looked.   As soon as he sees the mouth of the tunnel, Alex says what any of us could have predicted: “Oh, we have to walk through that.”

“Are you crazy?   We’re not walking through that.”   (Colorful, emphatic idioms omitted).     Try to visualize this: we are at the mouth of a tunnel built on a curve in the tracks.   It is, as a friend used to say, darker than a cat’s ass at midnight on a cloudy new moon in January.   Google Earth tells me that the tunnel is three quarters of a mile long, and curves 45 degrees in that distance.   And Alex wants to walk through it. “We’re here,” he says, “how could we not walk through it?”

“Very simply,” I replied, “we can turn our reasonable, rational asses around, walk ¾ of a mile back to the cutoff, and then hike out to the trestle.”

We continue in this vein for a few minutes and then I find myself in a very strange situation. I am old enough to be his father, for God’s sake, but Alex’s enormous personality somehow makes me the timid younger brother who would do anything for the big brother’s approval.   Of course we walk into the tunnel.   Of course, we have no light source.   Of course, within 200 feet, we can’t see anything: rails, ties, walls, each other, our hands in front of our faces and, least of all, any light from the other end of the tunnel.

It takes forever.   We check in periodically.   We figure out that if we each walk just inside one of the rails, we can probe the rail with our toes and figure out where to put our feet.   The experience of absolutely no discernible light at all is very, very strange.   I experience terror, both rational and atavistic. The rational terror is this: I have spent perhaps 30 or 40 hours running on these tracks, and never yet encountered a train, but given the idiotic thing we are doing, one is practically guaranteed to appear. And then?   I can think of a few choices.   One, lie down in the gravel, hands over head, and hope the train isn’t dragging anything. Two, stand in one of the pockets between two of the ten- or twelve-inch ribs in the walls, press my face into the wall, and try not to fall backward in the roar and the shaking and the gut-loosening terror.   Even thinking about Option Two makes my guts feel funny.   Option Three is to jump in front of the train and abbreviate the terror.

I don’t share this with Alex.   We trudge, trip, trudge and strain our eyes.   For a while, I walk with my hands straight in front of me, irrationally scared that I’ll walk into something that will poke my eyes out.   We don’t talk much.

At one point, I trip and almost go down. We stop periodically, thinking we’ve heard something.   Our eyes play tricks; one of us says, “stop!” and we both strain our eyes to see the light that one of us thinks he’s seen.   No light.

And then, finally, maybe there is a little light. Both of us think so.   Another few minutes, and we’re sure of it.   Not the end of the tunnel, but the faint outlines of the rails, a couple of hundred yards ahead of us.   We test by waving our hands in front of us: sure enough, the rails go away when our hands are roughly in the right position. We still have to walk slowly, because we can’t see feet, track or anything near us.

When we emerge a few minutes later, it doesn’t take me long.   “You bastard.   You’re totally impervious to fear, but I was more scared for the last half hour than I’ve been in twenty years.   I was sure the train was going to come and we were going to spend forever pressed up against the wall of that damn tunnel, crying for mama and pooping our pants.”

He replies, “Are you kidding?   I was petrified.   About ten minutes in, I could have sworn I heard a guy walking behind us and breathing.   I could hear your breathing, and my breathing, and then this third dude, in a completely different rhythm. I was sure we were about to get knifed in the back for most of the walk.”   That was the first I’d heard of it, of course.

Then he says this: “What a great adventure! Utter darkness and absolute terror!   Doesn’t it make you feel alive?”

Half an hour later, as we are staring down at the tops of the firs far below, he exclaims, “Wow! Isn’t this open space awesome?   We need to come back with a long rope and rappel off of this thing!”

Later, when the tracks come out of the woods near a freeway exit, he realizes where we are, and explains that we can take a shortcut to the car.   It does involve a bit of a mud glissade down steep hillside, and then running across I5. Oh, and scrambling over the concrete barrier in the narrow median.   As I wait on the other side of the barrier for a couple of trucks to roar down the grade in the far lane, I can tell, at the edge of my vision, that Alex, already across, is up to something.   As I sprint, I realize what it is and yell, “you bastard, don’t you dare!” as he clicks the shutter on his iPhone.   When I’m across, he shows off his picture of me in full sprint, raincoat flapping, with the back end of a truck just downhill.   “OK,” I said, “I won’t make you delete that picture… but Jeannie must never see it.”   He vows discretion.

That evening, after we had recounted our adventures and Jeannie had – of course – seen the picture, we fell to discussing that particular part of the highway.   He noted that he’d often ridden down it on his bicycle, as a shortcut back into town when he was doing repeat training on the brutal uphill to Mount Ashland.   That way, he explained, he could spend more time going uphill and enjoy a briefer, but more intense experience of going downhill.

“How fast do you think you go?” we asked.

“Probably forty-five or fifty.   But actually, that’s nothing.   Last month, I figured out that if I timed it exactly right, I could wait at the top of the on-ramp, and as soon as I saw a semi crest the hill, I could pedal as hard as I could, and hit the bottom of the ramp at exactly the right time to come up behind and draft behind the trailer.   If I’m about 30 feet behind the trailer, it just pulls me along as it gathers speed.   Half a mile down, we’re going seventy, easy.”

On a bicycle.   On a six-mile downgrade.   At seventy miles an hour.   If you mess up even a tiny bit, we inquired, aren’t you going to die pretty quickly?   “Oh, of course,” he replied.   “One time, I passed what I think was a bottle cap.   I realized if I had hit that, it would all have been over.   When you’re going that fast, you don’t even shift your weight like in normal riding; all you do is think, as gently as you can, about how you want the bike to move, and it does.   Everything quiets down and you get very focused.   You notice every breath, and you feel tremendously alive.”

The hard truth is that people who live like this – in the brilliant life that exists just a whisker from death – sometimes don’t live as long as we wish they could.   But thank God that they live!

Many of us need demigods, saints, to mediate for us in the life of the spirit.   The Divine Mystery is too abstract, and often too scary, for most of us to grok, most of the time.   Saints let us approach It in human terms.

So, let those of us who wish now canonize Alex in the cathedrals of our hearts.   Let him be our patron of open-eyed, stone-cold-sober, sacred madness.   Let him be our avatar of the unlimited friendliness in the diamond-clear Life that exists only in the immediate consciousness of death.   Let him remind us to invite a friend for dinner instead of working late; let him counsel us to do that utterly irrational, absolutely essential thing; let us follow his example and push ourselves until our eyes bleed, just because it’s fun.

I won’t ever be Alex, and it’s not my job. The race that he ran in 4:20 took me 6:18; he finished with a smile, and I couldn’t stand up.   I can mentor one young person at a time, and that from an arm’s length.   But I can bring a bit of him into my life.

At his memorial, I did maybe ten percent of what Alex would have done for me.   I packed four rocks from the Old Siskiyou Barn – a sacred and beautiful place near where Alex lived – to the memorial.   They’re a peculiar, glacier-smoothed stone that looks good enough to eat, and that Alex dearly loved.   Three of them bore the letters “L,” “O” and “V.”   The fourth is waiting to be inscribed with “E”, to replace one lost in a winter mudslide.

Then, as Alex might have done, I took them for a trail run.     Of course, I went 6 miles and 1200 vertical feet. Alex would have gone 60 and 30,000.

It was hot, and I was slow.

I stopped to take pictures.


Here, the rocks and I pause to honor Sam Holmes, who was playing “Wild Horses” on the second-to-last switchback of Horse Trail the year I ran the Mac 50.   Then, when his daughter showed up, he strapped his guitar on his back and ran the last eight miles in with her.   Pretty Alexian, in my opinion.


We made the top of Dimple Hill; this is the view that made me know I wanted to move to Corvallis, back in 2000.


But the biggest lesson from Alex is that adventures are just punctuation between times with the bodhisattvas with whom we learn, laugh and love.


Notes to Alex Photos

A Poem, written by a friend.

ENTOMBED  (8-21-14)

In a box, full of sand
They carry me
and talk to me
Ceremony and vacations
Holiday dinners and friendship reunions.
But it’s not me
Its a box
full of sand
I am eternal
Grace and wisdom
Sunshine of the summer day
And the crisp cold air of January
The turning leaves of September
The blossoming flowers of spring
I am the Earth
and the stars
I am the wind the water and the mountain
I am the first light of dawn
and the last orange hue of the setting sun
I am bow pose
and savasana
I rest
And I am Alive!

Notes to Alex