All he had to do was recognize and celebrate the pain and the mystery of life, the mystery of being not what one seemed, and not one thing only, but being, being nonetheless. And what he was meant to be was an artist, and what he was meant to do was to sing, and to move in the spaces surrounding the definite, between the sacred and the profane, the body and the spirit, the silent and the spoken, the living and the dead. That was his gift. That was what he could give to others. The practice of this art was the transmutation of love.
