One of my quasi-Facebook friends posted a video update of Organic Farmer, now settled into his new quarters on the other side of the country.  In general, I find these videos disturbing, mostly because I think posting them is somewhat odd; however, they’re also highly compelling: I can’t help but watch.  I worry about Organic Farmer from afar and wonder how he’s doing; I continue to hope for that miraculous full recovery.

While he hasn’t hit the full recovery point, the video did reveal a small miracle: he’s playing the piano again.

Seeing his fingers moving on the keyboard – and the delighted expression on his face – brought tears to my eyes.  Here is someone whose love for music is so strong that it survived a near-death experience, an extended coma, serious brain damage and a severely compromised body.  Even though Organic Farmer is still relearning the basics – how to walk, how to dress, how to move his fingers and toes, how to swallow – he is compelled to create music that reaches beyond his limitations.

I miss Organic Farmer all the time; I especially miss our long, thought-provoking discussions and the intimacy we once shared.  He understood my darker and messier sides in a way few have, intuitively, kindly and without judgment.  We’d talk late into the night about music, about love, about relationships, about our separate, yet similar, complexities.  Had we stayed on this course, romance might have followed once I left behind the vestiges of my failed affair; this was something he wanted badly, though he never pushed.  But before my heart was mended and whole, fate took away the man I knew and left behind someone who no longer knows me.

Although I no longer have him in my life, and he no longer needs me in his, I still feel that bond.  Knowing that music lives so strongly in him gives me great optimism and faith that the rest of his gallant spirit will come roaring back one day.  I hope so, I pray so.  Somehow, somewhere deep in my bones, I know so.