I married Jamie Faunt, bass player extraordinaire, in 1982; we divorced in 1984; in our time together he introduced me to Scientology, where (I’ve often thought) I squandered too many years of my life. In spite of being out touch for almost a quarter of a century (!), news of his death, which arrived yesterday—a heart attack—rocks me. One marries believing in the happiness to be found in and with another, and in spite of ferocious and understandable disapproval from those who loved me most, I plowed forward with a marriage that was in almost every way a vast mistake. But that does not lessen the power held in that early faith-in-love, and the loss attached to the sudden news of his death is acute. And so it is that early this morning I climbed on a plane to Los Angeles, to join those who’ll celebrate his life at a Sunday memorial. It’s something I would not have done a decade ago—not only because I’d not yet arrived at the glooming peace I’ve finally (mostly) found regarding years I’ve been tempted to think of as lost, but because the older one gets the more important it is to close these circles, and the more vital it seems to seize such opportunities when they present themselves. Friends I’ve not laid eyes on in decades (because when one leaves said Church, one is a good old-fashioned apostate), hearing I’m coming, have arranged pick-up and lodging and gatherings. Other friends, like me long-gone from Scientology, have also decided to attend. Awkward though it will sometimes be, we will stand together, our various faiths hovering around us, in order to honor the life of someone we all loved. And then I will catch a midnight flight, arriving back in Lancaster just in time to teach Myth and Fairy Tale.