There are souls who do not walk the well-paved roads of life. Wandering the edges, searching for something the rest of us cannot name. Mike was one of those souls.
Born under a late August sky, he often looked to the stars for meaning. The moon and planets were his compass, and he trusted their constant cycles more than the fickle glitter and glory of the masses. In his youth, he crossed continents with little more than a backpack and a sense of curiosity. He was humbled by the raw beauty of nature and the teachings of those who spoke beyond words. The gentle hum of the forest, the rhythmic pull of the Pacific, and the Oldies blaring from a car radio along the open highway.
Relationships with him were often difficult, and many of us were left with distances we could not bridge. And yet there were moments of joy. Memories of when his sharp laughter broke through, his mischievous grin and blue eyes twinkling with conspiratorial glee. Moments when conversations felt like being graced by something rare and wonderful.
Yet the gift of feeling deeply comes with a cost. The same vulnerability that made him spiritual also left him exposed to loneliness, depression, and the solace of the bottle. Over time, the world’s noise became unbearable, and solitude became both his sanctuary and his prison. A hermit in a modern age, living by his own terms until the very end. Perhaps The Beach Boys said it best: “I guess I just wasn’t made for these times.”
May he find what he was always seeking. May the stars guide him home.
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