It’s 10:10 pm as I begin to write this. It was a busy day, my usual responsibilities dragging me away from the page, the words, the work I prefer.
The day was as I expected – heavy.
Today marks three years since the passing of Anthony Bourdain, who I (like so many) considered a personal hero. The day still reverberates from the quaking of so many diaphragms, bodies physically rejecting the shocking and painful news that a man of such an enviable life had decided he’d had enough.
Anthony was a rebel chef, a silver-tongued bad boy with a checkered past that spent years living on the fringe before slowing down long enough to show the rest of us what an amazing world we inhabit and just how little there is that separates us all. A recovering addict, a father, and a true citizen of the world.
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here. Perhaps I just wanted to say something to mark the day. Maybe that’s enough? The idea that a person I never met had such a profound impact on me by doing nothing more than sharing their spirit in the name of bringing us closer together.
Thank you, Tony, wherever you are.