Michael Was Different

Michael was different. But not different the way others are different. He didn’t look different, not really, though there were things that were different about his looks. But they weren’t the things that made him different. He just had a different way about him. Even the things about him that were the same as others were different overall, if you catch what I mean there.

To some, he was refreshingly different, the kind of difference that makes you stop and take notice. He wasn’t hurried or full of himself. He was different. A conversation with him could be light and airy, like after a spring rain. Or it could be a journey, exploring a deep cave where the imagination goes to take a break from too much reality.

He was different in different ways to different people, and that is not something one saw when they were with him. He was consistently himself, even though the himself one saw was different.

Sitting with Michael was akin to inviting peace to the table. With each pause, each silent reflection, one could feel the thoughts rise to the surface, and one would wait, letting them breathe like wine in a decanter. He could converse on any topic, his opinions always grounded in deep thought, sometimes devoid of emotion. Other times, one would sense a release of tension, as though something inside broke loose and escaped without notice. He was different that way.

Even his passing was different.

He sensed something was wrong, so he curled up in a ball and left.

Now, there is something different about the world. His absence has made a difference, as did his life. The thoughts and memories linger. People come and spread them like ashes on the sea, breathing life into them before setting them on their way.

Their stories are different, too. Each has a Michael they hold dear, and that Michael is different from all the other Michaels. How could one person be so simply complex? It is not that he wore masks, because he didn’t. He was Michael, through and through, different, yes, but the same person for all. They simply saw a different part of him, as though he lived his life through a prism of joy and sorrow, freedom and chains, wisdom and curiosity.

Michael was different.

Each of us holds a different image and memory of a man whose entire life was devoted to discovery and finding his place in the world he loved to explore and understand.

We should all be so eager to be different like him.

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