Howie and I were friends and classmates at Naropa. I came to Naropa in response to my brother's suicide. I felt safe and comforted with Howie right away. He was warm, gentle and playful. Usually our class was together in groups and large lectures. A few times Howie and I had time on our own. One bright, hot day, Howie and I silently climbed up Boulder Creek over big rocks and slippery gravel. He gallantly held out his hand to me at all the hard places. I was at peace as the insects buzzed and whirred and the water plashed and sparkled. On the drive back to town we were sleepy and dazed from the sun. Ironically, this perfect day ended up with a blistering case of poison oak., but I still look back fondly on that day. The last time I saw Howie was in San Francisco. We walked to dinner in the Castro. I rested in the feelings of belonging and celebration, the tinkling, clinking sound of glass and china, and the reflections of candles in the dark windows. We laughed a lot that night. The poet John Keats wrote of "moments big as years." These brief times with Howie have comforted and encouraged me over the years. Howie had a gift for affirming people. I miss his kindness, chivalry and humor.