Pulling the several pages out, Bette noticed a small sheet of paper from a tablet paperclipped to the stack.  *Dear Bette, I brought you some pages.  Sometimes the most passionate literature comes from an unexpected source.  This was written by a man who would soon be our third president, Thomas Jefferson.  When he wrote this, he was a widower who had promised his wife on her deathbed that he’d never remarry.  So, he spent years on his intellectual pursuits, being an avid reader, writing endless articles, philosophies, and thought, interpreting art, and analyzing architecture–caught up in study.  Like someone else we know, huh?  But guess what happened to Jefferson?  No, he didn’t marry again.  He fell in love—with a married woman, no less.  They met in France when he lived there.  Mrs. Cosway loved him, too.  Ole T.J. was smack-dab in the middle of a dilemma.  Should he ignore his promise to his wife?  Should he pursue a woman who belonged to another?  Should he go against all he knew, what he believed was right and moral or should he listen to his heart?

Please read it.  You might discover that you’re not alone when it comes to issues of the heart and head.*

Bette turned the tablet back and saw that Gail had photocopied the title page from the book that the text appeared as well as the copyright page.  She laughed that her friend was always a researcher first, always able to verify her sources.  She turned those two pages over as well, leaned back against the cool wall and began to read:

THE HEAD AND HEART LETTER

written by Thomas Jefferson

October 12 and 13, 1786

The letter started out with Jefferson sitting by a warm fire in his home away from home in Paris.  He had just spent days with Maria Cosway, a married artist and he couldn’t get his mind off of her.  His head told him one thing, his heart spoke other words. 

Bette lifted her legs and curled them onto the bench as she read Jefferson’s lament and delight:

*Head: Thou art the most incorrigible of all the beings that ever sinned! I reminded you of the follies of the first day, intending to deduce from thence some useful lessons for you; but instead of listening to them, you kindle at the recollection, you retrace the whole series with a fondness, which shows you want nothing, but the opportunity, to act it over again. I often told you, during its course, that you were imprudently engaging your affections, under circumstances that must have cost you a great deal of pain.*