A Letter to Mary Helen on Hearing of Her Passing
Mary Helen, where are you?
I just opened that Ziploc bag which you had given me for my travel in August 2000.
I held it in my hands and I thought of you and I called for you. Just as I have called for you so often during these last years. You are now more present than ever before, you are now, in these last days after Richard (Narad) told us, you are now more present. We talk of you, we remember you, and we feel you presence so often during these last days. This has changed since Richard told us. Or since when has it changed? It is not that we did not think of you and of Richard during these last years. We did, in friendship and with love. And, whenever I found myself praying, I would always pray for you, I would always include you. And, strangely, I would always feel strengthened, I would feel your presence, your quiet, sure, knowing, smiling presence. Yes, I have always felt your strength. You would not talk, you would not participate in meaningless banter, you would sit there in silence, every now and then adding a loving smile or, wisecrack. I always felt your superiority. You had seen it all. You had traveled further, you had seen further, you knew more. But you kept that to yourself. Rarely would you speak of yourself, never of that what really mattered. Not to me. But for that I admired you even more, it drew me even closer to you.
I could go on endlessly with this drivel, but, I am feeling your eyes on me and I shut up.
But still I want to come closer to you.
So let me remember when we were together, when we met for the first time and what happened afterwards.
We met on that big beautiful ocean liner, the Norway. That was in the fall of 1996, Miami-New York-Southampton. We found ourselves seated at a fascinating table of six. Us, of course, and then two elderly French priests who has seen a lot and who were quite cheerful about that. And a quiet looking couple. But very soon, meditation, India, Pondicherry and Auroville came up. Very soon indeed. And soon it was clear that that was your spiritual home. Very carefully the four of us approached it. I don't remember the French priests. We felt like on a river, an invisible flow of energy took us along, I remember that beautiful feeling, the light, the warmth, and the adventure. We all knew what we were talking about, we all appreciated the vastness of the topic, that the other was speaking out of her field of light and flowers and beautiful experiences and expectations, but only a few key words would be said, each one saw a whole picture, each a different picture, but we felt drawn together. There was so much to talk during that voyage. You two were anxious to get back to America; somehow this voyage had not been on your program but you accepted it with pleasure. We were to visit Hilary's mother, a short taxi rise away in Southbourne. We enjoyed life on board, tuxedo, dancing, all the pomposity, Richard playing basketball looking splendid in his blue track suit, we admiring him from our deck chairs like proud parents.
Then I was lucky: in March 1997 we met again, this time in Auroville. Should I mention how you invited me for dinner to your cottage on the beach? When the light went out we sat in the dark and couldn't find anything. We enjoyed that and it drew us together more. This was just a meeting between good friends, no more. Far more important and so very impressive was the next time we met: under that ancient large tree next to the Matrimandir. Narad pointed out how many years ago, when all this had started, there was nothing between this tree and the Gulf of Bengal. Now, with all that reforestation, there is even rain falling. God blessing our exhausted earth.
Next May, you had business in South Florida and you stayed in our house. I remember Narad sitting under the sea grape meditating, I remember that delicious Cous Cous Hilary cooked and we all enjoyed with floods of red wine. A different picture: no more esoteric conversation and silence, on board ship, no more that magic meeting in India just two friendly couples visiting each other. But we were that too and we enjoyed being that and doing it.
In May 99 I was yet on another search. And it was a very strange feeling, to hike down from the Appalachian trail, down from that infamous Blood Mountain, pick up a public telephone on the roadside and you two came to pick me up to take me to your house. I remember that I was expecting to be overjoyed to be with you and all the luxury of your house after sleeping in the open. But, when I saw you Mary Helen, sitting in that Jeep, that was the greater joy I felt. I had known about your cancer. I had hesitated before I called to pick me up, to have me as your guest. But there you were, cool and composed as ever. I think you said something about your appearance or about your hair, and I found it difficult to take notice of that. It did not matter. You looked good to me and your sisterly composed-ness flowed out to me as ever. We went hiking, you wanted to show me how beautiful that land around you. You admired my walking stick and my battered thrift shop stray hat. I admired your energy, me having a hard time following you up and down the creek. We threw pebbles in the river.
A year later I visited you again. I wanted to see how you were doing and I needed a rest from a long drive. Time enough to see how intensely happy you were together. You received me warmheartedly and with little fuss. The easy hospitality of world travelers. But you were so close to each other, so beautifully intimate, that I could not but leave you to it. That sunny afternoon in August 2000 when you pressed that Zip-lock bag in my hands. Your fruits and nuts I ate on the long drive back to Miami, but I kept that bag. And, I held it in my hands this morning, and I made tea from it. And I thought of you, Mary Helen and it allowed me to say thank you to you. Yes, thank you, thank you for so much!