Helen started learning to play the flute when she was about ten years old. She told me it took her a full month of daily trying before she could even get a sound out of it! Persistence was definitely one of her many great qualities. If she started on something and found that it was right for her, she was willing and able to give herself fully to it — obstacles or not. This was true in so many areas of her life, but perhaps it was most evident in her flute playing.
She grew up playing classical music exclusively, (her mother was an excellent cellist) and by her late teens could sight-read most any piece of music put before her. After we met, I encouraged her to learn to play the folk songs and dance tunes I was learning, writing and performing. But I couldn't notate that music, and she couldn't play by ear, so when we first tried playing music together she'd end up crying and I'd be very confused. Little by little we learned how to work with each other; she helped me write out flute parts for the folk melodies, (and in the process started teaching me how to read and write music) and using that sheet music, she began playing concerts with my brother and me. But she was somewhat shy about performing, so it was only on relatively rare occasions that I could convince her to join us on stage.
However, playing on recordings did not require being in front of an audience. So when San and I started recording, Helen was happy to add her flute playing to our albums. Starting in the early 1980's and continuing right up to the month before she died, Helen contributed flute tracks to songs and instrumentals on more than 30 recordings.
The recording engineers at the two studios where we worked called her "One Take Helen" because most of the time she'd nail her part perfectly the first time through. (If you've ever been in a studio, you know how rare that is.) One of the projects my brother and I worked on in the 1980's was a series of 11 folk dance recordings for the High Scope Educational Research Foundation. The tunes were from all around the world, and San and I played most of the instruments that we over-dubbed to create a full band sound. I found that I could play most of the melodies, harmonies and counter-lines in the tunes, but some were virtuosically difficult — I simply did not have the "chops" to play them. These were the parts I gave Helen, and she never failed to play them well. She helped me to transcribe the parts and then she'd practice them — which was a lesson in itself. Listening to her practice I learned so much about how to break down a difficult passage into manageable parts, how to vary the tempo, rhythm and phrasing in order to get a handle on the lines, and most of all, how to be persistent until the parts began to flow.
But besides the difficult parts, I also gave Helen and her flute the loveliest, most liquid melodies, because she could literally breathe the most beautiful life into them.
(Incidentally, I learned to play the pennywhistle because I loved the sound of her flute. Until then, I'd only played string instruments, and I could not imagine myself learning to play the flute — it looked so complicated with all its keys and valves — and besides she was there to play it whenever I wanted to hear the flute on a song — but, inspired by her playing, I longed for an instrument into which I could breathe. At first she laughed at my squeaks and squawks as I started to learn the pennywhistle, because it reminded her of her early attempts on the flute. But then, as in so many other things, she encouraged me, and delighted in my playing of it.)
Her flute playing became even more precious to me six years ago when I started setting to music the poems of the ancient Sufi mystics, Rumi and Hafiz. They both use the image of the flute a great deal in their poetry; the flute becomes a symbol for human beings, through whom God breathes and plays the music of longing for union, for reunion.
Helen loved this poetry; it expressed her own deepest yearnings. And though she was still somewhat shy about playing her flute in public, she felt differently about these songs and started accompanying me at many concerts, and on all five of my Rumi / Hafiz recordings. Here are two of the poems she especially loved and played flute on.
The Reed Flute's Song
Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks
Listen to the story told by the reed,
of being separated.
Since I was cut from the reedbed,
I have made this crying sound.
Anyone apart from someone he loves
understands what I say.
Anyone, anyone pulled from a source,
longs to go back.
An Old Musician
Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky
How should those who know God
meet and part?
The way an old musician
greets her beloved flute,
and will take special care
as a great artist always does
to enhance the final note
of each song.
Two months after Helen's death, I started to feel drawn to her flute and I took it out of its case. Never having played it, at first I didn't even know how to put its three pieces together. Once I figured that out I downloaded a fingering chart from Google, and tried to play some notes. Since I remembered how long it had taken Helen to just make a sound, I did not expect too much at first.
So I was more than a little shocked by how quickly the basics of flute playing started coming to me. By the end of a week I was somewhat amazed, especially considering that I hardly played more than 15 minutes a day. Now, you could say, "You're a musician, you play a lot of instruments, you can pick things up pretty quickly." And, of course, in one sense that's true; I've played a variety of instruments for much of my life. Nevertheless, playing Helen's flute had an uncanny feeling about it — as if there was an extra energy or presence that was teaching me, and enabling me to learn much more quickly and easily than I could have on my own.
My rational mind felt very confused and even threatened whenever it caught me feeling this way. I sometimes felt like Helen's breath was still left in the flute, and her fingers still moved on its keys, and that's how the tones were being produced.
After two weeks I got freaked out by what felt like the unnatural speed with which I was learning to play the flute, and I stopped.
But after two more weeks I felt very drawn to it again, and this time, when I went back to it I started playing every day — and I've continued ever since. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a child prodigy (Is there a word for a sixty-something prodigy? Well, I'm not that either.) but I can usually make a pleasant sound, and feel a very sweet connection to it.
As I play Helen's flute, I sometimes get an eerie feeling, as if I'm outside myself and seeing myself from a few feet away. Whenever this happens, the posture in which I catch myself looks (in the mirror) and feels (in my body) exactly as I remember Helen looking when she played the flute. But it's not just the outer posture, which, of course, is somewhat the same in everyone who plays flute — the slight tilt of the head, the pursing of the lips, the upright way the arms and hands hold the flute, the movement of the fingers. No, it's something more. It's as if she is standing inside me, breathing into her flute. It's as if she is at once teaching me how to play, demonstrating it, and actually playing her flute from within me.
I've been learning some specific songs and tunes, but mostly I've been improvising, allowing melodies to form and sing their way through the flute. The notes of some of these melodies may be mine — expressing love, grief, memories, gratitude — but the flute, and the ability to breathe life into them, is Helen's. And as I've been playing her flute, there have been certain phrases, snatches of melody that have come out, that I know are not mine, that I recognize as ones Helen might have written and played. In particular, one melody started up soon after I first picked up her flute, and it kept coming back until I learned it.
Next week I am playing a benefit concert in Helen's honor (raising funds for a local organization that supports nature preservation — something that was very close to Helen's heart) and, with a lot of help from a number of other musicians who will be joining me, I will play that tune, her tune.
There are so many ways, small and large, in which human beings honor a loved one who has died. We give to charity and establish funds in their name, we plant trees, we try to carry on work that was important to them, we use their tools and think of them, and of course, most importantly, we remember them — sometimes with sadness, but more and more in celebration of their life — we get together with friends and family to look at photos and tell stories. In the case of someone like Helen, who wrote music, prose and poetry, we continue to share their creativity with others. I've done some of these things, and some others, and will continue to. But in one sense, the way I've been remembering Helen the most is by playing her flute at least for a few minutes every day.
It will always be Helen's flute. It will always be her playing it.
Helen died nine months ago today. The most common association with the words "nine months" is the time a mother carries a child inside her. In a couple of weeks it will be Mother's Day. I've been thinking a lot about this role in Helen's life.
Both Helen and I had mixed feelings about having children. And though we kept checking in with each other over the years, we always arrived at the decision not to — until a letter from our dearest friend made us reconsider once more, and this time we arrived at yes.
Helen became a mother quite late — she was almost 42 when Daniel was born. Though she did many other things in the next 20 years, and had many other significant roles, she devoted her time and creative energy the most to being a mother. And I choose the word "devoted" very consciously. Being a mother became a spiritual path and practice to her. And the goal of this path was to make unconditional love manifest fully — even, or perhaps especially, despite the very human demands of ego and judgmental mind.
Helen was an only child and had very little experience caring for, or even being with younger children as she was growing up, and even less in her early adult life. Nevertheless, I saw Helen embody the Mother energy from the moment she found out she was pregnant, and even more so, after Daniel was born. She was constantly looking for how to best nurture and care for him on every level — physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual.
One of the ways Daniel and I have been keeping her presence alive in us is by reminiscing about the things she did along these lines — but especially how she was able to listen — to really listen. Then, she'd either have a thoughtful response, or having really listened, made it possible for the person to hear themselves very clearly, and thereby be able to arrive at their own conclusion as to how to proceed.
These days, when Daniel faces a complex situation or a difficult decision, he often says, "I want to talk to Mom." Or, "If Mom were here, she'd know how to deal with this." I try to help and be a good sounding board, and I don't take it personally (most of the time!) that he longs for her guiding presence, and does not find me an adequate substitute. In fact, most of the time, I end up telling him, "I think you should talk to Mom about this." I suggest he take into his room the picture of Helen we have on our living room mantle, and talk with her. I offer to leave the house so he has total privacy in which to do this. And though he says "It's not the same," he does talk with her. I have come to see over these last months that she actually is still guiding him, from the inside. Through all those years of listening to him, she did teach him how to listen to himself, and allow himself to be guided by his own heart.
Let me tell you about the last time Helen listened to Daniel. As I mentioned in an earlier piece, Daniel has Asperger's Syndrome, a form of high-functioning autism, which makes social interactions and emotionally charged situations difficult for him. When Helen went into the hospital, five days before she died, it was very stressful for Daniel, and he was not able to come to see her. And, of course, since none of us had any idea that her illness was terminal, or that it would proceed so quickly, we assumed and fully expected that she would come home soon. So, when Daniel did not want to come to the hospital, Helen was totally understanding and said, "Don't push him." They talked briefly by phone each day, and when I'd leave the hospital each night, the last thing Helen always said was, "Hugs to Daniel."
But when I walked into her hospital room early that last morning and felt instantly that she was dying, I called my brother, San, to go wake up Daniel and be with him. A little while later I called back, and told Daniel what was happening. He started to get dizzy and faint and needed to lie down. I asked San to stay with him to make sure he was all right. Then, Helen and I had that incredible gift of a last talk in which we expressed our love for each other and asked forgiveness for anything hurtful we may have done. Helen was still completely lucid and present, and she gave me a number of instructions, including to thank her friends, and her favorite trees in our yard. Then, seeing me starting to cry, she said, "Laz don't give up." And then, "Be very sweet with Daniel."
After this she started losing consciousness. I called back Daniel, and told him that if he wanted to say anything to Helen I felt she could still hear him. (I remembered reading somewhere that, as a person is dying, hearing is the last sense to go.) Helen's eyes could no longer focus on me — they were open, fixed, looking straight up. But as soon as I put the phone to her right ear and Daniel started talking, her eyes shifted over to the right and remained there. I couldn't hear what Daniel was saying, but after a few minutes I felt he was done and I took the phone from Helen's ear. Daniel said, "Good timing, Dad, I just finished talking to Mom." (Later, San told me what Daniel had said to Helen. He told her how in the last few years, she had said to him many, many times that she loved him — but he'd never been able to say that back to her. But now, he wanted her to know — "I do love you. I always have. Goodbye, Mom. Hugs from Daniel.")
Immediately after this, the death rattle started in Helen's throat and within minutes she closed her eyes for the last time. It wasn't until later, when I heard what Daniel had said to her, that I understood that, though Helen did not need to hear what Daniel said — she knew he loved her — she knew that he need to say it. And so she waited, and listened to him one last time.
Except it wasn't the last time.
After Helen died and her body was taken to the funeral home, I went home to be with Daniel. Knowing how important it would be for a sense of closure for him to see her body, I encouraged Daniel to come with me to the funeral home — but he was not able to. The cremation was going to be three days later, so at first, I did not push. I went alone, and with my brother and sister-in-law. But on the morning of the last day I told Daniel, "This is our last chance. They are taking her body away at two o'clock this afternoon." We spent the entire morning talking about it, but he could not decide if he was up to it. Finally, at around one o'clock, Daniel asked if I could call the funeral home and see if things could be delayed. They said, yes, they could wait till six o'clock. Daniel and I spent several more hours talking, by the end of which I was completely worn out. I couldn't advise any more, and I wasn't sure I could even listen any more. I understood it was really out of my hands, and whatever needed to happen would happen.
Finally, around four o'clock, Daniel said, "OK, if you're willing to drive there but turn around immediately if I can't go in, I'll go." I agreed, and we went. When we got to the funeral home Daniel asked, "If I can't go into the room, are you willing to turn around and take me home?" Again, I said yes. We went in. When we were led to the room where her body was, Daniel said, "Will you stay right outside the door, and be ready to take me home as soon as I come out, whenever that is?" I agreed, and he went in — and talked to her for nearly half an hour.
I don't know what he said to her. All I know is what he told me he said at the end — "Goodbye, Mom — for now."
I was so grateful to Helen for waiting one more time, listening one more time, so he could say that final earthly — yet wonderfully provisional — goodbye to her.
I understood many years ago, seeing how Helen was with Daniel, that when she took on the role of being his mother, she took it on for life. But what I realized in the funeral home — and what I continue to see nearly on a daily basis, as her presence continues to be such a guiding light in Daniel's life — is that when Helen took on the role of a mother for life, it was not for the length of her life — but his. She is still listening to him.
Happy Mother's Day, Helen. And thank you, once again.
Throughout her life, Helen kept returning to Nature again and again, for renewal and guidance. She told me many times how much she loved, as a young child, playing by herself in the woods near her grandparents house in New Hampshire, or on the beach at Cape Cod.
She looked for opportunities again and again to be in beautiful settings in Nature, but she found ways to connect deeply wherever she was. Almost on a daily basis, she would go outside near dawn, and take a few minutes to greet the sun, to face the four directions, and invoke their blessings on her day. I've written in previous posts about a number of other ways she delighted in and honored Nature. And after Daniel was born, one of the things she most valued was sharing her love of Nature with him, especially her love of water.
Helen especially loved the winter and summer solstices and the autumn and spring equinoxes, rooted as they are in Nature's rhythms and cycles. She always made an effort to celebrate them in some way, and to be open to inner gifts might be given on those days. On the spring equinox of 2000 she went to a park not far from our house to sit by the Delhi Rapids of the Huron River. She came back radiant, with a song — River Sounds. A few weeks later I went to the rapids with her and we recorded the sound of the river. Nearly two years later we went into the studio to record the song, with Helen adding several flute lines to our voices, and our friend and wonderful keyboard player, Brian Brill, contributing several accompaniment tracks and textures. We also layered in the sound of the river beneath the whole song.
But then other projects came along and we never finished mixing the song to get it ready for release. We kept singing it at our concerts, and several other people started performing it, and even recording it, but over the years we forgot about our own recording. A few weeks ago, as it was getting close to the spring equinox, I remembered this song and how we'd recorded it — but all I could find was the data CD from 11 years ago, no audio. Earlier this week I took it back to Brian, and we mixed the various tracks.
Helen gave me so much over the years, and in the last eight months she has continued giving me gifts, on the inside as well as on the outside. This song is one I've always treasured — and now, more than ever. As spring began to return, I felt she would want me to share it with you also.
Helen loved eating mangoes. But it was not just the delicious taste she liked; she loved the process of preparing and eating one. She'd score the fruit in quarters, peeling back the skin from each section, all the while licking her fingers which had gotten sticky right from the start. Then she'd begin cutting off the golden fruit in juicy chunks from the large, flat, oblong pit. And then came the part I think she liked best — chewing off what remained of the fruit on the pit, and on the inside of the four pieces of skin. By now, the juice was dripping past her wrists, and half her face was covered in golden stickiness!
Daniel and I were much more fastidious, so she'd always give us chunks of the ready-to-eat fruit — which we would proceed to eat with forks! Helen, meanwhile would continue licking her fingers, the palms of her hands, her wrists and forearms, smiling yellow-orange from ear to ear.
This was a metaphor for how she lived — totally into it. She loved really getting into things, getting her hands dirty. I think that was one of the draws for her about pottery, which she did a great deal of in her younger years. She relished the feel of the wet clay, cupping it with her fingers as it spun on the wheel and took shape between her hands.
She was the same way in gardening, hardly ever wearing gloves, loving to feel the dirt in her hands. Whether she was planting seeds, vegetables or flowers, or harvesting root crops like carrots, onions, beets and potatoes, she delighted in the direct connection to the earth.
She also loved going barefoot. After each long Michigan winter (during which she'd often lie down on the ground to make "angels in the snow") when she'd been wearing boots, and her barefoot callouses had gotten soft, she'd be out at the first sign of spring, and within days she could walk barefoot on gravel.
She savored any time she could be by rivers, lakes and the ocean, delighting in the element of water as much as in that of earth. She was a strong swimmer, and could handle a canoe expertly. And if there was no opportunity to be by water, she found a walk in the rain to be nearly as energizing.
Last month I wrote about how she loved to climb trees, and how unafraid and sure- footed she was. Let me tell you a related story. A year and a half ago we were in Ecuador, visiting indigenous musician friends. Near where they live is an amazing place that people come from all over to visit — the waterfall at Peguche. There are steps carved into the cliff along both sides of the waterfall, with several observation booths where you can get quite close to the falling water. But if you're daring and fearless, you can approach the waterfall head on where there are large rocks jutting up from the rapids below. Guess where Helen went! I took these photos from a safe, dry place by the side of the river, while Helen climbed barefoot onto the spray-soaked rocks to commune directly with the waterfall. She wasn't being reckless or foolhardy — she respected, but at the same time trusted Nature and her connection to it.
She died in the same fearless, trusting way that she had lived. Dylan Thomas's poem "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is a masterpiece, but it does not speak for how Helen approached death. She entered it as gently and trustingly as she had lived. She did not "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." There was no hint of anger or regret in anything she said, nor in the way she looked.
When I walked into her hospital room that last morning, I instantly saw that she was close to death. When I said that to her she replied, "I don't think I'm dying, but I know I'm in a bad way." However, a short while later, as we were talking, she started to say things — asking me to thank friends, giving me instructions — that made it totally clear that she knew she was dying. I don't know what happened in that short, intervening time — what she saw, heard or felt that told her she was dying. I don't know if she perceived it from some sign given beyond the senses. I never got to ask her. Mostly, I just listened to her. Perhaps I'll find out what it is that signals the imminence of death when it's my own time.
But I do know that when she realized she would soon die, nothing changed in her state. There was no desperation, no clinging, no bitterness. There was a simple clarity and acceptance that was awe-inspiring. The way she closed her eyes for the last time was like a sacred bowing to life, a gesture of gratitude and surrender — surrender, not in the sense of giving up in defeat, but in the original meaning of the word: "Rendre" — to give back, and "Sur" — on or above. My understanding of this is "to offer back to what is higher than us, what was given to us as a gift."
Seeing her die that way was, and is, an incredible gift to me. But, of course, remembering her life is a far greater gift.
A few weeks after Helen died I bought a mango for the first time in my life. Though I'd never prepared one before, I remembered how she had, and followed her example. I offered chunks of the fruit to Daniel and ate the rest the way she did — though the juice on my face was streaked with tears. Last week I bought and ate another mango with Daniel — one of the countless, tiny ways we remember her and keep her memory alive in us.
Since this is not a leap year, there was no 29th of February — so there was no exact day to mark the seventh month from when Helen died. It's as if this month even the calendar agreed — don't remember she died, remember she lived.
This photo was taken 42 years ago, in one of the early months of 1971. This is what Helen looked like when we met. How could I help but fall in love?
As I recounted in "Solstice" last month, Helen and I met at the University of Rochester in mid December 1970. Something flashed between us when we were introduced, but she was dating someone else, and I was quite shy. A few days later the semester ended and we went home for two weeks. When we came back in January, I was delighted and amazed to find that we had a course in common. Delighted because I was already falling in love with her, and amazed because our majors were completely different — Helen's in Asian Art History, mine in English. As a senior, I'd completed most of my requirements for my degree. Earlier that fall, when it was time to register for my last semester's courses, I looked around for an easy one, what in those days we called a "gut" course. I found one in the Art Department listings called "The Divine Lover." I'd never taken an art course before, but that title really appealed to the hot 21 year old I was, and I signed up. (Little did I know that I was not signing up for a one-semester gut course, but for a life-long heart course!)
For Helen, on the other hand, that course was a requirement for her degree in Asian Art History. "The Divine Lover" was about the legends of Krishna and the Gopis (milkmaids) and especially, his beloved Radha. These stories, cherished throughout India to this day, are rich with symbolism. They always work on at least two levels — a very human love story we can all relate to, and simultaneously, Krishna representing God, and Radha being all of us — and the love between them mirroring the love between God and all humanity.
The professor for the course, Diran Dohanian, had a wonderful way of teaching. He showed us pictures of paintings and sculptures of Krishna, Radha and the Gopis, but before explaining anything of the historical, cultural or artistic context, he gave us an assignment. He asked us to study closely the postures and gestures of the people depicted in the art, and then go home, assume those same poses, and pay careful attention to what we felt as we held them.
There is a universal pose of adoration found in the art of all religious traditions, where the worshipper stands with arms lifted, lightly bent at the elbows, head tilted up and back, and on the face an expression of ecstasy born both of deep longing and an experience of total surrender and union. I remember the first such painting Professor Dohanian showed us, of Radha standing with her arms raised. I went back to my dorm room and stood holding that pose — and after a few moments I began to cry. Standing there with my arms raised, I felt a yearning and a love I'd never experienced before. I knew exactly who I was longing for. But it was also my first glimpse of the spiritual dimension of love — and an intuition that these were two expressions of one and the same love.
(This total interweaving — of spiritual and worldly love — became the main theme and defining characteristic of our relationship. Years before we met, I had turned my back on the religious tradition in which I'd been brought up, and had stopped searching for meaning in anything to do with religion or spirituality. Although Helen had also left her tradition, she had remained an ardent seeker, and she brought me back to seeking. Years later, she was the one who introduced me to the meditation path that we walked together for the next 35 years. Along the way, she taught me so much about courage when facing inner fears, compassion for others, and forgiveness, especially of oneself.)
For the final assignment in "The Divine Lover" — a 12 page paper examining an aspect of the Radha-Krishna relationship — I wrote 20 pages of blazing love poetry, both spiritual and worldly. Professor Dohanian, who couldn't have helped but notice the blossoming relationship between Helen and me, understood, and accepted it.
One of the things I discovered that first Spring we were together, was that Helen loved to climb trees. We'd go for a walk in the woods and as soon as she saw a tree with a low first branch, she'd take off her shoes and begin climbing. We joked that she had prehensile feet and toes, with which she seemed able to grasp any branch and stay balanced on it. I, on the other hand, had never climbed trees. Raised by parents who had lost so much during the Holocaust, my brother and I were hovered over to make sure we never did anything where we could hurt ourselves. San did climb a tree once when he was ten years old — and fell out of it, breaking his elbow. That was that for tree climbing. Even with Helen's playful encouragement and the emboldening effects of love, I usually only managed to climb into the lowest branches of a tree. Meanwhile, Helen would climb 20-30 feet into the air without any signs of hesitation or fear.
One of the paintings we studied that Spring depicted Krishna sitting high in a tree, holding the Gopis' clothes which he had gathered up while they were bathing in the river below. Professor Dohanian explained the symbolism; how God steals our "clothes" — our ego, and all the concepts and masks with which we cover our true self — and invites us to meet him spiritually naked. Seeing Helen high above me in the trees, I instinctively knew that, being with her, I would be letting go of many, many fears and limitations. On a level I could not at all have articulated at the time, I sensed what I now know — that I was embarking on a journey to learn about love, human and divine, and how to experience the one in the other. I also sensed that I would have a most lovely companion to encourage, guide and support me on the way. And I now know that I did.
And I still do.
The sense of disbelief that a loved one has died seems to be a universal experience. Some days and nights my son and I look at each other and we both know what the other is thinking — we cannot believe that she is gone, that she will not walk through the door any minute now. It's been six months, and we have not been able to let go of any of her belongings, or even rearrange the objects on her desk. We understand that to think this way — that she might need these things if she returns — is a completely irrational thought. Of course, in one sense, this is a total denial of a reality — the physical form of the beloved is gone forever. But on another level, perhaps a more profound one, this sense of disbelief points to a deeper truth.
The great 13th century mystic poet Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks) says:
The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you,
not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.
I believe Rumi would agree that lovers stay in each other. Through the love that she showed me, Helen is still encouraging me, still teaching, guiding and supporting me. I trust her love will stay with me as long as I live.
Helen felt a great reverence for, and a deep connection to Nature. She loved the seasons and their cyclical rhythms, especially as expressed in the solstices and equinoxes. The Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year, with its rich symbolism of death and rebirth, the dramatic extreme of darkness, which nevertheless contains the promise of the return of light, was especially meaningful to her.
Helen and I met just before the Winter Solstice, exactly 42 years ago. She was a junior and I a senior at the University of Rochester. I don't remember the precise date, but I know it was right before we went home for the winter break. Her boyfriend at the time, one of the guys in my six-room suite on campus, introduced us to each other in the cafeteria. Something flashed between us, but we simply said, "nice to meet you" and went on to eat our lunch at separate tables. I didn't see her again until after we returned from that winter break.
Now, here's a slight detour, but please bear with me. While at home during that break, I started playing guitar, really for the first time. Four years earlier, San and I had convinced our father to buy us a guitar. It was the late 60's, everybody was playing guitar, we wanted to try it too. Since we didn't know a thing about guitars, we asked two friends, Frank Johnson and Bob Mills, who were accomplished players, to come with us and advise us. They suggested a guitar our Dad found too expensive, so he picked one out within his budget. He liked the orange sunburst finish and would not listen when Frank and Bob tried tactfully to let him know a cheap guitar would be hard to play.
To say the guitar was hard to play is an understatement. It was impossible to play. The strings were nearly a quarter inch off the fingerboard, and unless you had hands like a gorilla, there was no way to make a chord without buzzing all the strings and getting cramps in your fingers after a minute. Within a few days, both San and I abandoned trying to play it, and didn't touch it again for four years.
Leaning in a corner at home for those four years, the neck of the guitar must have warped just right, because when I picked it up during that winter break, I found it playable — at the first three frets anyway. Now the only problem was, I didn't know how to play it. I got a beginners folk song book and started learning the simplest chords. During those two weeks at home I learned eight of them: E minor and major, A minor and major, D minor and major, G major and C major. But I especially liked three of them — A minor, D minor and E major — and played them over and over in various orders, all the while humming little wordless melodies to the chords.
I brought the guitar back to school and played those same three chords over and over every minute of my spare time. When one or another of my suit-mates banged on the door or the walls, I'd mix in one or two of the other chords for their relief, but soon I'd be back to my favorites.
End of detour. And now you'll see why I included it. Helen was sometimes there in that suite, visiting her boyfriend. Months later, when she'd broken up with him and we'd gotten together, she told me how much longing and yearning she heard in those plaintive minor chords, and the melodies I hummed over them. (The fact that she could still want to be with me, and could so confidently and fully encourage me to be a musician, after hearing those endless repetitions of just three chords, told me that she must really love me!)
At the time, I didn't know what I was longing and yearning for. All I knew was that I was about to graduate from college and had no idea what I was going to do with my life. I'd long ago abandoned the career path my parents had chosen for me — to become a doctor — and was student teaching at a local High School as part of my preparation to become an English teacher. But I knew that was not what I wanted to do. I was going through the motions because I couldn't face telling my parents that they'd put me through four years at an expensive school only for me to move back with them and do nothing.
But on some level, so deep inside that I was not able to touch it consciously, I did know what I wanted. I wanted to be with that woman across the hall, and I wanted to sing and play music. I was falling in love with Helen and music at the same time. And, in fact, I believe it was that very first meeting with Helen before winter break, that set in motion my picking the guitar back up after four years of not touching it.
As Helen was leaving after one of her visits to her boyfriend early that winter, I jokingly put my hands on top of her head and recited this blessing: "May the peace that surpasseth all understanding, be with you, and remain with you, always." I had no idea where that was coming from as it came out of my mouth. A form of a Christian prayer priests say at the end of the Eucharistic Service, I certainly never heard it growing up in an Orthodox Jewish home, and attending Synagogue. But from then on, all that winter and spring, whenever I saw Helen, I'd say that to her as we said goodbye. Even though it had started out almost as a joke, she would get a very solemn look on her face, and bow so I could put my hands on her head, and then she'd thank me very sweetly. What started out as a joke whose origins I've never figured out, became almost a sacred ritual between us every time we parted.
And now, of course, in one sense, we are parted. But as long as I live, I will never say a final goodbye to Helen. In some way she will be with me forever. Yet, of course, a form of goodbye must be said when someone dies. So though I can never again put my hands on her head, I say now to her spirit, with all my heart: "May the peace that surpasseth all understanding, be with you, and remain with you, always."
Here is a poem I set to music by the revered Bengali poet and mystic, Rabindranath Tagore. Last year was the 150th anniversary of his birth, and there have been celebrations of his life and work all over the world, including a very recent one in Ann Arbor's Hill Auditorium. It was Helen who first introduced me to Tagore's poetry, giving me a copy of his "Gitanjali — Song Offerings" very soon after we met. This poem, "Peace My Heart" is a very poignant prayer and blessing for a departed beloved.
Thanksgiving Day is an especially good opportunity to thank all of you once again — for all the kindness, caring and support which you have lavished on Daniel and me during these last few months. Your continuing to reach out to us has been a tremendous help.
But most especially this Thanksgiving Day, my greatest "thank you" goes to Helen — for all she gave, and continues to give, to Daniel and me, and to so many others. I'll let her express her gratitude in a poem she wrote as an epilogue to "Friendship with the Elements," one of the books by the Ecuadorian Yachak Don Alverto Taxo.
The fewer the words—
The better I remember, the more
I can savor the teaching.
The briefer the instruction—
The more I can make the experience my own.
The simpler the practice—
The more likely I am to do it.
The more repetitive the assignment—
The more I can see myself
reflected in its mirror.
Earth, Air, Fire, Water—
The practice of becoming intimate with these,
Inside and outside
The practice of giving thanks to these,
Inside and outside
Leaves no moment, no place—
Each moment, each place—an opportunity
To offer gratitude—
for each breath, for each bite,
for each step, for each sight
with water gliding down my throat as I drink,
down my skin as I shower,
with the rain, with a river
To fill myself with happiness
with the smooth solidity of a river stone,
with the treasured, brief palette of fall colors,
with a hanging mist that turns the familiar
Each moment, each place—
a chance to give thanks
For all I’ve been given
For all I’ve not been given
(an unexpected catalyst for joy!)
In this wonderful, wild dance with Life.
If you'd like to order any of the books Helen compiled and edited of the teachings of Don Alverto Taxo, please visit Ushai.com
To order any of Laz's Rumi / Hafiz recordings (on all of which Helen played flute), Helen's solo CD, "Darkening of the Moon", or Gemini's children's recordings, please visit Laz's page in the store.
Helen's birthday was a few days ago, and today is exactly three months from the day she passed away. I want to mark this time by thanking all of you who have been so kind to Daniel and me, so supportive, so caring. Of course it's been rough, but we've been carried by your outpouring of love in so many forms — cards, e-mails, phone calls, meals, donations to Daniel's college fund, and so many other gifts, tangible and intangible. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Gratitude. I'd known for many years that this was a quality Helen valued greatly, and was always doing her best to embody, no matter what was happening in her life. One of her favorite quotes was from a Zen Master who said, "Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever." But it was not till the last five days of her life, which she spent in the hospital, that I saw how fully she'd imbibed this quality — how she offered gratitude to everyone she met, even under the most trying circumstances of her life.
She said a heartfelt "thank you" to every single person who came into her room, round the clock — no matter how small or large the service they performed for her — from the many doctors and nurses, to the people who wheeled her from one test to another, to the people who brought her food, to the ones who cleaned her room — no one left without being thanked.
When I walked into her room early on the last morning of her life I saw she was dying, and I said that to her. At first, she replied, "I don't think I'm dying, but I know I'm in a very bad way." We started talking very openly with each other, among other things thanking each other for the gift of our lives together. At some point, she began asking me to thank all her friends. And then she asked me to thank two trees in our yard that she especially loved, that had been a source of comfort and strength to her during rough times. As she was saying these thank yous, I realized she knew she was dying. Filled with the knowledge of her impending death, with the last bit of strength she had left, the words she chose to say were ones of gratitude.
In that last hour, she did not think of herself, but of others —she did not ask me to do anything for her, or to carry on with work that had been important to her. No, she only asked me for things for others — to thank her friends, her favorite trees.
She was many things to many people, and she was all of those and more to me — but perhaps her two most clearly defined roles were mother and wife — and as such, she gave me instructions for those also: "Laz, be really sweet to Daniel." And "Laz, don't give up."
So now, let me say again, a great thank you to all of you, on her behalf, as well as from Daniel and me. Among the last words she spoke, she asked me to thank all her friends — that's all of you. If you ever did any kindness for either of us, if you ever sent a prayer or a blessing for either of us, if you ever thought even one caring thought of us, you are one of her friends, and mine also. Thank you. Again and again, thank you, with all my heart.
If you've not had a chance to see the slide show from Helen's memorial, or to read her Hummingbird Story, or the stories I've written about her and our life together, all three are below.
This is a guided meditation written by Helen Forslund Slomovits (1950-2012) based on an experience she had in January of 2011, at the Loma de Ensueños — Hillside of Dreams, a deforested area in Ecuador which she was helping to restore. It is also the site of a retreat center she helped found with the Ecuadorian Yachak, teacher and healer, Don Alverto Taxo.
The drawing, also by Helen, is based on a photograph taken of her hand, holding the hummingbird.
I want to tell you the story of an experience I had recently in Ecuador, and I invite you to experience it with me. You might want to take a deep breath to come fully present.
I don't hear the thwack against the window. I'm in another room having a cherished quiet moment alone. But my son's wail brings me quickly. "A bird hit our front window hard! How terrible; it's probably dead already." Geared for tragedy and loss, he is, and near tears.
Something in me feels ready and able, knowing what to do. I go outside and find the baby hummingbird, stunned on the cement porch near the front window. I look carefully and see it is breathing. Slowly approaching, I somehow know it will let me pick it up, so I do with great care. I hold it between my two hands, giving it life energy to use as it will—either to leave the body quickly and easily, or to stay. I don't presume either way. I truly only want to serve its desire and need.
Shock allows for a swift, painless exit from the body. Birds are good at that—so alive when here, so easy to let go when their time comes. But this bird's breathing continues, so very rapid—3 times a second or more, letting me know that for this moment anyway, it is still here, alive.
As more minutes pass and I warm it with my hands and feed it energy, the growing likelihood of it choosing to live dawns in me. I peek between my hands. Fifteen minutes have passed. One small black eye, then the other opens for a little, shuts and then opens again.
I watch for my healer friend to return. I can see him in the distance, talking to a neighbor, too far away to hail. He just recently nursed a stunned bird that he found on the hillside, back to life and freedom again. Yet this bird has come to my care, and she's staying minute by minute longer.
Finally I see him walking up towards the house. I call to him and get up carefully, disturbing the wee bird in the process. I feel a fluttering of wings between my hands. But the wings are all askew. Will they ever be able to fly again? A hummingbird is such a delicate creature. I wonder how the long, curved beak could have withstood the force of the impact with the glass, unharmed, yet I see no signs of injury or blood.
My friend arrives and I show him the tiny bird. He immediately smoothes its wings into their proper place and I'm relieved to see them, looking normal again. In his wisdom he knows that it is important to offer the elements to the little bird—earth, water, air, fire—as a way of calling her spirit back into her body.
He quickly finds honey, water, a spoon and a little cage which he's used before to shelter wounded birds. He makes up some water with a bit of sweet and tastes it to be sure it's not too sweet, finds a spoon and gently taps at the beak, pouring out a few sweet drops. A second and third time he does this, and then we see the bird's mouth move and drink.
My healer friend fans her, blows strongly on her. "She needs air to help her breathe, to remind her to fly." He happily notes her tenacity in keeping her balance when he blows extra hard. "She's a strong one!" He fans her again and again, knowing the power of air, the affinity of bird and air, the necessity for her to reconnect with the power of air, to call to the spark of her spirit and fan it back into the will to live again.
We open the bird cage door and I carefully put my hand, with bird, inside. Her black eyes watch, but she still seems somewhat stunned. Her mouth takes in more sips of nectar. It is time to withdraw my hand. I sense that she needs to be left alone, that she's received from me whatever was needed. In the process of taking my hand out, she startles and flies to the side of the cage, tiny claws grabbing onto the metal bars, and beak and tiny head trying to push through the bars to escape. Her short flight leaves us hopeful and happy. We move away and leave her alone, to continue regaining her strength.
After about 45 minutes my friend tries to feed her again, but now she responds like the wild creature she is, flying desperately away from him, wings whirring, bumping into the sides of the cage, trying to escape. "She seems strong, unharmed and clearly wants her freedom." So we take the cage outside. He manages to close his hand around her, remove it from the cage and release her. She flies, like a shot, straight to a flowering bush about 3 feet away. At first it looks like she's made a bee-line to the nectar of a flower, but then my son sees her hanging from a stem, beak-down, looking stunned. "I don't think she's ok! We should never have let her go!"
But I feel hopeful, and I also know that our part in her life is now over. She continues to hang upside-down, motionless, but holding on tightly. I decide it's time to continue on with my own activities, and I say good-bye and wish her the very best. About fifteen minutes later, I come back out to see her. The branch is empty—she's flown free!
Two mornings later as I'm waking—suddenly the little hummingbird's image and spirit is with me. She's well and I feel she's come to let me know and to say thank you. In the physical we never see her again, but I have the happy sense that she is living out her nectar-sipping life on our hillside.
I've often wondered since then why I was given this gift—the presence of such a delicate winged spirit—and why I was given the chance to offer healing energy. It was a precious gift to my heart to open and give love, to surrender to life's will, and then to be delighted at her recovery.
So now, I invite you to spend a moment with your own heart.....What tiny heart-bird lies there stunned from crashing into one of life's pains? What delicate, sweet part of you needs the love that only you can give. Take her in your hands. Give her your love; invite her back to life and to fly free again!