Lionel, I think of you
as an old grizzly bear
all burly and tough
but also a teddy bear
full of cuddly stuff
or as my grandfather,
all seasoned and wise
but also my grandson
full of awe and surprise
(April Wells 1943-2016)
I loved you for your name–
the bloom of youth, the standing daffodil.
I loved you for your voice, in full Canadian lilt
Its high and low note chord.
I loved you for your strength,
To clear the brush and split the wood,
and raise those kids alone
in the dark house across the road.
I loved you for the gifts you brought”grace and song and dance
And for the gifts you gave–confidence and joy
I loved you for your laugh.
There are not many people in the world I feel close to, and Brian was one of them, even though my relationship with him was formalized and very brief. Shortly before receiving the news about his death I was thinking about contacting him to talk about a noticeable falling off in my meditation practice during the last two weeks, partially due to a cold that kept me up at night and disrupted my early morning routine.
I thought of Brian as my personal teacher, since he conducted most of the sessions at the three-day retreat I attended last February and agreed to have regular phone consultations with me afterward. Those conversations were always serious but also punctuated by laughter and irony on both sides. During them I felt I had much to learn and nothing to hide. At one point he mentioned that he was looking forward to a long retreat in September with anticipation and some apprehension. That was typical of the frank way we communicated, despite the distance I felt from the variety of samatha experiences that qualified him as a teacher and that he described with such scientific precision. A few months later we both agreed to forgo the conversations until something I needed to talk about came up. Now it’s too late.
But then again, maybe not, since he remains present to me often during my practice, repeating the assurance that if and when I find the time to attend a longer retreat, a door to the reality he knew would undoubtedly open for me.
Michael made me feel secure in Lund when I felt most exposed. There was something about his domineering figure, his booming voice, his grandiose self-confidence and his awe-inspiring talents as artist, writer and chef that made me feel protected, as if by the big brother I never had. Even when he told tales of disappointment in love or family or career or business–with a puzzled shrug of the shoulders and lift of the eyebrows–his presence seemed sheltering. Never mind that he rarely showed interest in what I was up to, either at home or abroad.
Perhaps I placed trust in Michael because we arrived in Lund at nearly the same time as refugee idealists groping for space to rebuild the world in accordance with our own fantasies, each of us in flight from the world of friends and family back home, but still longing for their admiration. Perhaps it was that the large tracts of land we owned (or rather owed) shared a corner in common, and that we were both concerned with property lines and subdivision potentials along with goat milk and chicken egg yields. Or that our two first children, Jonah and Josh, lived within a half hour’s walking distance and were best friends. Perhaps it was that we were both products of a strong liberal arts education that we expected to put to work in the bush, or that we self-identified as non-observant atheist Jews. (more…)