First poem: Redmond Gleeson a long time Subud member and helper passed on May 6:

To Redmond the Day After he Journeyed to the Other Side
The day of Charles’ birthday

We never know the whole of a friend until he dies.
Above the ocean the headlands are ablaze
with the wildest of wild flowers
swaying in the breeze in a jubilant display
of colors
of shapes and shades,
standing proud or creeping low,
talking to each other in a soft hum human ears cannot catch. . .
I see your face Redmond, in every blossom, every tree, every rock,
ever since you took the journey to Everywhere
to that place where you can hear All.
On these headlands I can lend you my earthly eyes
to see their splendor and join in
the mist of vibrating hues weaving patterns from your life
and renew the intertwined net of relationships you had forgotten
when you fell into an oblivion of your making.

It’s a good time to die, sings the hermit thrush
in a great display of deep felt emotions,
a good time to be born, says the new mother,
as we celebrate Charles’ birthday on the tail of your passing.

Gathering memories and fantasies from dewdrops on blades of grass
I keep wondering.
What is left of the self once all is said and done?
What’s remain is the Self that never changes, never dies,
the true Self that was always there,
that Self that I recognized whenever we came together
at all the important times during our busy little life
often taken over by the drama of human experience,
the temptation of distraction,
life’s illusion.

Red, my most loyal of friends, I knew the best of you
when together we choose adventure,
wandering the earth in search of a better way,
a more exotic and bigger perspective,
treading in unknown territories to create danger
just for the hell of it,
often tasting the forbidden fruits to enter the eternal breath
and journey to the beginning of creation.
You gave such a display of your selves then;
the actor, the jester, the rambler, the warrior, the trader, the trickster,
but I always saw the hidden jewel behind it all.

And one day you became a father,
fathering again and again,
and as the great Father of All
you rescued all that needed rescuing and more.
In Ireland once
we came upon the tombstone of Count Redmond and his Seven Sons,
you were already up to number six by then
and you believed the seventh would grant you grace divine.

You often took from one to give to the other,
but what was left for yourself?
A timid fame that endlessly needed rekindling,
the gift of gab often hiding too big a heart
behind too small a joke,
the clowning that pushed away the deep questions,
the endless recitation, bits of verses, rhymes, rhythms and rants,
made up sing-songs about trivial details of daily life,
but how you could dance,
you the magnificent host of many celebrations.
When the party was over you juggled to earn a living
in whichever way you could
not always legit but with the best of intentions.

For some you were a rock,
always able to get out of trouble
even if it was trouble you created.
Your unconditional love for the family
sustained it through many storms.
Others yet marveled at the way you loved to push buttons,
making not very political correct statements in public places
as though you really believed them,
and the coyote in you never let us know if you believed them or not.
For many you were very wise,
embracing all roles with patience, acceptance and surrender,
an infinitely patient husband,
a forgiving father.

The difference between a master and a student, you once wisely quoted,
is that the master has mastered the art of being a student.
You did master that art well and played hide and seek with everyone. . .
but your spirit always shone bright for us all.

Our journey on earth is a journey that does not move,
to a place in God we have never left, the heart place.
We never know the whole of friends
until they remember that place.

***

2nd: Lillia Davidson in March:

When death comes over to claim a loved-one time stops, earthly time of course, for eternal time takes its place and all things become transformed, radiant, revealed.

I often wondered why Lillia chose to forget, to erase memories of events, happenings, travels as soon as they were over, but she always seemed to remember friends, even those she had not seen for a while.
Even in the last months of her life when she stayed in bed, mostly sleeping, she would open her eyes when family and the endless stream of visitors came to her bedside, and with a radiant smile she would murmur:

“It’s so good! So good!” So good was repeated so often it became the family’s greeting.

Her comfort and joyful spirit to the end was made possible by an angel who stayed by her side, hardly ever allowing himself to leave the house. I was awed by the patience and tenderness with which he tended to her.

I surmised that the reason Lillia lingered so much longer than was expected is that she wanted to make it easy on her family, give them time to adjust and resolve all the last little snafus that might still be hanging on. But also, how can one leave when the love of closed ones has become so totally unconditional and is dispensed on a daily base?

We all know of Lillia’s and Efron’s life in Elk, their house always open to family and friends, of the stream of kids running through it, doing art and puppet shows with Lillia, singing, dancing and tending to the numerous animals that were part of the household. We all know of the story-telling performances Lillia brought together for children and adults alike, how she inspired Kate Wolf to write a song about her, and how her art came right out of her daily life, without any desire to put it out and be recognized. Her talents were many.

But what might not be known is how our two families came to the area from Colorado, packing trucks and vans with kids, cats, goats, furniture and kitchen stuff and taking the road with an intrepid spirit. The Davidson family ended up finding a place in Elk while we got one in Comptche (there was not much available) but we visited practically every week end, taking our goats with us in our station wagon.
So Lillia, my friend of 58 year, where do I start to try and tell who you are to me?

You were the first friend I made on this side of the world, the American soil. You understood my franglais with no difficulty, you knew me better than I did myself, you had no problem digging under the layers of pretense to find the treasure within me, as I always found yours. You had no judgment, didn’t compare, you accepted me as I was.

How sincere you always were Lillia in your humble beauty and innocence, how daring also, for never having considered your body’s limits, it  had none. What an amazing skier you were! But when the mountain challenge was over for you and the competitive spirit left you, you stopped skiing the powder with the Big Boys, those exceptional skiers, and you wanted to simply be.

Of course, that didn’t come to be without a crisis in your life, the crisis of seeing too much, too soon, painful and transformative that crisis, transcendent even. As you had once given back the enormous diamond ring to the rich young man who wanted to wed you, you left the husband you married as a partner in all outdoors activities, the magnificent skier, the builder, the provider, the handsome twin brother.
You had to find your true self in nature, living in a shepherd’s tent, washing dishes and laundry in a stream, cooking in an outdoors kitchen or on the fire, considering each vegetable, each grain, each ingredient with great attention to extract the healing message each delivered, the gift to humanity most people could not see.

Your baby’s crib you hung on a low branch above the camp, the soft breeze or a friendly hand rocked little Sarah to sleep. You no longer cared, were not even aware of the opinion of others. Unconcerned by the rules of good breeding, you were so close to the truth, so much ahead in true knowing and wisdom ––not the knowledge one acquires from book, but the knowledge of the heart––that I could only witness your revelations with wonder.

Each crisis you went through from the time you were a child was a turning point that brought you closer to your truth: when in pre-adolescence you chose to live with another family, when you left everything behind and traveled to France, crossing Paris on a motor-scooter, ending up unknowingly to spend the night in a brothel, living in the mansion of a famous art impostor, cruising the Mediterranean on a tiny sail boat for two, fooling the port Coast Guard who demanded to see your legality, and you got away with it all. . .

Two more husbands and so much more, so much more. . . Each adventure revealed to you another side of yourself. You went through many layers of persona and never took on the faddish identities of the time, the labels, avoided definitions like the plague, anything that seemed like a box to put people in. Even on your deathbed, as someone was talking about thinking in a box, you woke up and said: “why do people need a box to think in?”

You opened your door to the underdogs, didn’t want to hear about diagnostic or analysis, embraced the unacceptable in all of us. You became a mother and gave it all you had, a mother to many more than your own kids. You let your first child show you the path to choose, trusted in the wisdom of the innocent.
Then one, two three more babies came, one born in a school bus in the middle of a Colorado winter, the next in a small cabin by a rushing river, the third slipped out of the womb and was caught just in time by her father. You loved them all without restraint, unconditionally. You were mother earth in the eyes of many, many that will miss your undaunted spirit, miss the carefree artist, miss your vision, your wisdom, even if at times it was a bit thorny, giving egos a small pricking.

Now Lillia we all have come to love you under any condition!

* * *

3rd: Kendrick Petty and Rasunah Katz on December 5: