November 04, 2013

In a number of older cultures, including Celtic society, a festival time in mid-Autumn included an honoring of the ancestors as sources of wisdom.  The dates of the Celtic festival — October 31st-November 2nd — were later turned into Halloween, All Hallows and All Saints.  Recently, I’ve been thinking about the older cultural tradition and its value.  In this context I considered individuals I’ve known whose shared insights have remained with me.  Yesterday I remembered one particular friend.  In writing about him here, I’m implicitly thanking all those of an older generation that I remember clearly and with gratitude for what they added, each in their own way, to positive energy on Earth.

In all seasons, and pretty much in all weather, I enjoyed my early morning walks along the shoreline near my former home.  My neighbor, then in his early eighties, was punctual as was I.  Each  of us began our walk in time for sunrise.

As we were the only walkers along the sparsely populated road which wound around the cove, it was probably inevitable that our dialog would begin.  Although my long standing preference had been for solitary walks at sunrise, I soon discovered that my neighbor was both interesting and thoughtful.

At the point at which our conversations began, he seemed to be reviewing his life.  He said he was trying to cope with mild depression and was puzzled at its cause.  He shared with me some basics about his background.

He was originally from Pennsylvania, where he had studied art in Philadelphia.  Somehow that aspect of his education lead to his designing of packaging.  This, in turn, had evolved into a corporation which he built while raising his family.  Eventually he held about two dozen patents, one of which is for a design so ubiquitous that we are all familiar with it.  He told me that his company had about three hundred employees when he sold it and later retired to Maine with his wife.

One morning he asked if I had read Think and Grow Rich.  It surprised me that I remembered the author's name.  "Napoleon Hill,” I said aloud.  "Yes, I read that book when I was in my twenties."

He then said that, years ago, after reading Hill's book, he made a list of ten things that he wanted.  He kept his list in a prominent place where he reread it every morning.  As we walked, he then described to me some of the items on his list and what had occurred over the years.  "I wanted coastal property in Maine.  I bought an island.  I wanted a sailboat.  I bought a sailing yacht which would accommodate my family.  I wanted an airplane.  I became a licensed pilot and I bought my plane.  Eventually, I had everything on my list."

The island was sold, as was the sailboat, after his three children were on their own and establishing their own lifestyles.  The airplane he had kept until recent years when he decided that the cost to maintain the plane did not correspond well with the amount of flying he was doing.

The shorefront place where he and his wife now lived had been their year-round home for about twenty years when I met him.  There he had a studio for painting which was an interest and a skill he had not forgotten.  After retiring he had also become a certified gemologist.  He enjoyed faceting gemstones and making jewelry.

When I asked about his painting, he said that he hadn't felt inspired for some time.  Clearly, he was not happy about that.  Many years earlier, in Pennsylvania, a well known artist had been his neighbor.  They had sometimes painted together.  Apparently they had remained friends.

It was obvious that he was trying to get in touch with his own creativity once again.  I had begun writing Journey Through an Open Door and he often asked about my book.  He enjoyed talking about both the creative process and intuition.

It was probably a spring morning when he told me about a summer that was particularly special for him as a young man.  During that summer he took some time for himself to hike the entire length of Vermont's Long Trail — 272 miles.  During our walks, I had noticed that he did not seem to need the walking stick he used along the shoreline.  I wondered if his use of the hiking stick connected him with his fond memory of the Long Trail.  I did not ask him that question.

Although his discomfort about his feelings of depression threaded their way into our conversations, he was well attuned to nature as we walked.  He pointed out that the large rock which stood close to the edge of the road was a glacial erratic.  He explained why the tall pine which stood next to the rock was known as a wolf pine.  He noticed the earliest signs of grape hyacinths at the edge of a neighbor’s lawn.  When the lady slippers which were scattered along along much of the roadside began to bloom, the lady slipper count became an essential part of each sunrise walk.  As Spring blended into early Summer, the blossoming apple trees in a field which stretched to the cove were replaced, as a point of interest, by the lupines which now lined the road adjacent the field.

Eventually I recognized the source of his depression.  I did not tell him, because I could not.  It was too late in his life for him to make any major change.  Inside myself, I consistently wished him well and hoped he would find his way back to his paint brushes.

e was both gracious and thoughtful.  Before I moved from the area, he generously showed his appreciation for our walks and our conversations by surprising me with some lovely earrings that he had made for me.  The earrings have their own story.  To me, the earrings are a treasure.

When the veils between the worlds are open, as older cultures felt was true in the mid-Autumn season, we have the opportunity to express gratitude for what-has-been and integrate it into what-is.  Our experience of the world becomes richer for the people we have known who have become part of our heart’s memory.