Los Angeles, California
I have been so fortunately blessed in my life to have known women who enhanced my life. I named my blog after Sandra, and every time I sit down to write a post, I see her name and I think of her. And, not so sadly. Of course I still miss her beyond words, and my life has changed so dramatically since she was a part of it, so the history we shared is a bit compartmentalized in my memory. But when I think of her, I think of how truly good she was and reflect on how infrequently we run across people like that in our lives. Don't get me wrong. Most of the people in my life are basically good people. But I look on humans as flawed beings, and part of my sometimes-challenging emotional makeup is in accepting that. I believe most of us do the best we can. We make mistakes; we correct mistakes; we learn from mistakes. Hopefully, we take responsibility for whatever damage we might cause to others. But, somehow, Sandra seemed less flawed. I think her faith provided a foundation for how she lived her life. And yet, she was completely unpious and was never judgmental. Life seemed to sit on her lightly. She was a devout Roman Catholic and a traditionally-conservative Republican. But to be her friend you didn't have to be either; she welcomed all into her life.
I loved her. I loved spending time with her. She was always so much fun; so game for anything. With Tom and John, we traveled to Tahiti and Panama; stayed a week each year at the Kona Village, and spent time in Tahoe, Carmel, and Rancho Santa Fe. If I told a story about her everytime I wrote a post, it would take me years to write them all. And, truthfully, I'm not sure I could write them well. You kinda had to be there. But here's one. Once when Sandra got exasperated with John's uncharitable behavior we witnessed her uncharacteristic sharpness with him. John, she said, What would Jesus do? We were hanging out at the Bora Bora Bar at the Kona Village at that moment. John shrugged (he'd heard this one before). But later, Tom said to me: It's a better concept to consider what would Sandra do. And a few years later, when I started my blog, thusly naming it seemed right.
Sandra has been gone for ten years. This past weekend, I attended the funeral for another friend, Maria. Maria was not a close friend, but I knew her for many years. She worked in the office of my accountant and was the friendly voice heard when I phoned and the bright smile when I walked into the office every month to drop off my business books. For even more years, I had known Joyce, who was my bookkeeper. One of the best parts of retiring was transitioning these relationships to friends. Joyce kindly included me in a group attending musicals at an LA theater. And the three of us would have lunch on occasion. After one of these lunches, I showed off my new Tesla. The next time I phoned the office, Maria brightly said: Guess what I got? She had purchased a hot red Tesla after seeing mine.
Maria was one of those rare people who have a glow. She was beautiful, and had an especially lovely smile. And she smiled a lot. Her face would light up with that smile. She was so kind, and as was told and retold at her funeral service, she was infinitely generous and loving to everyone she encountered in her life. Her life's mantra was Living is giving. And story after story reflected that. I wish I had known her much better.
In the course of her funeral Mass, the old, Irish priest (gee whiz, they import a ton of these) reflected that Maria was still with us, as well as having rejoined her late husband, as we are not humans on earth who experience spirituality, but rather spiritual beings who are experiencing a brief human existence. The simile that comes up when I hear a nugget like that, mostly imparted while reading or listening to a homily at Mass, is that it is like a cookbook. Like my mother before me, I collect cookbooks. And I rationalize the continuing purchase of new books like this: If you get one recipe out of a cookbook which becomes part of your repertoire, it was worth the price of the cookbook. I am still thinking about the Irish Father's reference to spirituality, and how it relates to my own life.
Maria was only sixty-seven years old and was felled by ALS. As I remarked to a friend, the only thing worse than dying of ALS is living with ALS. I'm not sure that's true, but for those of us left behind, Maria's disease and death seemed heartily unfair. But then, I always feel that when I lose someone I care about. I take it personally. And that is maybe what we all do. Loss is personal, as well as universal.
And, in case you wondered, the title of this post is from The Sound of Music, specifically from the song How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? It seemed fitting to me, this moonbeam reference resonating with Maria's bright glow. If fortune is with you, you know people like Sandra. And Maria. I knew them both. In that, I was infinitely, extraordinarily lucky.
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