
Do you identify with any particular animal? If you were not a human being, what animal would you like to be?
I’m a Bear, a Little Bear to be precise. I sleep like a log, am assertive, like to be in charge, and get right down to business. I’m sensitive and affectionate, but not terribly romantic. When it comes to remembering birthdays and anniversaries, fuggedaboudit. My interests are omnivorous, and I’m endlessly curious. I’ll stick my nose in anybody’s business.
My late wife Norma’s friend Wayne told her she was a Swan; he was right. She was loyal and prepared to mate for life. Her composure in public was reserved, gentle and quiet, but fiercely protective of her children, family, and principles, she had a powerful presence. Below her calm surface she swam with intensity and passion: for love, music, and authenticity. And she swooned with pleasure when I kissed her neck.
In most ways we were a great fit, but not all. Her reserved nature often recoiled at my sometimes bold and assertive manner. It took many years for her to become comfortable with my risk-taking style and willingness to expose myself to public scrutiny. Far more private than I, she never liked the idea of my writing about our personal life; it ruffled her feathers.
Norma was born with a clubfoot and spent her early childhood in a corrective cast. This made her feel like an ugly duckling, and she carried those feelings with her throughout her life; so it was that looking good was important to her. The plumage of her hair was her greatest vanity, and when chemotherapy left her bald fifteen years ago, it was difficult for her. When that happened, I thought she looked beautiful and told her so. Through it all, she maintained her dignity and courage. Gratefully, her hair grew back, but to her disappointment, not as thickly as it had once been.
I know at times my manner, my bearishness in pursuit of the sweet honey of accomplishment, made her feel left behind. I always reassured her, but her swanishly sensitive nature knew me too well. After many years together, I finally conceded to her that, indeed, I had a mistress that repeatedly drew me away from her: the community of Sonoma. Hurt but too loyal to fly, she told me she loved and admired me. Thus it was Little Bear and Swan made their marriage last for fifty years.
Swans make fine therapists, and Norma helped many dozens of people sort out the havoc of their lives. She wasn’t noisy about her work, or prideful. For 50-plus years she swam amid the ducklings, geese, otters, frogs, and turtles of humanity, listening to them and healing their pain with the power of her quiet dignity and wisdom. It was hard work, and I could see how much it took out of her to offer herself to the benefit of others. At such times, I’d remind her that she was performing the great but endless work of Bodhisattva activity. It helped her to hear that.
Now my beautiful Swan has departed. I continue to lumber through each day, doing this and doing that as I always have, but lonely now. I find myself drawn to birds, and while walking, I’ve been collecting feathers: Wild Turkey, Crow, and Red-Tailed Hawk. As of yet, no Swan, but maybe someday.