The wind chimes that hang in the English Chintz outside my desk window are quiet.
Joan wore her lengthy, gray hair in two braids, telling me stories of her adventures through the stages of her life. She laughed a lot, and I joined in. While her goal was a new relationship with her daughters, Joan started with memories of her father and talking about herself.
She began traveling to discover beauty in the world, and in her sessions I went with her to Ireland, to Mexico, to the Great Northwest and on. She reached a point, not of completion, but of fulfillment with the land, and turned to discovering the beauty of the people she met. I was hearing poetry in her words.
“What me,” she exclaimed, smiling and amused, “I’m not a poet.” Her poetry was undeniable, and from that she expanded to giving a morning service on beauty at Seraphim Center.
In the place where I live in America, on a warm day, her daughter arrived, carrying a box filled with wind chimes. Joan had passed over. Before, while visiting her home down a rural, woodsy lane, I’d been charmed by their keeping her company—soft-chatting, metallic-clinking, all differently rhythmic.
I found a wooden set with painted dolphins and put them in my suitcase for India, then took the others to “Graceworks” a lovely resale shop I frequented.
Familiar as her, the wind chimes have begun a’tock a’tock-ing as I continue writing, reminding me of what we learned together.
My realization is, “When real love comes, we may recognize it then, or later, but of its own power, it will live in our heart and memory.”