Editor’s Note: The following story was sent to us by Tim Navone.

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Findhorn was such a foundational piece of my childhood. We were there in 1976 from late July and flew back to the United States from London on October 12.

My parents divorced when I was seven years old and, in the mid-1970’s, my mother left the comforts of being a stay-at-home mom to find herself.

From the suburbs of San Francisco, a young 28-year old brought her two children to Findhorn where we stayed and helped build the Universal Hall, I believe. I just remember carrying buckets of nails, maybe for the roof.

I have several marked memories of Findhorn: the beautiful nature, running rivers, eating in the communal dining hall, and helping catch Findhorn brochures off a printing press and loading them into boxes.

I remember some arts and crafts happening, including watching hot metal being poured to make little drip sculptures. I remember music. I remember the rain. I remember the only treat being honey ice cream, so I would head off down the entry path to a little store/shack where I could buy little candies for a few pence.

I remember a hedgehog living under the step of our caravan. I remember grabbing the leg of my mother in her shiny yellow raincoat when I was anxious in the rain … only to look up and see it was NOT my mother, but another woman with the same coat and hair down to her waist.

There were a lot of wonderful people at Findhorn. Two were particularly memorable: John Hopper from Australia, one of two father figures for me when I needed one and the other father figure was more of a grandfather figure. He called me his “little elf” and his “little sheriff.” When I would close my eyes and try to picture God, he looked like that man. Many, many years later I found out that man was famous. His name was Burt Lancaster. It was my understanding that he returned again to prepare for his movie “Local Hero.” Famous or not, his heart was true and he helped me manage a tough time without my father. I kept the great photo of Burt Lancaster and me at Findhorn that is shown at the top.

At 57, I still think of Findhorn often. I hope to return one day and walk the grounds and say a prayer for Burt, John and all the others I created memories with.

Tim Navone