To Andrew Murray

I don’t remember your arriving in the community, or what departments you worked in during your first years here.

I do remember beer and song on Wednesday afternoons in the kitchen, with you and Loren flamboyantly making pizzas and me making green salad and mega-garlic dressing. They were the best meals of the week.

I don’t remember when you and Jennifer split up in that time of shifting couples in the 70’s.

I do remember sitting with you on the beach during a Community picnic at Roseisle. You looked at the dress I was wearing and said, “I bought that for Jennifer,” and let your sadness show. We sat with it together, open, present, nothing to say.

I remember some years later we sat together again, present to my pain at the ending of a relationship, and how, later again, when you came back to Findhorn after your marriage to Gay ended, there was more sitting. No process. Just presence.

You had a huge capacity to be present to and hold pain, yours, others, ours. You gave it room and breathing space, let the weight of it just be there till it became, in you, rich compost and fertile soil for gifts of soul and spirit – generosity, kindness, forgiveness, laughter, love, gratitude, grace.

You gave and initiated so much here, unstintingly; sometimes, oddly, sidelined and unacknowledged as your initiatives took root, with others taking over the work you had begun. That too became compost.

I know that mornings were often difficult for you, a step-by-slow-step process of rising through a heaviness of heart and mind, to find again, and again, and again, the smile, the care, the warmth, the hope that you extended to others.

You were happier in recent months, more lightness in your step, your smile, your laugh. You were happy to be getting together with Gay again. You were happy with your friends.

I hope you wake happy in your new morning on the far side of life.

I hope you wake happy.

To Nick Rose

This morning we sounded 108 Oms for you
A Buddhist practice to aid your passing
from this world to the next
(although I don’t know that Buddhists actually believe
in a next world).

In the silence after the first 54 Oms
A dove called outside, over and over
Inside, soft rustles of movement
The gurgle of a few early morning stomachs
A quiet clearing of the throat.

All living things have sounds;
The air carries them to our ears
And, if our hearing is tuned enough,
also to our hearts.

Your ears were always open
You heard and held our sounds
And hugged them in your heart.

Your sound was kindness.

To Henrietta Rose

Henrietta, you live on in my home
In my favourite open-armed pottery bowl, elegant swirls of blue and cream, the most used in the house
In the thick bark-edged cheeseboard, honed to a smooth finish, all unusual lines and angles and curves
In the candle holder with the pottery frog looking up at the light
In the smooth beach stone in the bathroom, with its attached shell to hold a tea-light for luxurious candlelit bath times
In the bright bird and animal coasters that support mugs and glasses on my tables
In the handy kitchen and household items items you gifted on birthdays …
a golden decorative plate to catch candle drippings from my golden candlesticks… a pasta server…
the incredibly useful elasticated plastic covers for a variety of containers…
the paper mache vase that you encouraged Tom to make and for which you provided sprays of lavender
In the small boxes that I gave you when your grandchildren visited and that returned to me – some of them – after they had been covered and decorated together, often with some small gift inside

In so many ways, and in so many reminders
You and your creativity live on in my home, and in my heart.

To Dürten Lau

One day some years ago, walking home after an autumn morning meditation in the Sanctuary, you and I came across a spider’s web in the shape of an angel, outlined in tiny minute dewdrops that were catching the morning sunlight.

A magical presence, iridescent, a thing of beauty, a doorway to wonder. The spider hadn’t set out to weave an angel into the world. It was just doing its spider thing, strand by strand, living its spider life.

You too wove a web, a web of connections and caring, just doing your Dürten thing, strand by strand, living your Dürten life.

And now we see it, your Dürten web, lit up by light, dewdrops of iridescence, a thing of beauty and a doorway to wonder, in the shape of an angel.

First image by Mrika Selimi on Unsplash

Mary Inglis

Came to join the Findhorn Foundation in 1973. Born in Scotland, grew up in Lesotho, educated in South Africa. Still lives in the Findhorn Community.