Confidence is an alternate reality that promises a reason for being. As a young girl, those with confidence were attractive to me. Even though I had a lot of energy and the arrogance of youth, which made people think I was confident, in fact it was all a front. I was afraid of pretty much everything.

Out of fear, I’d run away from home and all it’s expectations. I didn’t want to be a ballerina. I didn’t want to live in the house that held memories of terror and loss. I didn’t want to live in the shadow of my rock-star brothers and charismatic and driven mother. I didn’t want to live in a city, Cambridge, Massachusetts, that only respected intellect. I’d grown up hearing the phrase, “So and so was a genius. And so was so and so and so and so was a genius… Genius, genius genius.” Ad infinitum. Given my inability to read, and barely passing grades, all evidence indicated that I certainly was not.

I had no idea what I was doing with my life. Up until that summer of 1969, my mother was in charge of my life, a life she thought was perfect for me. Although academically I was barely getting by, due to early fame of a spread in Look Magazine about me as a 7-year-old, and me also being chosen out of a cattle-call of 500 little girls to dance with the Bolshoi Ballet in Boston’s Hancock Theater when I was 12, she got the bit in her mouth. With that, she had a stage mother’s galloping delusion that I had the right body, talent, and capacity to get into the New York City Ballet. But by the time I was 17 I’d developed hips. I knew Balanchine only wanted long-legged-short-waisted-hipless-coltish girls. I was not any of those things. It was my mother’s dream, not mine. I knew I had neither the body, the technique nor the drive. I lacked all confidence.

I also knew I could not go on living like this: in the shadows, under daunting expectations, in a place of unresolved sorrow. I would only fail.

I ran away. Crossed an ocean. To London. Within less than a year, with unexplainable determination, I hitchhiked up to a mysterious place in northern Scotland called Findhorn.

There I met Peter Caddy.

Peter Caddy, former RAF officer that he was, had that military attitude which had no room for doubt. All doubt was quashed by his relentless energy and positive outlook. He had that shining air of authority. I wanted to live in that atmosphere, feel protected.

Given the talk about ‘The Dome’ that provided protection from the Dark Forces, no wonder in three years I never wandered outside the edges of the caravan park, not even the half-mile into the fishing village without Peter and an entourage of others.

One sparkling summer day, Peter announced it was a time for a dip in the North Sea. Eight of us mashed into his Morris Traveler and he drove us at full velocity through the narrow village roads, past the tiny stone houses with their colorful doorways, chimney pots and walled gardens, past the jetties and fishing boats, and then careened onto the pebbled beach. We were outside ‘The Dome’, but I felt safe, because even though Peter was a notoriously Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride kind of driver, he was a force of light unto himself: the very embodiment of positivity and power. Nothing bad could ever happen to him. No Dark Force would dare try anything foolish if Peter was about!

Earlier that year I heard him giving his usual animated talk to some visitors. He told them stories about people and things miraculously manifesting just when they were needed. He explained that all things would work out for the community because we were living according to God’s Plan. “When you put your faith in God, hold on to your hat with both hands.” He declared.

One day a skeptical visitor asked, “How can you be so sure about everything working out according to God’s Plan? There are so many variables. There are others out there who could easily throw a spanner in the works.”
“They won’t.” Said Peter.
The fellow responded, “But what if someone sticks a pin in your arm?”
“They won’t.
“Yes, but what if they do?”
“They won’t.”
“Yes, but…”
“They won’t.”
That was Peter.

Me? I was a slight, nervous, young American teenager, who knew pretty much nothing about elves, faeries, fawns, Pan, angels, space aliens, the New Age, Christ consciousness, ascended masters, saints, white magicians, or God’s Plan. But, due to past association with some creepy London friends, I was squeamish about the impending apocalyptic conflagration, so cleaving to Peter seemed like a good idea.

Peter made me feel welcome. Peter lent me confidence. Peter recognized the light within me and that I had valuable gifts, simple gifts, nothing lofty, that I could share with the community. He gave me the kind of purpose I knew I could joyfully fulfill.

If humanistic psychologist Carl Rogers’ definition of love is, ‘Unconditional Positive Regard’, then Peter was the most loving being I ever knew at Findhorn.

More stories about the early 1970s and my experiences with the founders can be found in my memoir:

Lark's book cover