Remembering Helen
This past week, I received a message that my dear friend, Helen, passed away. She had just turned 100 in February. As it turns out, her 100th birthday party became the last time I saw her. Even though I knew this was coming sooner or later, it’s hard to believe she’s gone.
I met Helen and her husband “Mike” Mikelson in early ’80s while I was still a foreign student at El Camino College through a classmate who was their neighbors down the street. Mike used to do auto body work in the garage in his retirement. Being young and reckless, I would bang my car every once in a while. Mike would then fix the dents for me. The Mikelsons took me under their wing and gave me lots of love as if I were one of their kids. After Mike passed on in 1998, Helen was the center of this extended family who would come to gather from different parts of the country and the world for holidays and other family occasions. I was lucky to be one of those who got to visit Helen every once in a while. She was full of fascinating stories, always wanting to offer me cookies or sandwiches. I cherished every moment I spent with her.
As I attended a prayer circle last weekend facilitated by the local native tribes, Chumash, we prayed for all our ancestors who walked on this earth before us over thousands of years and thanked them for their legacy. They prompted us to think of people in our life who helped us along the way and send them respect and gratitude. I thought of my parents, grandparents, and all those who have made indelible footprints in my life. Helen was certainly one of them.
We’re all passing through this realm of human experiences, and we get to be a part of this mesmerizing kaleidoscope of life where different people and situations intersect. There are 10,000 sorrows and 10,000 joys as they say in Buddhism. I’m deeply grateful to have known Helen and her family, and for the joy they have given me. Even with this sorrow, I will cherish the memories of her.
#YouCanSitWithUs
Enough
Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
This opening to the life
we have refused
again and again
until now.
Until now
David Whyte