22) Dearest Friends

My Dearest Friends. A threefold pain envelopes me as I fly away. I find myself weeping uncontrollably with it, even before the aircraft has begun its final taxi for take-off. Ensconced in the relative privacy of first class, I do not think that anyone sees me, but a gentle hand on my shoulder and Stanley, flight attendant, unceremoniously slides a wad of Kleenex to my left, quietly enquires if I'm alright, and with his eyes compassionate, lets me be. His kindness has an unexpected effect once he is gone. I weep copiously. Weep not for me, I weep for whom I am leaving. Goodbye my Dearest Friend. Goodbye Simon. Goodbye my Lady Nancy. Whom shall I ever see again? Love has no attachment. Why then does it hurt so much to leave? Love wants nothing in return. Why then does it feel like a hole in my heart? Love expects nothing. Why then am I looking so much forward to mail, email, and ongoing correspondence? No, I shall not be at Simon's funeral. What of Nancy's? And shall I ever see my dearest friend again? Rob's Little Ziggy and Mike's little Rudi have a chance! They may well fly to Canada in their lifetimes and may indeed look me up. 'Be true to yourself', Ziggy had informed me last night, with the grace of an angel attending her message. I shall indeed be true to them. So too for Ron and Martel's Sarah, and for Mike and Mercia's Onika and Karl. In these young people lies the future. In these young people there is love yet to be discovered, mature love, complete love, the kind of love that wants nothing, expects nothing, and only wishes for the other's entire and complete welfare. But what of Mercia's mother, Elise? Will I ever see her again? Leaving so many, for good. Is that why it hurts so deeply to fly away, even as I type. Justin, my dear friend, is also in this cabin, seat 7. He organized that I get the best seat in the house, seat 3a, eh? And he looked after me from day one. All those packings and unpackings of my chair, all those gentle moments of pushing me around. All those moments of attending to the direction of armchairs in which I sat, the plates of food I needed, the organizing of dates and times and coordinates and even drawing others' attentions to my needs. How do I say thank you other than as he taught me even last night at Rob's, where a simple sounding phrase can mean so much. Thank you. Mike drove us to the airport, this Tuesday 5th. In the magic that is the universe, we will arrive in Victoria and Denver, eventually, some thirty hours of travel later, Tuesday 5th. Go figure if you will. For me, as Einstein himself made me see, I am more interested in Gods thoughts than in Gods details. We make meaning of Everything, and everything makes meaning. Even the smallest apostrophe. My dearest friends know that much about me; in this winter of Australian content, we conspire by the fire in Rob Zikman's back yard, "an essentially South African experience". Yet is it? In Mike's cadillac en rout to this plane we listened to wonderfully meaningful song after song en route, en route to take our leave. We listened in accord. Love is like that. It seeks not to harm. It seeks not to be selfish. It seeks not to serve so much the self as the comfort, complete care of and consideration for the other. Justin sees love as a living action. Inasmuch as I have so been treated by my very dear and dearest friends, so may all life unfold as it should, as it would. As it is written, so it too shall be. Your love, my love. Let us thereby be free.