Sylvia's Journal

We drove to Harvard yesterday to celebrate the life of the woman who hired me at MSH more than 26 years ago and who was my colleague for nearly 2 decades.

In order to get to the Harvard Memorial Church we had to work our way past boxes and cars being loaded in the Yard as it was moving out day. I assume that some of the students were elated to get back to their parents, having their own rooms again and the end of classes and papers, and some were, no doubt less than elated to have to follow mom and dad’s rules again.

Only the overseas parents were relaxed as there were no boxes to stuff into cars, just pictures to take; mementos of their clever darling or smart brother in front of this or that Hall, wearing the sweatshirts imprinted with the Harvard logo bought earlier at the Harvard Coop. I could imagine the cousins in a remote village in China looking intently at the picture, marveling at their smart relative, inspired to follow his or her path.

At the church we met the family and colleagues from MSH, some long since retired, a reunion of sorts. All had come to pay their respects, forget about difference and honor all that was good in our former colleague’s life. The church was decorated with purple lilacs, her favorite flower and color. As it turned out it was nearly 30 years to the day that she and her husband married at this same church.

About a decade ago our paths diverged and left a rather deep divide between her and MSH. In the meantime our kids grew up and became adults, both Fulbright Scholars. Both of us juggled motherhood and a job, her kids slightly younger than ours. They had organized with their dad a beautiful and upbeat service that masked successfully the difficulties of these last 10 years.

We wrestled our way from Cambridge through crowded streets to the even more crowded center of Boston for a reception in the fancy Somerset Club on Beacon Street, also the site of the wedding 30 years earlier. We learned more about her past from family, classmates and friends while watching a slide show that showed many happy times.

We returned home to find our daughters and Jim and Faro sitting on our lawn on that beautiful spring day, surrounded by spring flowers, the lilacs in bloom and birds everywhere. It was a surprise visit triggered by Sita’s departure last night to Rome as the airport drop off didn’t synchronize well with Faro’s bedtime. Lucky us, we got to babysit, having a little family time before bedtime, continued in the morning. Tessa had come, by coincidence, to pick up some furniture, something we generally encourage and left before dinner, speeding home to the dogs in Dorchester.

Last night we had three different meals, a Spanish chick pea stew for me, a chunk of meat for Axel, and Jim brought home some spicy South Indian food. We watched the first episode of the first season of The Midwife, quite a counterpoint to Madmen, which has been the focus of our movie watching for the last few months, from seasn one to season five.

The memorial service stayed with me all through the night. Thoughts about living and dying transformed themselves into a graphic that made so much sense during dreamtime and even when I woke up but is now rather mysterious. I vaguely remember a triangle, looking like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs pyramid; touching something deep and important about needs.

Sita texted she arrived safely in Rome this morning and Jim and Faro left to see the other grandparents before heading out west again. They will be back on Thursday when Sita returns.