Sheridan Crumlish - A Memory

My friend Sheridan Crumlish died.

That was his real name. I asked him once if "Sheridan" was common when he was growing up. No, he told me. "Sheridan Crumlish" was a very difficult name to grow up with.

Here's my first memory of Sheridan Crumlish.

It is March 2002 and the U.S. has just started bombing Iraq. I madly Google the word "peace" and find the Peace Testimony of the Quakers, and this quote from George Fox:

"Walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everybody."

From my yoga practice, I reply "Namaste," and decide to go to a Quaker service.

Sheridan was the first person I heard speak in Quaker Meeting.

The group is sitting in concentric circles of chairs and I'm facing the door. I'm watching a very tall old, old man walk down the long hallway towards the room with a cane. Meeting for worship has begun and the room has shifted to the deep still of common, silent prayer. Sheridan very slowly, carefully shuffles towards us. He is wearing hunter green wide wale corduroys, a white oxford shirt, and navy blazer. He has a bright pink sweater wrapped around his shoulders and a beret. And on his feet are a pair of hand-woven rattan slippers with red pom-poms. As he walks into the room, I can't keep my eyes off the pompoms.

He looks exactly like my grandfather, only unapologetically colorful.

He sits down in an open chair in the inner circle, and settles in for about 10 minutes. He is the first to speak:

"I read in the New York Times this morning that despite U.S. bombing, the fisherman of the Tigris and Euphrates are still fishing this week, exactly as they have done for a thousand years. And somehow this gave me a great deal of comfort."

And somehow that gave me a lot of comfort, and hooked me on Sheridan and Quaker meeting.

Our friendship grew in between bursts of doting attention, and his fiery alcoholism. There was a birthday dinner party for him in his NYC brownstone; a visit to his summer home in Québec for a long Memorial Day weekend; and a winter of Sunday morning phone calls: "Sheridan, I'm going to Meeting and driving by your house. Do you want a ride?"

There were also afternoons in his home with groceries and lunch, and lots of stories about the women, but mostly men, he'd known over the years. He cheered me on even while he dismissed my romantic interests: "Sister - You're pretty, but no Palm Beach. Don't waste your time on the high flyer." I remember one day I was "Brigitte the Irish Chambermaid" while I was in his kitchen making tea for everyone. He was complex and alive, and sometimes just happily rude.

I liked trying to practice my French with him. He spoke four languages and at Northwestern University had tutored, and been engaged to, Nan Robertson, the wonderful New York Times reporter. He had also served as an diplomatic administrator in Europe after World War II. But he told me I had to stop: my accent is terrible and it made him cranky. He was also fussy about the words I used. He would mimic a particularly casual usage and make me stop and rephrase. "Say what you mean," was his abiding command.

He couldn't get to the Met or enjoy NYC the way he'd planned when he bought his brownstone and started renovating it, but one could always find him in his downstairs study on a Saturday afternoon listening to the opera on the radio and reading the New York Times. He spent the winters in NYC making plans for the houses he was renovating in Québec and always had pictures handy.

His interior design style was wabi-sabi, a term I swear I learned from him, but he swore he'd never heard of. Everything in his homes, it seemed, had received some repair and in the Zen aesthetic of wabi-sabi, the care you take to repair something adds to its value and beauty. The porcelain jewelry case that belonged to his mother had been broken and repaired once by her, again by him. It sat prominently in the entrance to his brownstone.

One memorable exception to that was "The Million Dollar Couch" on the second floor of his farmhouse - an enormous couch he'd bought at a design showcase on Long Island- in turquoise velvet. He told me the price. It didn't cost quite a million since he bought the floor model. A crane had to lift it through the picture window to get it into the room and it sat next to his easel and a wide view of neighboring mountains.

It occurs to me that my friendship with Sheridan laid some precious mortar after the end of my marriage. And surely Ashtanga, the Alternatives to Violence Project and blogging are more of that.

From Sheridan I developed a love for old kitchen utensils. His toaster was an Art Deco open-coiled monster from the 1930's that had no On-Off switch - it had to be unplugged to let the coils cool.

Here's his most romantic recipe. He taught it to me in that old farmhouse in Québec, calling directions from his chair in the living room while I executed. It was a lovely gift, and one day I hope to cook it as intended.

"Paris 1948" Take 2 Tablespoons of butter and melt over a low heat. Stir in 1 Tablespoon flour and cook the roux. Add about a teaspoon of curry powder, some tarragon leaves to taste. Then stir in some frozen shrimp that have been melted and dried thoroughly. Pour the curried shrimp over rice, or linguini, or angel hair pasta.

I grew up in an antiseptic Betty Crocker household, as did my mother, and Sheridan was the first cook I knew who left his cheeses out on the farmhouse kitchen table, happily ignoring the line of little ants streaming over the tabletop. Cheese really does taste better at room temperature. And mustard? Buy it dry and mix it as you need it. For a salad dressing - dissolve the salt into the vinegar before mixing in the oil, and make small amounts, you don't need a vat of the stuff. For Sheridan I also learned to mix a martini.

When I last spoke with him in January, a few weeks before he passed, I asked whether he should be returning to Québec in the winter. I didn't need to remind him that I'd pulled him out of his bed one winter in NYC, wet, shivering, naked and on the verge of pneumonia. He was cranky and said he'd be fine. I told him I loved him and was glad he was carrying a new cell phone.

I heard today that he returned to Québec to die - further medical tests when he got home showed that his prostate cancer had completely metastasized into his bones and he could not find a way to get warm. He had apparently been in quite a bit of pain.

His best friend, Richard, adopted his fat dirty cat and says that she actually cleans up nicely in the Québec countryside. We laughed about that today.

And the cemetery near his home granted his desire that a large round boulder be placed on his grave as the only marker, although I understand it split in two when they moved it onto the site. There is no name on it.

A Skunk on my Labyrinth

And some Tantra.

I'm juggling thoughts of Elizabeth Cady Stanton right now, and comfortable shoes, and a thousand other things. But I'll start simply.

Before I do, a friend directs me to Scrum - we're discussing Agile software project management. Googling Scrum is how I begin and that leads me to Rugby 101 on Youtube.

I really had no idea. Rugby is so, obviously, superior to American football. Forgive me Uncle Fielding.

OK, now back to that skunk.

It's sunset when I find my way up Heartbreak Hill to the labyrinth behind the church in my town. I pace the labyrinth as I often do, moving slowly, hands clasped at my heart, smiling a little. At some point I close my eyes, and step thoughtfully along the bricks.

When I open my eyes, there is a skunk in the yard about 20 feet from me.

He is happily rooting in the grass, prancing back and forth, chattering to himself, or so it seems. And a surprised part of me thinks "OH COOL! Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!"

I don't believe I actually said that, but I have no one to ask. It's a slow moment before I realize, as he trots cheerfully towards me, that this creature has the power to make me deeply uncomfortable. In an end-of-the-road kind of flash, I think of all the places I'd be unwelcome if that should happen, and it's time to slowly back away.

What surprises me, though, is that I'm in no way resentful of Mr. Skunk. I don't mind that he disrupted my evening meditation. I understand that he is a skunk and that I lack a basic understanding of how to behave in his presence. I am happy to give him a whole lot of room, and glad I'm wearing sneakers.

If he were a human with the power to make me deeply uncomfortable, I might grapple earnestly with the best approach: kind? humorful? apologetic? stern? etc. I might discuss it with girlfriends, sisters or colleagues; shed tears; lose weight. But a skunk is what it is and it's amazingly easy to be ok with that.

It occurs to me that he is a mighty strong metaphor for some human encounters. You can't ever know what will make someone else feel threatened, or harmed, and you can't predict what their reaction will be. But if you know they're a skunk, really, just stay away because it won't matter to them that you are on your own little labyrinth of life, meditative or prayerful, kind as you may be.

I shared this in Quaker meeting yesterday, surprised to hear it coming from my lips, but several women approached me afterward and told me the message had spoken to them.

I haven't forgotten about Elizabeth Cady Stanton, or my fabulous and very comfortable shoes. I'm just pulling on some threads.

Of course, as women find themselves participating directly in the world economy, a platform designed and operated by men, it's hard not to notice that in many respects women are not especially well-schooled for the emotional and social elements of a good scrum, or skunks at work.

And women are really pretty new to the game. I am sitting at the desk that belonged to Stanton's granddaughter. She graduated in the first class that allowed women students at Cornell's Engineering school and she built this house. And her granddaughter is my landlady.

We may not realize it, but we're at the edge of living memory on the fight for a woman's right to vote, or to own property, or have rights to their children. And I don't believe we're completely whole yet.

In between raising a family of 7 and her marriage to a charismatic and very handsome man whom she adored, Stanton spent a lot of time researching the laws that restricted her. She and her devoted girlfriends tore open the Declaration of Independence and restitched it to include the basic rights of women as human beings.

But it seems to me their work isn't finished until all men are willing to let women in the game, and are ready to play by some new rules that may include fashion-forward and very happy shoes. I wonder what Stanton would think of my shoes?

That's pretty simplistic, I know. And maybe it's even more simplistic - or just blissfully simple - to understand that some of them are skunks doing their best to make you uncomfortable, and some of them may have a great pair of rugby shorts in the closet. I'm surely not the first to notice.

Now, I've promised a tantrika meditation so I will do it. I hate to keep reminding, but this is not about sex.

I was given permission to teach this but have only ever shared it with someone I adore. How does it fit in? Well, isn't it the basic care we give each other, the honest observation of another's well-being, that allows us to progress on this planet? So this is a healing meditation.

Let me warn you that personally I find it so lovely and relaxing that it puts me to sleep. Maybe you'll be sitting, or lying down when you try it.

Close your eyes and start to listen to your breath. Feel it lift your belly, your ribcage, your collar bones, and feel it release. Give yourself a few minutes to let your breath relax and soften.

On an inhale, when you feel like it, begin to say or think the word, "Sa", and as you exhale, "Om".

"Sa"... "Om"... This is a very old bij mantra.

On your next "Sa", imagine a bright, soothing light entering your body at the base of your spine, rising up through the vertebra with your breath, up to the very crown of your head.

And as you return your breath, with the word "Om", allow the light to drop back down your spine. Visualize the light slowly moving up and down your spine, and breathe.

"Sa" and "Om".

And smile.