Mildred Gordon Crosses the Bar at 92

Sunset and evening star,
         And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
         When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
         Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
         Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
         And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
         When I embark;

For though from out our borne of Time and Place
         The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
         When I have crossed the bar.

                 —Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1889

Mildred Gordon died peacefully in her sleep this morning, surrounded by family and friends at Ganas, the community she helped found on Staten Island in 1979.

I knew Mildred for about 30 years. We first met in the mid-'80s when she and others from Ganas came down to Twin Oaks to participate in a Federation of Egalitarian Communities assembly, to explore what other income-sharing communities were doing and the extent to which it made sense to make common cause.

While it would have been enough that we were friends for 30 years and both founders of income-sharing communities, I'm taking this time to eulogize Mildred because she was also a teacher and mentor to me in the field of group dynamics, and she counseled me through some poignant, difficult times. I recall three in particular:

a) When Elke and I broke up in 1989, she wound up moving at Ganas with our two-year-old daughter, Jo. Mildred, and others at Ganas, worked hard to help Elke see that there was no good thing to be gained by vilifying me and wrapping herself in victim's raiment. Thus, in a period of months, Elke was able to move through her grieving the loss of our intimate partnership and start to rebuild her life based on the positive things in her life—the things she had control over. In addition to making it far easier to be friends (instead of estranged lovers), this helped enormously for me to continue being an active father for my daughter—which has been precious to me—and for Elke and I to co-parent without ever using our daughter as a football. That was huge.

b) It happened that I was visiting Ganas when my father died unexpectedly of a heart attack in November, 1989. While plans were settling for the family to gather in South Carolina for the funeral, Mildred spent a lot of time with me one-on-one getting me to explore my feelings and whatever came up. It was the first time I had ever lost someone that close to me and I had no idea about grieving. Luckily, Mildred did. 

She knew I needed to talk, and the initial sorting I did with her (along with the reflective time I had taking Amtrak's Silver Meteor from New York City to Yemassee SC) enabled me to be clear enough to request a special, two-hour conversation with my mother and siblings, where we started to unpack the volatile and conflicted feelings we had toward Dad, taking advantage of the vulnerability and spaciousness unique to loss. 

This was, to be sure, something we'd never done before as a family, and it was a watershed experience for me in terms of how I related to family members from then on. Looking back, it's doubtful that I would have had it together to have made the request without all the work Mildred did with me in the first 36 hours after learning of my father's death.

c) I was visiting Ganas at some point in the mid-90s, when I had an important facilitation gig lined up, working with a sister community where I knew I'd be called upon to labor with a friend about founder dynamics. My challenge was how to get the issue authentically out in the open without it coming across as an ambush.

One magical evening I was visiting Mildred up in her room and we decided to role play the dynamic, where Mildred was me and I was my friend. For about an hour we had this freewheeling conversation where I got into being my friend and voicing how I expected her to respond.

This experience turned out to be terrifically insightful. Based on that preparation, when it came time to actually do the work I was able to establish to my friend's satisfaction that I understood and could empathize with what they were going through. I was able to demonstrate viscerally that they were not alone, and this proved to be pivotal in maintaining a constructive and pliable tenor to the examination.

It turned out that this experience was foundational for me as a professional facilitator and group consultant, and I've carried it with me the last 20 years whenever I'm in a situation where someone feels backed into a corner.

• • •

My relationship with Mildred was not that of peers. She was always the teacher and I was the student (who was sometimes enthralled by the lessons and sometimes repulsed); she was the facilitator and I was the respondent. While she enjoyed probing what was going on with me, she did not encourage that kind of examination in the other direction. While I chafed at this imbalance for quite a while, I finally came to accept that learning from Mildred was a gift and it was unwise of me (not to mention churlish) to push away the invitation just because the exchange did not flow both ways.

For many years Ganas went by the name Foundation for Feedback Learning, which was their educational nonprofit and very much the center of their social experiment. Mildred was keen on investigating the ways that people shoot themselves in the foot by limiting or distorting the intake of critical information about how they are perceived. (The idea here is not necessarily that others are seeing you accurately, but that it's never in your interest to not know how your statements and behavior are landing with others. In fact, it's highly beneficial to discover at the earliest opportunity any discrepancies between what you intended and how you are received.)

It turns out that most of us engage in all manner of shenanigans to avoid or insulate ourselves from receiving feedback, even when it's directly against our best interests to resist it. 

In the process of doing this work, Mildred was among the most adept practitioners I ever encountered at working a dynamic both emotionally and rationally, which approach had a profound influence on how I developed as a professional facilitator. After witnessing Mildred at the top of her game, I wouldn't settle for group work that didn't simultaneously engage content and energy, and I'm not confident I would have come to that understanding without Mildred's guidance.

Another reason I appreciated Mildred and my time at Ganas was the intensity of the engagement (it certainly wasn't for the coffee, which was every bit as weak as the conversations were strong). I've never encountered another group that devoted so much attention to group dynamics (and I thought I was a junkie). 

Ganas in the '90s—which was the decade when Jo was splitting time between there and Sandhill, and I was visiting regularly—held planning sessions every morning six days a week, and then had freewheeling after dinner conversations most days as well. On your birthday you could decide what personal growth topic you wanted to work on all day. In fact, they were into the process tank so spectacularly that I use Ganas as the poster child for one end of the spectrum on how-much-do you-want-to-be-in-each-others'-lives-by-virtue-of-being-a-member-of-this-community. (On the other end are communities that hold potlucks once a month.)

While most people who visited Ganas or heard about their strong commitment to group process found the attention they gave interpersonal dynamics appalling, I loved it.

The last time I saw Mildred was in October, 2012. I visited Ganas for three days and spent an hour sitting with her each afternoon letting the conversation go wherever it wanted. Though I'd been cautioned ahead of time that Mildred was starting to lose her cognitive abilities, I couldn't discern any loss of focus or relevance to her comments. They say that long-term memory is the last to go and I suppose I benefited from the vast majority of our common history falling comfortably into the long-term column. Or maybe she was just having a good week. 

In any event it was a touching and connecting final visit.

One of Mildred's foibles was the feeling that she was going to die young, which she was mildly obsessed about. I believe many of her immediate family had died young and she expected a similar fate. Well Mildred, having lived to be 92 it's hard to say you got cheated—and all those who knew you are the richer for your longer stay.

Saying Goodbye to Tamar

Sadly, I have another eulogy today. Long-time Dancing Rabbit member Tamar Friedner died Sunday, losing her battle with liver and pancreatic cancer. She was 32.

It was right at a year ago that we learned of Tamar's grim diagnosis [see my blog Bad News at Home of Sept 17, 2009]. With pluck and determination she had rallied from grave debilitation (she was severely jaundiced at one point and surgery was needed to clear an abdominal obstruction), and enjoyed several good months in the spring when her cancer was in remission. The thing that seemed to help most was a vibrational healing system called Tong Ren, developed by Boston acupuncturist Tom Tam.

While the hope of spring proved false, it was great to see the more vital Tamar once again after the shocking initial diagnosis. It seemed a miracle that her health could be restored so completely, but it was a mirage. The tumors eventually returned and she went into a decline from which she never recovered. She died in Massachusetts, near her family. Various DR members visited her there and Nathan Brown in particular did heroic service in support during the final weeks, including sending her friends much-appreciated updates on her status. One of the beauties of community living is that it is often possible for people to free up their lives to answer the call like this, and I'm sure it meant a lot to Tamar.

Tamar maintained a blog during the last year, and it's an amazing chronicle of her experience. She called it simply, The Journey. One of the things that touches me most about community living is that it often inspires the best in people, not the least of which is heart-rending vulnerability. While there are paths that we can only walk alone—as Tamar has so clearly demonstrated—we are nonetheless in this life together and there is incredible power and solace in the companionship. Tamar let us all peek behind the curtain of her solitary journey toward death and we are all the richer for her courage and eloquence. It is, after all, a journey that we will all take eventually.

Our Last Exchange
My last communication with Tamar occurred less than two weeks ago. Aug 29 she had written:

Do you know how Geoph (Kozeny) knew when he was on the path to death? Do you think he knew before he got there? What did he do in relation to the illness after he got diagnosed? Did he do Western medicine? Alternative?

Did you know when Geoph was definitely on the path to death? How did you know?

I know these are intense questions. I hope that is okay with you. Sorry if you are not in the space to think about these things.
I responded:

It's certainly OK, and I'm happy to offer what I can.

I'll try to cover your questions with a narrative...

Geoph learned about having inoperable pancreatic cancer in late June 2007, and he died four months later.

Geoph was a highly optimistic person, and idealistic to the point of being unrealistic at times. Because I also am highly optimistic (though somewhat more pragmatic), this didn't bother me about him. Naturally enough, given his core nature, Geoph immediately set upon a path to recover his health through alternative treatments (since allopathic treatments had been ruled out as expensive and ineffective).

While he struggled to make sense of an avalanche of information, some of which was contradictory, he ultimately settled on a course of dietary changes and enzyme supplements (in particular, some product by Mannatech). His mood was generally good, even though he had to navigate a fair amount of pain associated with digestion problems.

My understanding is that he nearly died within a month of the diagnosis due to intestinal blockage, but then this cleared and he was able to enjoy about 10 weeks of relatively pain free living with decent energy and focus. Prudently, he chose to emphasize connecting with as many friends as possible, and essentially stopped working on projects. Fortunately, he had enough good days left to accomplish almost all of what he wanted to in that way.

I was in close contact with Geoph during his final four months, including three visits to the Bay Area. One of my roles was help him make arrangements in case he died, which included disposition of his assets and completion of his video. Given that these things would not have been needed if he survived the cancer, he was having conversations with me that he was not having with others. At the same time, Geoph almost never talked about death with me; it was more like he was preparing for the worst while still hoping for a miracle. As I believe in the power of faith, I was happy to adopt this view myself.

Still, after a brief period of cautious optimism associated with the flurry of experimentation with diet changes and supplements, I had the definite sense that Geoph was dying by August. He was not able to stop losing weight, and his energy was constantly drained (though his mood was often good and he was fully present). I had no sense how long he would live, but I knew he was not going to recover.

During the final two months it was hard to tell how much Geoph might have been in denial about his condition, versus how much he was simply working with what he had, to be open to the mystery of dying. Toward the end he became increasingly interested in spiritual questions and the meaning of life. Increasingly, he would be "somewhere else" when others were in the room.

I saw him for the last time only two days before he died, when it was crystal clear that his body was shutting down. I absolutely knew I was saying good-bye for the last time. But even then, Geoph wasn't interested in talking about dying, except indirectly by speaking regretfully about how he was learning so many interesting things with so little time to enjoy working with them.

While I was never clear about how much Geoph consciously looked at death, I had the definite sense that he met it at peace.

Tamar replied Sept 1:

Thank you Laird. Something that I resonate a lot with and have been saying is.... what a waste it would be if I died now that I have learned so much and my life in health would be more full and joyous.

What a great way to go out, still in wonder and curiosity!
We Build the Ritual as We Travel
Per her wishes, Tamar will be buried at Dancing Rabbit this Friday. It will be the first burial among the tri-communities (Sandhill, DR, and Red Earth) and it's a solemn occasion. Communities are good with ritual and this is a potent time. I'm confident that it will go well. Grieving is a highly individualized and non-linear process, so there will be lots of room for people to touch the third rail of grief in their own way, singly or in groups. This afternoon, before our regular Tuesday potluck, there will be a ritual to start digging the grave. For me, it helps to have something to do, and I'm looking forward to grieving with a shovel in my hands, just as I'm grieving now at the keyboard.

Ma'ikwe is part of the group that's planning the burial ceremony, and she's taken on the concierge role, helping out with travel and lodging logistics for people coming from out of town for the funeral. There are supporting tasks for all who want one, to be pallbearers figuratively, if not literally.

As death is not something we tend to dwell on before it arrives, awkward things can surface when it knocks on the door (who, after all, is ever fully prepared?). One of those moments occurred for Sandhill yesterday when DR asked us if we'd store Tamar's body in our walk-in cooler between its arrival from Massachusetts Wednesday and the burial Friday. Because it will be a natural burial—very much aligned with the community's and Tamar's values—the body has not been embalmed. There are health regulations governing this and refrigeration is required. Dancing Rabbit is off the grid and doesn't have a refrigerated space large enough to handle this. We do.

On the one hand, this is a way we can help, and several of us felt honored to do this. On the other, this is the harvest season and we're moving food in and out of the walk-in daily. Some members feel queasy about this commingling of life and death and may avoid using the walk-in for the two days that Tamar will be in temporary residence. There is no right or wrong here; it's just one tender example of how death stirs things up, and not the same things for everyone. Breathing through the swirl of emotional responses, we came to a settled place about saying "yes." This was a request we never anticipated facing, but here we are.

Death Be Not ProudThis marks the fourth friend I've lost in less than seven weeks, the last three just in Sept: Al Andersen in July, then Margo Adair, Fred Lanphear, and Tamar in rapid succession. Yikes! Why are so many leaving at the same time? Are there more right around the corner?

While it's hard saying goodbye, it would be much worse if I didn't have the chance, or didn't make the time.

So long, Tamar, thanks for being my friend.

Bad News at Home

Ode to an Athlete Dying Young

The time you won your town the race
We chaired you through the marketplace;
Man and boy stood cheering by,
And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,
Shoulder-high we bring you home,
And set you at your threshold down,
Townsmen of a stiller town.

Smart lad, to slip betimes away
From fields where glory does not stay,
And early though the laurel grows
It withers quicker than the rose.

Eyes the shady night has shut
Cannot see the record cut,
And silence sounds no worse than cheers
After earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the route
Of lads that wore their honors out,
Runners whom renown outran
And the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,
The fleet foot on the sill of shade,
And hold to the low lintel up
The still defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled head
Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
And find unwithered on its curls
The garland briefer than a girl's.

—A E Houseman

I learned last night that my friend Tamar Friedner has been diagnosed with terminal cancer in her liver, pancreas, and uterus. The disease is so advanced that the oncologist considers it inoperable and untreatable. I feel that I've been kicked in the gut by one of the horses of the Apocalypse, and this has cast a pall over the tri-communities of Scotland County (Dancing Rabbit, where Tamar has been a member for many years, Sandhill Farm, and Red Earth).

Two years ago, I lost another friend to pancreatic cancer—Geoph Kozeny. Geoph was my age and his life was cut short at 57. As much as a tragedy as that was, it is even more shocking with Tamar, who is only in her 30s. You can never imagine it, and it brought to mind the poignant A E Houseman poem I opened with. How can a life so full of promise and inquiry be ending so soon?

My partner, Ma'ikwe, moved to DR a year ago and is now in the midst of building a house there. She worked extensively with Tamar last winter in designing the house and Ma'ikwe asked her to serve as the general contractor on the project. My most recent conversations with Tamar have been to discuss design details about Ma'ikwe's house.

Tamar likes construction, yet she declined Ma'ikwe's offer in order to free up her summer to travel and explore options, which is what she did. In the spring she traveled to Vermont to explore a possible life partner relationship. When that didn't work out, she planned trips to other parts of the US, to see friends and assess other potentials, springboarding off her substantial foundation of sustainable living experience at DR.

While not an athlete per se, Tamar may reasonably be likened to a marathoner, who knows how to exert herself steadily—both physically and energetically—for the long haul. It is the ultimate tragedy that in Tamar's instance, the haul will not be long. All of her friends in Scotland County are stunned and sadder today. How can such a vital life force be so cruelly truncated? It is a time for grieving.