Just I was heading out the door to go to the beach yesterday morning, the postman delivered a letter from France. It is one I had been expecting sooner or later, telling me that my great friend Georges had died. I knew, I think, that when he returned to Paris last autumn, that I would not see him again. He had been suffering from a degenerative nerve disease which had already begun to affect his ability to walk, and was spreading. Although he was in his seventies, he was frustrated that because of his illness – not his age – he was unable to help me work on the roof. We used to joke about various Heath-Robinson contraptions we could make to hoist him up there. Of course, we both knew the reality of the situation – which we kept to ourselves. He was extremely intelligent – he had been a chemical engineer – and had a wonderful, wicked sense of humour. When I returned to France briefly last autumn, I had found a letter waiting for me, in which he, and another friend, had described me as their ‘brother of the heart’. It is a literal translation, but you get the idea.
I don’t want to sound sad about this. I will miss him, but I remember him with affection and happiness. All the same, I was glad to have the beach to myself this morning. As I climbed up the shingle banks to head back, I noticed how much the rough weather had altered the shape of the beach. The beach may change, but it will always be the beach.
What does this have to do with my practice? Well, my work isn’t always based on things in my life, but things in my life certainly have an effect.
