In Memory of Maya
Autumn comes, then winter. The mice have eaten through their stores and they are feeling glum in their home in the old stone wall. They turn to Frederick. "What do you have to share with us?" they ask. Frederick sings of warm sun and wild flowers, of the turn of the seasons and how the spirit that animates the seasons is in the field mouse, too. "Why, Frederick!" they exclaim. "You're a poet!" Frederick blushes and says, "I know it."
I always felt that Maya saw and valued my best qualities--she listened seriously when I taught, laughed at my jokes, was so very kind and complimentary of my teaching. After she died, I picked up "Frederick". I re-read her inscription, I looked at the pictures, I enjoyed the story all over again.
In reading it more closely, I realized that while Maya only knew me as her yoga teacher, she really had my number. She didn't know that I was a dreamy child, forever sitting around and blinking while others went about their business. I don't think she ever met any of my family, other than my husband who works at the studio. But I think those who know me best would totally agree with her insight into my character, my poetry and my bemusement.
What a gift to give someone! To see her nature, right down to the marrow, and tell her you value it, all of it.
Dear Maya, it was an honor to be your teacher. It was a blessing to be your student. I am so lucky to have been loved by you.