When Lee started her practice, she was thirty seven years old. Three and seven, two magic numbers. Three is the unbalanced, four is the balanced. When they come together, seven encompasses everything. I wonder if I will remember that I started to meditate at age fifty-five. Numbers never stay in my head, but Lee told me the same is true about her.
Lee tells me lots of things, she says, because I am ready to hear them. She tells me stories that lead me to no answers. She tells me stories that lead me to a question I never thought to have: who are you? This is not a question that asks to list my accomplishments. The answer is not lawyer, writer, mother, daughter, golfer. The answer is not there yet. Lee tells me the answer will come only if i sit with myself for some time.
Lee has, I presume, answered the question. Her answer, at least part of her answer, was that she is a pilot. At the middleish age of forty-five, she was compelled to learn to fly a plane. She took flying lessons and learned to soar above the horizon, to do the scary thing, to go to a place where no one she loved would accompany her. They were all too afraid. She flew a Volkswagon of a plane and she did it for three years. Why? It was who she was.
Who are you? Oh, the synchronicity. This is the name of Joe's favorite song. How many times have he and our musician son, Jesse, tried to explain to me the genius of The Who to me? Shall I give them another listen?