As I read Sharon’s moving tribute to our dear friend, Ed Young, like a winter brook before the spring thaw, my heart held still. The words simplicity and singularity of purpose resonated with me. Ed was known and loved by many for his steadiness, laced with humor, sweetness, humanity, and deep, enduring values.
As I took in the truth of the tribute and began to unravel feelings and thoughts not yet articulated, I was gradually able to fall asleep that night.
By morning, it seemed spring thaw had begun. It was a crisp, golden autumn day, neighbors out walking, the world at peace, the sun shining brightly.
Many memories flowed through me, all meaningful, heartfelt, joyful and real. I had known about Ed for some time through his beloved children’s books of course, and the friends who studied Tai Chi with him. We met at one of the many cherished book signings at our beloved Galapagos Books. “Do I know you?” he asked. I reminded him of casual meetings at community events, such as the beautiful classical instrumental music concerts at Hillside School that he and his wife, Filomena attended. We knew many people in common. Like the memory of long-lost friends, we began a sweet, respectful, caring friendship lasting through the passage of many life events and shared endeavors.
It was meaningful to support his work at book signings, all lasting treasures imprinted with his bright spirit, touching many lives with a deep understanding of humanity, culture, the natural world and circle of life. The depth and beauty of his work was always a respected model of inspiration for me.
When I embarked on my own journey into the world of children’s books and shared with him my background in classically based dance, arts and education, I commented that I understood how children develop. “That’s your strength,” he reflected. He went on to say that if one has a “family” of illustrations, they all must be up to the same standard. One has to put a lot of oneself into one’s work, yet be somewhat commercial. “A very fine balance,” we both agreed. As with many of my Chinese friends, steeped in centuries of timeless wisdom, he said, “One step at a time.” This simple adage is wise advice for all of us, to live and create fully in the present moment, one moment at a time, lest we miss what is most precious in our lives at any given time. While new moments are born, this present moment exists for but a fraction of time.
At one of my birthday gatherings, he presented me with a copy of “Cats Are Cats.” with quiet joy and anticipation. As I was working on a ballet story with cats at the time, he said, “Maybe your cat is in there!”
Around 2008, a small group of us began having weekly meditations in Ed’s basement, led by Sharon. They were beautiful reflections, with an intention to restore the plan on earth guided by light supernal. On one occasion, Ed had placed a load of laundry in his washing machine. As we shared our reflections after the meditation, a number of people commented on the background sound of the machine. With his inimitably understated humor, Ed asked, “Would you prefer regular or spin cycle?” Peals of laughter cascaded through the room, lifting our spirits: voices of the heart emerging.
Around this time, Sharon had conceived a wondrous Findhorn garden, housed between their two homes, that a few of us helped to tend. In this Young / Deep compound, an oasis of evolved way of living, a model Renaissance way of life was shown. Sharon spoke of her rain barrel, ahead of its time in reappearance at that time, and of course, with great parental pride, her patient keeping of bees and beautiful, exquisitely soft, lovingly nurtured Guinea hens, for whom we all had great affection. Like well cared for children, they had the sense of security and confidence to wander out of the backyard into the neighborhood and town. As our fair village looks out for feathered and furry companions, one could always count on a neighbor to have an eye out, so the hen could be shepherded back home.
It was a special time, a seemingly endless kaleidoscope revealing hidden gems of kindness, creativity and care within and among our close and growing circle of friends, afternoon tea dates, visits to and a performance I gave at the UN with Manhattan School of Music students, Chinese New Year celebrations, Ed’s delightful sense of humor and his puppet shows, a watercolor wash of joy, movement and shared love of family, community, and one another among us.
As the years rolled forward, and his lovely daughters left home to travel their own journeys, I was aware of the growing quiet in the Young house. Around this time, I created a watercolor study of a young classical dancer, rendered with the grace and delicacy of her tender youth and refined ballet position. As with much of my work in this lifetime, it had an Asian influence and quality. Given my own love for and choice of profession in the art form, it also radiated joy. I created prints I gave to friends at times when I felt they would appreciate its uplifting quality. This effect had been reflected to me by close friends we shared, and so, at that time, I left a print for Ed with a note. When I ran into him on our respective walks home shortly thereafter, I said I hoped it would bring him joy for many years to come. “It already has,” he said.
These conversations and meetings threaded through time with continuity. There were gatherings at his kitchen table as he nodded approvingly at the progression of my work, always encouraging the next developmental step.
Over the years, Ed and I hinted at the possibility of a book collaboration. I remember a sweet embrace after the passing of our dear friend, Ina Winick, as I recalled having some current work to share with him. “We have time,” he said in a gentle, reassuring voice.
We never know how much time we will ever have, and whenever we lose someone dear, however full and beautiful the life, it always seems too soon. Sadly, we had run out of time, or so it seemed. I was reminded that “something will come along,” through a related connection in spirit, possibly an opportunity. I have lived long enough to understand the truth in this. The spirit continues. Still, the poignancy remained for a time.
The morning after I received the news of Ed no longer being with us, I went out into the autumn sunlight by the river, then to our back courtyard to meditate, tea in hand. My eyes were guided toward one of our cherished cedar trees, tall, lean, majestic, deep evergreen fronds close to the earth. My gaze drew upward. For several steady minutes, I was riveted. With my artist’s eye, I noticed the bright yellow green pinnacle reaching to the heavens, bathed in autumn sunlight, whisper white clouds brushed alongside blue sky. My heart opened and I felt Ed’s spirit, larger and brighter than ever, shining with hope upon all of us.
His was the path of a true human being, rich with candor, a deep and abiding joy in his eyes that only emerges in those who have found the wisdom of balance amidst all aspects of life.
His bright spirit lives in the lovely hearts of his wise and beautiful daughters and in all of us. As with the gentle cascade of autumn leaves, it falls to all of us to keep this circle of unifying connection flowing forward through the seasons, with each passing year, as kind stewards of Nature, all forms of life and empathically with one another. I know we are equal to the task.
He will be dearly remembered . . . his soul is a blessing, showing us the way . . . May we embrace it as we enter autumn, the color white, the sound, weeping, both courage and sadness, the medium of breath, the element, metal, the white tiger, and the westward direction of dreams and visions . . .
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