For Diana. As You Like It.

As You Like It.
One day not long after the death of my father, Diana presented me with Shakespeare's As You Like It. She did not tell me why but of this I am certain. Diana wanted me to reread and understand these words:

"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' brow.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."
—
Jaques (Act II, Scene VII, lines 139-166)


And just possibly, possibly likely, Diana hoped that I would remember that life is not always Hamlet, not always King Lear but oft a Comedy of Errors, oft As You Like It, perchance, perchance, perchance A Midsummer's Night Dream.

§§§

Diana. I always called you Diana. And Diana you are and shall always be to me.

When we met, I recognized You – Thou, my friend – instantly. We saw, I believe, each other's souls clearly that day and throughout the years of our friendship, which was not without its ups and downs – both of us well acquainted with the latter in ways literal and figurative. I subsequently told you, my dear Diana, that I knew « right then and there » who you were.

I did. I understood in 1996 without having read your autobiographical manuscript, without having read Broken Voyages. I saw immediately the brilliant girl full of sunshine and laughter; I saw the bright Southern Belle, a student leader at Chapel Hill; I saw the English and History teacher in Virginia; I saw the founder of the docent program at the Folger; I saw the socialite in Washington. I saw the mother who gave her girls her brilliance and beauty; I recognized immediately in you, dearest Diana, the mother who gave her girls delightful, delightful experiences of fancy when they were little, who read to her daughters and gave them the world of poetry and music and literature and all of the things you so loved.

Others might wonder how I saw all of this at our first meeting. You know the answer, dearest Diana, because we had occasion to speak many times of our first meeting.

But perhaps no one else knows.

Allow me, Diana dear, to tell them now. Allow me to share some of my sweetest and dearest memories of you with them. Allow me to express to your belovèd sister and daughters my abiding love for you.

I begin then with the answer that may sound a little peculiar but that is nonetheless true. I knew whose presence I was in because when Diana Arneson De Vere and I first met, Diana was beautifully dressed; an elegant woman in her Fair Isle sweater and tailored slacks. And pearls. Most of all the pearls told me her story. Most of all the pearls. (And if I had had any doubts about the accuracy of my perception, they would have all been erased when I received my first of many notes from Diana on her monogrammed stationery. Likely Crane's, I still remember thinking at the time!)

The woman I met that day at Lucia's for lunch – shortly after the « Moods, Muses & Music » benefit with Kay Redfield Jamison – was so distinguished, so lovely. A True Lady. I knew instantly that I wanted you to become my friend. And so you did, so you did. In deed. And in truth.

But first I had to do what, at that time, was one of the most difficult things I had ever faced. For you see, Diana had given me the manuscript of her autobiography that day at Lucia's and had asked me if I could help find a publisher. I read the manuscript and spent a long time searching my soul for the way to tell Diana that I did not believe the book could be published as it stood. After much reflection and – I will be honest – deflection of her calls, I summoned all of my courage.

Here is what I said, as nearly as I can remember: « Your life fascinates me. You have lived such rich and full experiences. But. I think you need an editor before looking for a publisher. »

When I say I needed all of my courage to say this to Diana, who had entrusted me with her soul in the form of her manuscript, I am not in the least exaggerating.

Thus began, with Diana's gracious nod and thanks, a sisterhood of two souls; a sisterhood, a sorority of two, that I cherish. Here, Now, Always.

A friendship best described by Montaigne:

On Friendship

As for the rest that we ordinarily call friends and friendships, they are but acquaintances and familiarities, brought together by certain events or for convenience, by means of which our souls converse with each other. In the friendship I speak of, our souls intertwine and blend together, with so universal a mixture that they wear away and can no longer find the seam that has joined them. If someone entreated me to say why I loved him, I feel that it can only be expressed by answering:
Because it was he, because it was I.
Beyond all my discourse and apart from what I can say, I know not what inexplicable and inevitable power mediates this indissoluble union. We sought one another before we had seen one another; and because of the reports we had heard of one another, I think a heavenly ordinance created a greater affection in us than would normally have been the case;

We embraced one another with our names.

And at our first meeting, which was by chance at a great feast in the town, we found ourselves so taken with one another, so well acquainted, and so bound together, that from that moment forward, nothing was so near to us as one another….

…. begun so late … there was no time to be lost. And this friendship was not to be modeled or directed by the usual pattern of friendship that requires lengthy conversation.

It is neither one particular consideration, nor two, nor three, nor four, nor a thousand:
It is I know not what quintessence of all this mélange, which, having taken hold of all of my will, induced it to plunge and lose itself in his, which likewise having taken hold of his, brought it to plunge and lose itself in mine with identical hunger and longing.

In truth, I say “lose themselves”, leaving nothing that belonged either solely to him or solely to me.

§§§

It is also quite true that while we loved each other dearly, our relationship became complex at times. Diana did not much care for what I believe she saw accurately as my immaturity in the face of some of the « Seven Ages of Man. » No, she did not care for that part of me at all. She was not one to suffer fools gladly. We never really spoke about this clearly but there were times when (I believe) she simply would not tolerate my “foolishness.” Had no use for it whatsoever or at those times for me, either. No ma'am.

There were other times when she was ill or troubled, that she had no wish for my presence, for me either. Except this wish perhaps: That I should not be present to her suffering.

I reflected upon this a long time particularly after one of her hospitalizations when a mutual friend called me on the carpet for not having recognized how ill she was becoming and for not having done something about it. This was when I learned that Diana had absolutely forbidden this friend to inform me of her hospitalization. (He did so anyway. Damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead.) The only explanation and the explanation that to this day I feel is accurate (although it may be error writ) is that Diana wanted our friendship to remain untainted by visits to psychiatric wards.

Yes. I believed that then and I believe that now.

Further complicating our friendship and love at times was the fact, and I do mean fact, that Diana was much more innately bright than I, so very, very gifted and so much more knowledgeable than I about literature and poetry and philosophy, theology and music – in short, about all of the beautiful things in the world that we both loved. In the deepest places of our souls we both knew that it was unfair – UNFAIR, GOD! (Unjust God? I often thought) – that the bright and beautiful Diana's voyages had been broken and that mine had not. Camille Claudel, whose life has inspired mine in many ways, wrote: Once I was beautiful. Then everything broke.

That, I always thought, was true of Diana's voyage. In part. But only in part. Indeed, a (more than) tragic part for all of you who loved her best and always. But you see, the « broken » part was the part I did not live through with her then and that she would not allow me to share in the thirteen years of our friendship. I believe as I suppose I must – for what then would I have to believe? – that those were the terms (of an endearment so dear?), a gospel of sorts according to Diana, on which our friendship had to be founded. « Only the sunny hours. » As you like it, my dear. As you like it.

The Diana I knew and loved was a woman whose Soul was Light and whose love and zest for Life could not be taken from her despite the unexpected and devastating turns her life had taken at times. The darkness never overcame her although she surely experienced many a dark night of the Soul.

§§§

In life and now with her passing, whenever I think of Diana, these are the words that fill my soul:
Grace. Dignity. Love abiding. Love excelling.

Her constant love for her family, her « girls » was a thing of beauty for me to behold.

Diana has always and will forever be an inspiration for me, a shining example of how to live, how to turn grief and sorrow into Acts of Grace. How to meet Grief and Sorrow with integrity, with dignity. How, despite adversity, to live life with joy. Ah, Diana. Soul friend and preceptor. These are lessons still much needed by your younger, more impetuous and impulsive friend, Christiana.

Since learning of Diana's last sojourn in the Valley of the Shadow and of her passing, my memories of her have been my constant companions. Before sharing some of these, I need to say this:

When I moved to France after my wedding in 2007, I corresponded a bit with Diana by email. Then receiving no more replies, I thought: Well, that's Diana; She's out and about, going here and there, notably Washington, Colorado and California, doing her own thing. « There will be time, there will be time » at some point once again « for the taking of a toast and tea. » Hearing nothing from Diana, she heard no more from me to my great shame now. But in my desk drawer – frequently opened – is the golden Godiva box Diana gave me in which nestles in soft tissue paper her tape recorded reading from Broken Voyages. Oh, how I have always imagined the stunningly beautiful Diana – à la Anne Sexton, seated on the edge of a table, legs crossed, face tilted up – at her own poetry readings.

I will forever regret not having had another « toast and tea» and just time to be with Diana.

§§§§

I opened my remarks at my father's memorial service with these words from Shakespeare:

« When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past.... »

Diana reminded me of my father in many ways. Her dignity matched his; her grace and bearing so like my father; her blue, blue eyes. Her « no-nonsense » approach with me. Those eyes could laugh merrily but oh! rue the day when they stare sternly into yours. Mine, that is. Yes. There were a few times – no words needed, the « Look » largely sufficed – that Diana reminded me figuratively, sometimes even literally, to « Sit up straight and behave the way you were taught to behave. »

Watching Diana process with the choir at Saint David was like watching my father process at Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church in Bethesda, Maryland. And Diana stood, in the Saint David's choir, exactly in the same place as my father had at Bradley Hills. Second row. Squarely in the center.

Yes. Both my father and Diana: Squarely, securely seated and standing in the center of
God's presence.

§§§

Let me now share some of my sweet thoughts, a few of my remembrances of Diana with you. Let my heart speak to yours of the lovely gifts that Diana bestowed upon me, of the Fragrance of Faith and Love and Hope with which my friend embraced my soul. All perfect gifts, tangible and intangible, for my soul and spirit.

The greatest of these many gifts, by and through her Love for me, was to usher me back from a certain wilderness of my own. Yes. Diana knew I needed God in a new way and that in order to find what I so desperately was seeking, I also needed a community of faith. Diana slowly but surely brought me to The Episcopal Parish of Saint David. Words, mere words, cannot convey the depth and breadth of this Gift, for by inviting me to join her at Saint David, Diana was also sharing an intimate part of herself with me – one of the most intimate parts of her soul, I believe – for which I am forever grateful. Through this great gift of herself and her faith, Diana led me out of the wilderness into a new Light. Amazing Grace.

Diana also honored me as did you, Liz, by making me a a guest at your wedding. It was an honor. And a privilege. I understood. And will never forget Diana's joy and beauty that night.

Diana shared with me, as you know, her love for all of you. That, too, was an honor for me and I loved to hear the stories of each of you – to hear and feel her love. Sister and daughters.

All of these moments shared with Diana were sacred. I truly believe this.

And then there were the tangible gifts, each conveying a special message, among them:

A beautiful white satin robe with a rose embroidered on the back;
A white nightgown embroidered with meadow flowers;
My first monogrammed bath and hand towels, that I use still here in Saint Caradec;
A delicate bejeweled box adorned with the flower of our youth, dogwood;
Book bags, a moleskin notebook.
The gift of Broken Voyages and her reading.
The « MCA » engraved keychain from Tiffany's after Diana witnessed the legal changing of my name back to Adams. Of course you know what the note enclosed in the first Tiffany box I had ever received read: « What is in a name? » Ah. Diana. We talked about our names quite a bit, didn't we?

And the lunches. And the dinners. And the poetry afternoons. And so much more.
So much more.

That which brought us together, Diana and I – our Moods, Muses & Music – gave us a deep, nearly instant understanding of each other.

I respected Diana; I cherished Diana's soul, her grace, her beauty, her keen intelligence, her wit.
My love for her and my gratitude to her and for her life shall abide always.

Over the past few months I have thought of Diana often as another friend of mine gave me Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being, as well as her biography. I kept wondering what Diana would have to say about it. I kept thinking about a young woman not in Georgia but in North Carolina. I wondered if Diana liked Flannery O'Connor much. I doubted it as I felt that Diana would not particularly have cared for the very dark side that O'Connor brings into the light of day. But I did think maybe Diana would have laughed at O'Connor's wittier letters, that Diana would have also understood better than I the concept of « passive diminishment. »

O'Connor likened grace to many things of course, referring to it with respect to her father's death as « a bullet in the side. » My grief at Diana's passing to the other side of the Veil has allowed me to understand what O'Connor meant. To understand now that grief is a form of Grace and that Grace in the form of grief has the power to transform and to heal us.
From my recent reading I have also learned that Flannery O'Connor prayed this « Prayer to Saint Raphaël », the Angel of Happy Meetings and of Healing, every day:

O Raphael, lead us towards those we are waiting for, those who are waiting for us! Raphael, Angel of Happy Meetings, lead us by the hand towards those we are looking for! May all our movements, all their movements, be guided by your Light and transfigured by your Joy.Angel Guide of Tobias, lay the request we now address to you at the feet of Him on whose unveiled Face you are privileged to gaze. Lonely and tired, crushed by the separations and sorrows of earth, we feel the need of calling to you and of pleading for the protection of your wings, so that we may not be as strangers in the Province of Joy, all ignorant of the concerns of our country.Remember the weak, you who are strong--you whose home lies beyond the region of thunder, in a land that is always peaceful, always serene, and bright with the resplendent glory of God.
Amen.

I believe that Diana is in that land. Always peaceful, always serene. That land of Joy, bright with the resplendent glory of God.
I shall end my remembrance of Diana with a poem that my friend, Alla Renée Bozarth, has given me to help me.

Beyond the Edge of the World

After what you think of
as your life
there is a Reality
the soul staggers into,
light-blind but glad
with relief, taking
its first full breath~~
everything new,
nothing hurting,
familiar joys made lively
again, without the glitches,
pain or regret,
and new colors everywhere,
experiences related to the senses
but without limits, precise
and unmuddled, music
unimaginably sublime,
gardens with creatures that speak
their names in the musky fragrances
they give, nothing nasty or poisonous,
no allergic reactions or toxic surprises,
friends with no hidden malice lurking under the skull.

And there is at last no need
for compasses, prisons or pens.

There be dragons here indeed,
luminous beings made of brilliant,
diaphanous colors and iridescent light,
whose work is to transport the soul
to all the ports of heaven past heaven,
easier than air. Kinder than light.

The intensely now of the wonder
replaces sequence and urgency~~
intense not because it will end or the soul fears that it will,
but because there is bottomless depth and infinite breadth instead of horizons.

To fall into it while still in the body of time would make one dizzy,
but in the body of color and music, movement is all-possible, and joy.

The then that is now and the moment that was
are forgotten in all their heaviness of duration,
their unbearable delays of redemption,
their absence of insight.

All that remains are essence and love made right,
everything that the young universe in all
its fourteen billion years of straining could not make happen.

Alla Renée Bozarth

From Purgatory Papers, copyright 2009.

§§§

Adieu, my dear Diana. A Dieu.