Lessons in Loving and Grieving
Today I want to share some beautiful poems written by my friend Elliot Ruchowitz-Roberts—a wise man and gifted poet whom I grew close to fourteen years ago, during the final months of his wife Tey’s life.
I first met Tey when I became a Zen student at the Monterey Bay Zen Center in 1993. She warmly embraced me when I felt like an outsider amidst the tightly knit group of seasoned students. I was 29 and Tey was 53—a retired lawyer with a big heart and great sense of humor who was a devoted gardener, photographer, political activist, avid hiker and world explorer.
Like me, Tey had been born into a Jewish family in New York City, and we shared a kinship over our mutual struggles with unrelenting fear and worry. We often laughed together about how trapped we both felt by our neuroses, despite our prolonged efforts to feel calmer and more relaxed. In 2010, when I found out Tey had ALS, I was shocked, terrified, and heartbroken.
Filled with dread on my way to visit Tey at her and Elliot’s home after learning about her diagnosis, I arrived to find her surprisingly peaceful. Despite the many challenges of her illness and the deep sadness everyone felt, there was a tangible feeling of love in their cozy home that Elliot had built by hand decades before. It was incredibly moving to witness how tenderly and reverently Elliot cared for his wife of fifty years, with complete patience and adoration.
Tey and Elliot in 1994
During that first visit, Tey’s speech was still decipherable, so she was able to share how helpful her Zen practice had been during this hard time—it was coming through when she needed it most. Then she looked at me with focused intensity and told me that despite her concerns about her terrible disease and grieving family, her unrelenting fear had vanished. Astonishment and gratitude shone in her eyes.
Before I left that first day, I felt moved to ask Tey if she wanted to try a meditation I’d been given by a powerful Tibetan sound healer a few months earlier. I loved the meditation so much, I’d been doing it every day. Suddenly, it felt clear to me that I’d been entrusted with it so that I could pass it on to Tey.
As Tey and I lay side-by-side on her bed with our fingers intertwined, I walked us through the sequence I’d been taught. Together, while breathing deeply, we imagined our bodies being securely held by the earth, fully relaxing into the earth. Soon we saw ourselves joyfully welcomed into the earth, eventually totally absorbed by her. Everything particular to us—our flesh, our bones, our blood, our minds, our thoughts, our personalities—becoming part of the earth’s elements. Then we watched our souls rise up, our energy expanding and merging into boundless light and love—what my father called the “eternal sunshine.”
Tey and I held hands the entire time. When our souls were freed, I felt both of our hearts transform into orbs of vibrant golden energy with an unbroken current of golden light traveling between them. Tey and I turned our heads and gazed at each other in wonder. She said, “You feel that, right? Our hearts are connected.” And that’s how my visits to Tey and Elliot’s home began.
For the next few months, except for when I was traveling, I showed up every week with an organic lunch to nourish Elliot while I spent time with Tey. Every moment together felt precious and profound.
I was with Tey and her family the evening before she passed on March 1, 2010. Our Zen teacher, Katherine Thanas, had come to their home with a few other Zen students to conduct a Lay Entrustment ceremony—an expression of a Zen teacher’s trust in a long-time lay student to share the Buddha’s teachings with others. Tey had been preparing for this milestone for a long time before her illness, and Katherine and Elliot knew how important it was to her.
Tey Roberts and Zen teacher, Katherine Thanas, at Tey’s Jukai ceremony in November 2006, when she formally became a buddhist. Photos by Anne Muraski
In the months following Tey’s passing, I continued to visit Elliot, often bringing Zabar’s deli shipped overnight from Manhattan—comfort food and loving company being the only things I could offer this extraordinary, tender-hearted man who was submerged in grief.
Every year, Elliot had marked Tey’s birthdays by writing her a poem. Here is the one he wrote for her on May 1, 2010, two months after her death:
For years, Elliot and I met for nature walks where he’d share his binoculars and tell me facts about local wildlife I could never have imagined. Every few months, we’d drive the hour up to Santa Cruz to spend the afternoon with Zen teacher Katherine Thanas. When I was invited by the Middlebury Institute of International Studies to deliver their commencement address in the spring of 2012 and was terribly nervous, Elliot—who had taught composition, literature, public speaking and humanities at Monterey Peninsula College for thirty-two years—patiently read my speech through countless iterations, and coached me on my delivery. When my father died and I needed direction on what steps to take, it was Elliot I telephoned as I sat alone with his body.
Elliot & Katherine, photo by Myra, circa 2011
Years passed, and grief was Elliot’s constant companion. Writing poetry helped him process his sadness. Here are two of the many poignant haiku he wrote during that time:
Elliot helped me learn about love and grief—that deep pain is digested slowly, and there is no way to predict when it will stop being excruciating to live without the ones we love most by our side. It takes a long time to heal, adjust, find your footing, and for life to begin to regain its appeal. Elliot allowed himself to feel the pain of his loss and loneliness. He let his tears flowed freely.
Almost five years after Tey passed, Elliot wrote the following poem to mark his commitment to move forward.
Next week, I will share another one of Elliot’s beautiful poems and more about his personal journey, which includes a remarkable coincidence. You can also learn more about Elliot’s life and read one of my favorite poems “Solstice.” His most recent book of poems, White Fire, is available from the Henry Miller Memorial Library.
