From the Human Garden

Despite our many imperfections and foibles, we humans are a lovely bunch. Eager to please and to have our brief moment in the spotlight, willing to help, out of kindness or for a tiny bit of gentle recognition, we pass upon this earth for a short instant, less than a blink in Time. In these trying days of environmental mayhem and apparent self-destruction, it is an easy thing to turn to all things negative and cast one's eyes down, in sadness, shame or simple letting go. But I find there is magic in our passage Here, too.

Saw an old acquaintance last night, at the annual gig of a folkloric singing group, here in Switzerland. Years ago, when I first arrived here and fell in love with the local singing traditions, Robert was the welcoming element in a yodelling group here where others were slightly surprised and others downright thorny at the idea of a foreigner lending his voice to their organisation. Robert warmly welcomed my presence there, all handshakes and smiles every week, and his imposing weight inside the group ensured that my little place was protected. It was not every day that anyone spontaneously stood up after a particularly touching choral moment, and applauded, in that relatively rigid atmosphere that any Swiss rehearsal often is. The Swiss are not known for emotional outbursts or spontaneous effusions of glee, at least not outside the formalised setting of their annual carnivals. I guess that my enthusiasm had shocked a few, but not Robert. Seeing him last night, holding his quivering handshake for a few seconds longer, I remembered his openness of years past.

Robert gladly told me that he is now 81. I was not sure what I ought to respond to his proud declaration, so I just rubbed his back a bit, as he sat like a weighty rock beside me. We shared a few memories, and I told him about my daughter Leonore--you know, the one who used to come with me to all those yodeller evenings, the smiling kid propped on my knee as Robert and his friends poured out their gentle songs. She is 15 now. She sends her best regards. "Tell her I remember her too," said Robert. "Give her my regards as well."

Though last night, Robert was still wearing his full folkloric costume, he stopped singing a few years ago. Despite his new titanium and teflon hip joints, standing is a painful affair, and after all those years singing deep bass for the club, I think his time has come to enjoy a little rest. His credible, smooth yet rather tectonic vocals are now supplied by younger lads in the club. He doesn't show a great deal of chagrin, but I know from his eyes that he misses singing up there on that stage with them. They sing well too, and he would never say a harsh word about any of them, but I can tell that he misses those moments.

Robert is wilting slowly. With that small margin of grace that destiny will allow him, he is dwindling gently, returning to the Earth as we all one day must. He holds Membership of Honour with the club and is respected in many circles as an open, direct, authentic kind of man, but slowly, his body is turning to dust again, after a tiny moment's 81 years on this spinning planet. He is returning to the land one atom at a time, getting ready to wine and dine that big human garden where we all mingle together after our time here. The beautiful songs and memories will carry on, however, and echoes of this fine man and his songs will ripple on forever.