Mary and I went further back than that. My oldest brother, Al, had dated Mary�s sister, Harlan, in high school. Our parents didn�t fraternize all that much, because of our different economic levels, but by the time they left for college, everyone knew that Harlan and Al would get married. My mother worked as a cook at the school across the street from our house, and Mrs. Herdman had hired her to do after school day care for Mary and me.

Mary and I were inseparable playmates and it was natural for me to think of her as my girl friend. Then one day, something bad happened. We received word from my brother Al at Purdue University that Harlan had dumped him. She had fallen in love with one of her professors named Victor Papanek, who designed appropriate technology for what we now call the lesser developed countries. By this time, the day care arrangement had stopped, and shortly thereafter Mary announced to me in front of several of my second-grade friend that she no longer cared for me. I had been crushed, but by the time we were freshman at the local college, I had gotten over it. She used to help me study for my Western civilization class (I just couldn�t remember all those dates) and we even went out on a few dates, though they were more friendly than serious. This was during my skeptical phase, and I think her father, being a war veteran, thought I was a communist.

About this time Transcendental Meditation had become very popular in the United States. In high school, Doug had let his hair grow long and had become something of a hippie. At college one day, he spotted a poster advertising a course in TM, which he attended. He came back a convert and started doing things like fasting, reading Ram Dass, and practicing yoga. One day, Mary came running into the study room to find me. Doug had been fasting and he had fainted in the library, fallen against a bookshelf, and split open his cheek. She asked me if I could drive him to the emergency room of the hospital so he could get stitched up. Despite this ominous introduction to eastern philosophy, I did take an interest meditation.

Still, I tended to try to approach it from the western Judeo-Christian tradition I was raised in. So I started investigating Christian mysticism. I read Thomas Merton's autobiography, "The Seven Story Mountain," and some of his later writings in which he started to approach Buddhist thought. Merton mentioned the "Spiritual Exercises" of St. Ignatius and Thomas A Kempis' "The Imitation of Christ," which I also read. These taught ways of acting in a humble way and certain guided imagery activities to put oneself in Christ's sandals, so to speak. I don't remember if it was in these or some other medieval writer's book, but when I came to a part where you were supposed to imagine yourself hanging on the cross, well, it became a bit too much for me.

To lighten up during these times, I probably went back to my Casals recording of the Brandenburg Concertos. Casals had died the previous semester, when I was at Purdue University. The first movement of the Concerto No.1 in F starts suddenly with the entire chamber orchestra playing full force at a rather brisk tempo. This is a joyous movement, full of life and cheer. The second movement, by contrast, is quite somber and meditative, almost sad, like something that would be appropriate at a funeral. Fortunately, the third movements picks up the quick pace again, and is full of those complex, filigree of melodies winding their way around each that I so love in Bach. This concerto is unique among his six Brandenburgs, because it has a fourth movement which is divided into four sections: a minuet, a trio, a polka, and a final trio. The movement starts out in a quite stately fashion, perfect for upper crusties mincing around in brocade jackets and powdered wigs. This is kind of a grounding theme, to which the piece returns after playing the minuet and polka. In this movement he uses two horns, three oboes, a bassoon, and violin at various either in solos or trios. In one section, I think it's the polka, he gives it all over to the woodwinds, who perk along at a jaunty clip in with an almost music box-like quaintness. That little section, only about a minute long, never fails to surprise me and lift my spirits. And as my faith started to wane, my spirits needed lifting.

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