CHAPTER 3

Four days before Christmas in 1974 we had a big going away party at The Bla Bla Cafe. We were going to Canada for several weeks where Keith would play piano in a band and didn’t know when we’d return to The Bla. It was a great night. Besides the fact that so many of our friends were there, two industry people came and they gave Keith a lot of encouragement. Marv Mattis, who signed Keith to CBS, was there. He saw a lot of depth in Keith’s new songs and told him, “Keep writing from that place”. Also, a guy from Helen Reddy’s management team came to see Keith—for the second time—and expressed an interest in developing his career. Keith came away from that night excited about what might happen next.

This would be our first Christmas in the little house we’d recently rented in the suburbs of Woodland Hills. It had three bedrooms, so Keith’s upright piano had a nice room all to itself! Our last house exploded from a gas leak. We hoped life in this house on Dolorosa Street would be a little less eventful.

Besides that, our first anniversary was coming up on Christmas Day—and I wanted to do something special for Keith. I wondered what would make him the happiest and decided to buy him a Bible. When I first met Keith in early 1973, he was just beginning to pray to this man, Jesus. He had told me, “Jesus is my master”. He was wearing the antique Ecuadoran cross around his neck. It wasn’t exactly a bold statement of faith—it was more like holding up a candle of hope against the darkness. Since Christmas was supposed to be Jesus’ birthday, and since—apart from music—trying to decide who Jesus was, was all Keith talked about, a Bible seemed like the perfect surprise.

The only Bible I’d ever owned was a Gideon Bible I took from a hotel room once. I’d never bought one. I wasn’t sure where to start. Then I remembered there was a Berean Bookstore right next to a vegetarian restaurant Keith and I liked. I made up some excuse to get out of the house and drove there.

As soon as I walked into the bookstore I felt a twinge of awkwardness. It was really quiet—not like the hippie bookstores I was used to at all. I wondered if I needed to whisper. Then I saw a man behind the counter and thought I’d ask him to show me where the Bibles were. He had very short black hair, perfectly combed—and he was wearing a navy blue suit. I had on my 1940s burgundy velvet thriftstore coat and my beat-up leather boots. I didn’t know if anyone like me had ever even been in this store before. But the man had kind brown eyes, and I relaxed a little.

“May I help you with something?”

“Uh, yes. I want to buy a Bible,” I said.

“What kind of Bible are you interested in?”

“Oh . . .,” I started feeling dumb. “Well, what kind are there?”

He led me to the shelf and I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were so many different kinds of Bibles! He started pulling them down one by one and showing them to me. There were several different translations—some used common everyday language and others were filled with Thee’s and Thou’s. Then there were different grades of covers ranging from genuine leather to paperback, and different grades of paper, too. Some had large print, others small. Some even had all the words of Jesus printed in red. As we went through the Bibles, the stack of “possibles” in my arms grew.

“This one has study notes,” he was saying. “And this one has a concordance.”

“What’s a concordance?”

“You can find a scripture you want by looking up a single word in it.”

“And this one has colored maps of Paul’s missionary journeys.”

I didn’t know who Paul was, but rather than admit it, I just nodded and said, brightly, “Great!” But I was beginning to worry about how much one of these Bibles was going to cost.

“Can you tell me the prices of some of these?”

With the clerk’s patient help, I finally picked out a small, King James, red-letter edition with a genuine, chocolate-brown leather cover that was waxed to a shine. It had a concordance and maps—and the pages were edged with shiny gold which looked beautiful when it was closed. It was, indeed, a very holy-looking book.

I took it home, where I got out my pen and india ink and inscribed the “presented to” page with: “Keith, my beloved husband, in celebration of the Birth of Christ and our first year of Marriage. With much love, May God always Bless you.” Then I wrapped the box and hid it.

On Christmas Eve, I excitedly waited for the right moment to give Keith his Bible. But first we needed to do some more packing for our trip to Canada the next night. Unfortunately, within minutes the peaceful atmosphere changed and we were having one of our all too familiar disagreements. This time it was a 4 “packing fight”.

Keith said something I didn’t like, and I shot something back. We were both being unreasonable, and we both reacted. Keith picked up one of the shirts I was packing for him and threw it at me. When it hit, I saw red. I got so angry I grabbed a pair of scissors and threw them—all the way across the room. Now we were on a roll. I was even more upset because I’d wanted to bless Keith with the Bible and now the whole evening was getting ruined.

We kept arguing and I got so angry that, without thinking, I pulled off my wedding ring and threw it straight at Keith. Hard. As soon as it hit him, I realized what I’d done. Keith just stared. I felt terrible. Some way to celebrate our first anniversary.

Afterward, we were both really sorry—and embarrassed—for everything we’d said and done.

Late that evening, I brought out the gift box I’d been hiding and handed it to Keith, expectantly. Keith was sitting on the rug by the antique pine cabinet we’d just nabbed at a garage sale. He unwrapped the box, opened the Bible, and read the inscription. His eyes were shining with happiness. Before we went to bed, we sat there together on the floor because Keith, of course, wanted to read out loud to me from the new Bible.

At bedtime, Keith made a simple note in his journal:

We had the largest fight in months. . . . After the storm died Mel gave me a new beautiful Bible.

As we prepared to meet 1975 I found myself wondering why two people who loved each other and wanted to live good lives just couldn’t seem to do it. Keith could get me upset. He sparked those feelings in a lot of people—you either loved him or got mad at him. Sometimes both. There weren’t many grays in Keith’s world. There was black or white, good or bad. In many ways he was exactly what I needed, but I was also finding that some of the things I really liked about him—such as his intensity and conviction—could often be a bit difficult to live with. Like the time right after he’d first moved into my apartment with me.

When Keith moved in, he started moving some of my things out. Because he’d made Jesus his master, some of the books on my shelf made him really uneasy. Especially the ones having to do with astrology and the occult. He wanted me to get rid of them and I wasn’t exactly happy or willing. Some of them were very expensive hardcover books. I thought Keith had a lot of nerve moving into my apartment, and then insisting that I throw my books away. Even though I hadn’t found the answers I was looking for after all my years of reading them, I wasn’t convinced they were totally wrong either. But Keith was so persistent I reluctantly gave in and threw them away. Besides, deep in my heart I knew he meant it for my good. It seemed like Keith was always challenging me about something. Mostly he challenged me to know who I was.

Even though Keith could drive you to the brink, there was something about being with him that made me face tough questions about myself—made me comb back through my life and try to figure out what I believed and why I believed it. He seemed to have a compass, but I was more unsure of my direction. At the time I met Keith, even though I was twenty-six years old, I really wasn’t sure who I was. Unlike Keith’s close-knit family which was always pulling together to help him build his career, whenever I thought of my family I was left with kind of a hollow feeling. It was Keith’s influence on me—after a difficult, painful past—that was pushing me further away from the dangerous places where I’d been wandering. . . .

I was born in a place many people would die to live in—Hollywood, California. Actually, we lived just off the boardwalk at Venice beach—but the hospital was in Hollywood and it was a nice name to drop when anyone asked where I was born. My mother was one of seven children born to Jewish immigrants who had escaped on the last ship from Odessa, Russia, before the worst of the Czarist persecution. My mom, Helen, and her younger sister were the only children born in America. They settled in San Francisco where my grandfather, who had been a rabbi in Russia, opened a kosher poultry store. But Grandma and Grandpa Sosnovsky died before I was born. It was a shock when Mom married my father—because he wasn’t Jewish.

My dad, Charles Steiner, was of German descent and his parents were devout Methodists. His dad was a doctor and his mother visited the sick and needy in the church. Even so, my father never went to church. What I do remember about my dad was seeing him sit at his workbench in our tiny living room, winding pure silk thread around the bamboo fishing rods he made by hand. He also tied beautiful fishing flies. I would quietly walk up and look at all the bright colored feathers, spools of silk, sinkers and barbed hooks. One look from my dad kept me from touching anything, but I loved to watch. My dad loved working with his hands—even if he had a hard time making a go of it financially.

Because money was tight, we lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on Brooks Avenue and “Speedway”, which was a narrow alley that ran parallel to the beach about 100 feet behind the buildings sitting on the boardwalk. With no front yard but this little alley, the long stretch of sand between the boardwalk and the ocean was my only place to play. Maybe that’s why I loved going to visit my grandmother. She lived alone in a little house in Redondo Beach—but she had a yard, with a flower garden and a large fig tree. I guess it made such an impression on me because my world was one of cement sidewalks and alleyways. I grew up with dreams of living in a nicer house, in a nicer place.

My parents managed to save up a little nest egg while my dad was in the Navy. When he got home my mom wanted to use the money for a down payment on a house. But Dad wanted to start a business. My dad won out and the savings were used to start a small business instead.

Dad, however, was not really a very good businessman. He gave away as much as he sold and money problems got worse. It resulted in some loud “discussions” between him and my mom  and even more strain when the business folded. Mom wanted nothing more than to stay home and raise me in a loving environment, but after I started school she reluctantly took a secretarial job to pay the bills.

When I was six I would go off to kindergarten wearing the key to our front door on a string around my neck so I could let myself in after school. That same year we moved one block further east on Brooks Avenue. It wasn’t the house of my dreams, but it was a nicer and larger upstairs duplex. Two great things happened then. I got my own bedroom—and I met Mrs. Hilliard.

Mrs. Hilliard lived two houses down, and it was like having my very own grandmother right next door. This was great, since my grandmother had become old and confused and was now in a nursing home. Mrs. Hilliard had one of the only front yards on the block. It was very small, but it was filled with flowers. My favorites were the red and yellow snapdragons. I spent hours at her house and I was especially interested in Mrs. Hilliard’s birds— several, beautiful, blue and white parakeets and a yellow canary, too. My mom wasn’t big on pets, but she let Mrs. Hilliard give me a parakeet that I trained to sit on my finger.

Mostly, I loved just being with Mrs. Hilliard, inside her house. Everything was tidy and spotless, even the knickknacks always stayed in the same place. She had pretty carpets, and her dining room chairs had upholstered seats. But I never sat on those because we spent all our time together in her kitchen. After school I’d rush over and sit on a tall stool and watch her cook dinner. I’d make up songs and sing them to her. We talked a lot, too. Somehow I knew that she loved me. I really loved her, too. That’s why I couldn’t understand why she did what she did.

One day when I knocked on her door, it took her longer than usual to answer. I fidgeted with the buckle of my sandal while I waited. When she didn’t come I figured she was at the store or something and skipped back home.

But the next day the same thing happened. Mrs. Hilliard didn’t answer my knock. For days, in fact, I felt an unexplained sadness every time I looked at her silent house.

Finally I asked my mom if she knew where Mrs. Hilliard was. She hesitated. “Mrs. Hilliard moved away, honey. She won’t be coming back”.

I noticed that Mom wouldn’t look at me, and I stood there, confused. Mrs. Hilliard was my friend. She wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye. Tears came to my eyes and a crushing pain filled my chest. Why didn’t she tell me? I thought she loved me—but maybe I was wrong. Maybe I wasn’t as important to her as I thought. Mrs. Hilliard never answered her door again.

Years later, I found out that Mrs. Hilliard had actually died, but my parents had wanted to spare me the pain of knowing the truth. Of course they meant well, but knowing what really happened would have explained her leaving me so suddenly. Then maybe I wouldn’t have been left with such a lingering sense of loss and abandonment.

Even that young, I started to hunger for something I couldn’t even define. I wondered about how I ended up living on earth, and if there was life on other planets. I’d lie in bed at night and stretch out one arm toward the ceiling. Then I’d move my wrist back and forth, staring at it in amazement for the longest time and thinking, “This is my arm, I can move it any way I want to. This is my body—but how did I get inside of it?” God had something to do with it. But who was he? My parents never talked much about God—since they had an interfaith marriage, they decided not to push me in any direction. They told me I could choose what religion I wanted to be when I grew up. So I did what came naturally. I examined my options.

There was a little Jewish synagogue right next door to us. When I was about eight years old I decided I’d go to their Sabbath School. I learned a little about Moses and the Old Testament. We drew pictures of Noah’s Ark and things like that and taped them onto the wall. Although I didn’t go for very long, I really enjoyed it. I always had a warm feeling when we talked about God, but He somehow seemed just out of reach.

Next I set my sights on the church across the street from us. I found myself wondering what kind of things they believed in there—the Twenty-First Church of Christian Science. From my second-story window, I liked to watch everyone come out of church—the crowds were extra big on holidays like Christmas. And everyone got really dressed up on Easter Sunday. The little girls wore frilly pastel-colored dresses and white patent leather shoes with matching pocketbooks. It seemed like those little girls were always holding hands with two happy parents, and that everyone was smiling and laughing. To me, Easter was the Easter Bunny, colored egg hunts, yellow marshmallow chickens and chocolate rabbits—but why people wanted to go to church on Easter was a mystery to me.

One Saturday, I announced to my parents that I’d be getting up the next morning and going to church. All by myself, I got dressed and bravely walked across the street. I went alone since my mom was Jewish and, I guess, my dad wasn’t interested. The church had really high ceilings and it wasn’t very crowded. I sat toward the back and just listened. Someone was up front talking for a while and then some people in the congregation stood up and talked a little. At the end of the service, I walked slowly back across the street, disappointed. I was hoping to feel different, but instead I didn’t feel anything.

Because everyone at school could say, “I’m Catholic,” “I’m Jewish,” or “I’m Baptist,” at first I thought it was fun to be two things. So I’d say, “I’m Jewish and Protestant. I’m both!” But after a while it seemed like being two things was the same as being nothing. I wanted to be something, so I made a choice. I decided to be Jewish. But other than the sense of awe and respect I felt on the few occasions I went to Temple with my mother, I had no sense of having a real connection with God.

Even though I decided to be Jewish, we always celebrated Christmas at my house. We’d get a big tree and I’d leave cookies and milk out for Santa Claus. One year was extra special to me because I’d saved up my money to buy my dad a really nice wallet for a present. The only problem was, someone else had the same idea.

There was a boy in the neighborhood whom my dad had taken under his wing. My dad was an avid fisherman, and I begged him for years to take me with him. His reply was always the same: “When you get older, Melody.” But when I got older he started taking this boy, who was the same age I was, instead. I couldn’t believe it—the very Christmas I bought my dad the expensive wallet, this boy gave him a wallet he made himself My dad told me he didn’t want to hurt this boy’s feelings, so his wallet went into my dad’s pocket—and mine went into his dresser drawer. He never used it. He never took me fishing, either.

In the next few years I was caught in a tension between two worlds—my young-girl’s world of singing, tap-dancing lessons, experimenting with my hair and make-up—and the shaky adult world at home. As I got more and more interested in boys, I hoped I’d have better luck than my parents. My mom still worked hard at a full-time job, and my dad worked on and off. When my dad was home he spent most of his time secluded in the basement—his craftsmanship now expanded to making rifles. He hand carved the stock, tooled and blued the barrels, and engraved the metal part above the trigger. It seemed just as well that he spent so much time downstairs, because whenever he was upstairs the arguments grew louder. I started shutting out their world.

The year I turned twelve my parents decided to get a divorce. However painful it was for them, for me it was a relief. I was glad it was over. My mother and I moved to a one-bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, where I started a new life at a new school, with some new friends I’d met at the bus stop. My new friends weren’t as innocent as the ones I’d left behind in Venice—and I immediately decided to keep pace if I was going to “fit in”.

Almost overnight, I was a different kid. I was already taller than my mom’s petite 5’2”, and I decided I was too big to give in to her tearful pleas. I wanted to do my own thing and so I did. Before my mom knew what hit her, I was smoking, drinking, and had a sixteen-year-old boyfriend with a car. Eddie was Bolivian and he had beautiful, olive skin and dark brown eyes. His family came to America when the Communists moved into the government where his father had been an official. I was in love and at the age of twelve I started a steady relationship with Eddie that lasted four years before we broke up.

But one experience with Eddie would later linger in my mind. One day we went to church together. It was raining as we walked into the cathedral. I’d never been in a Catholic church before so I didn’t know how to cross myself, or when to kneel, and the priest spoke in Latin during the Mass, so I couldn’t understand anything. But as I looked around at the high arched ceilings, the statues, the candles, and the big cross in front with Jesus hanging on it—I had an overwhelming sense that I was in the presence of God. The air was charged with a beautiful energy that settled over me. I’d never felt this way before, and I soaked up every minute like a dry sponge.

About a year after my parents’ divorce, my dad had a stroke. He was only forty-nine. A WWII vet, he ended up in the Veterans’ Hospital in West Los Angeles, paralyzed on the left side. My mom and I went to visit him once a week. I don’t know what was worse about that hospital, the awful green walls or the sickening, unclean smell that hit you in the face as soon as you walked in. And there was my dad—slumped slightly to one side in his wheelchair, his light brown hair turning gray, a two-day stubble of beard, and a bit of saliva trickling down the weak corner of his mouth. He could talk fairly well, but his words were slurred. We’d bring him spending money, a bag of assorted candy bars and several packs of Chesterfield unfiltered cigarettes. With his good right hand he’d reach out and take the brown paper bag and sit it on his lap.

We’d make small talk on those visits, but there really wasn’t much to say. Dad would always pay a lot of attention to his paralyzed leg, adjusting his foot on the little wheelchair platform so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. But mostly he would cry. The tears would well up in his eyes and he’d just hang his head over his chest and weep uncontrollably. When he could talk again, he’d beg my mom to take him home and take care of him even though they were divorced. But it seemed like our dream of having a home together had been paralyzed years ago. With tears still streaming down his face he’d beg us, “You can have my Social Security checks. Please take me home with you.”

My years in high school were one big blur of parties and skipping school. My mother was less and less able to keep me in line. I totally resisted all of her suggestions—which is what I considered her guidance to be. My mom eventually remarried and, after a while, stopped visiting my dad. From then on I went to see him alone or with a boyfriend.

When I graduated from high school in 1964 I got an office job and moved into my own apartment. A couple of years later, I enrolled in the Los Angeles Trade Technical College so I could study design and go into the fashion industry.

Once my dad knew I had a place of my own, he began begging me to take him in and take care of him. Every time he asked, I’d feel a battle raging in my heart. I’d always say, “No Dad. I can’t.” The truth was, I wouldn’t. And I felt so guilty. Maybe he wasn’t the best dad in the world—but he was still my father and I loved him. On the other hand, I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me. We’d shared a house for twelve years, but he was like a total stranger. I was so torn by his tearful pleas and the tug to live my own life that my visits became more sporadic over the coming months. I felt too guilty and too hurt to keep telling him, “No”.

One evening, during this time, I got an invitation to a party at a very posh home in the Hollywood Hills. When my friend and I arrived at this gorgeous home, we were surprised to see a huge pile of shoes at the front door—but we just shrugged, took off our shoes and went in. Instead of the wild Hollywood party I expected, there was a room full of people sitting around calmly with all the lights on. At one end of the living room a man was standing up, talking—and behind him was some type of oriental shrine with a scroll hanging in it. I wanted to leave, but there was no way to slip out gracefully. Just then, a nicely-dressed man across the room stood up and was given a moment to speak.

“When I came here last month, I thought all the chanting stuff they talked about was crazy. But my company was failing and I had nothing to lose, so I gave it a try. Now we’re miraculously back in the black. Chanting has saved my business!”

Immediately, a really pretty lady right in front of me jumped to her feet. She was almost in tears. “I’d given up on my marriage. My husband had already left and was going to file for divorce. But I started chanting and within weeks he totally changed his mind. Now we’re back together.”

With that, everyone burst into spontaneous applause and cheers. I couldn’t help but join in. It was a touching story, even though I didn’t understand what was going on.

The evening went on like that, with more interesting testimonies, and even some rousing “pep-rally” type of songs, which we stood up and sang together. When the man at the front dismissed the meeting, I went to get some punch at the dining room table. There a young girl introduced herself to me.

“Hi. I’m Morgana. Did you enjoy the meeting?”

“Well,” I hesitated, “it was interesting. But what’s it all about?”

“Oh, this is Nishren Sho Shu. It’s Buddhist and it’s really cool. I’ve been doing it for five months.”

“What do you do? I mean, what’s this chanting they were talking about?”

She smiled. “It’s really simple. Here let me show you.” She led me over to the shrine at the front of the living room. It was made out of shiny black lacquered wood about three feet tall and maybe a foot-and-a-half wide. It looked kind of like a deep-set TV cabinet—but instead of having a TV in it, there was an open scroll hanging on its back wall. The scroll was made out of white paper, about six inches across and eight inches long. On it were Japanese characters in elegant black brush strokes. There were also small drawers in the front of the shrine.

“What are the drawers for?” I asked.

“That’s where you keep your incense, your prayer book, and your Gongyo beads.”

“Gongyo beads?”

“That’s what the chanting’s called. You do Gongyo at least once a day and rub the beads in your hand. They’re made out of sandalwood. Smell them,” she said as she picked up the beads laying on the shrine and handed them to me.

They did smell good. . . . But the rest of this smelled a little fishy to me. I knew I needed something—only I wasn’t sure this was what I wanted.

Morgana explained, “You just chant a simple prayer to this scroll, called a Gohonzon, and you can get anything you want— physical, material, or spiritual. That’s all there is to it, and it really works,” she said brightly.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. And besides that, chanting is going to usher in world peace.”

“How’s it going to do that?”

“Easy. As soon as one-third of the world is chanting we’ll have peace.”

“Why just a third?”

“One-third will be against it, and the other third will be neutral. But when you add up those who are neutral and those who are chanting, you’ll have more good energy than bad.”

Who wasn’t for world peace? I know I was. And it sure sounded good—this idea of releasing as much good energy into the universe as possible. I thought for a moment and asked, “How many people in the world are chanting?”

“I’m not sure, but one-third of Japan is already chanting. It’s really a cool thing, they’re already experiencing peace over there,” she said wistfully.

Morgana looked at me and smiled, “You should try chanting for a few weeks. If it doesn’t work, you haven’t lost anything, right?”

She opened up the small Gongyo prayer book and showed me how to do it. It was all in Japanese, but under each character was the phonetic pronunciation of the words. It looked easy enough, and Morgana said it only took about twenty minutes a day. All I had to do was chant out loud while concentrating on something I wanted. The same chant worked for everything—whatever you desired.

Well, I had at least one desire just then. His name was Mark. I’d met him the previous summer, and I really liked him. At the moment, he was in the Army, and I hadn’t heard from him in a while. I’d been hoping for a letter from him—maybe I could chant for one. It seemed a little strange, but I decided I’d give it a try. All the folks I’d met at the Hollywood Hills party seemed very nice—so why not?

I went out and bought everything I needed—a scroll, beads, incense, a prayer book, and an inexpensive version of the shrine. I set it all up in my bedroom so I could have my own place to chant like everyone else. From the people I met at the party, I soon learned that Nishren Sho Shu was a national organization, with a leadership structure that went all the way from home group leaders and a U.S. Director to President Ikeda, the International Director, who lived in Japan. Very quickly, I was drawn into it all.

The organization was putting together a singing group to represent all the American women who were chanting. This group would be featured at some concerts in the States, but they would also perform in Japan. I’d been taking guitar lessons for some time and going to a songwriting class—and I loved to sing. So I decided to audition. If nothing else, it seemed like a great chance to travel.

Much to my surprise I passed the audition and got a spot with six other girls. We were called, of all things, “The Sweetie Seven”. We started learning some Beatles and Simon and Garfunkel songs in preparation for a program at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. We were also going to travel to Japan for what was called Tozon. Going on Tozon was to this group what going to Israel was for Christians and Jews. Although I was chanting regularly, I realized right away that I was not as serious in my faith as the other girls in “The Sweetie Seven”. They’d been involved for several years and were known for their strong commitment. But the exciting idea of a trip to Asia, along with the opportunity to sing, kept me rehearsing half the night for weeks and driving almost an hour each way to do it. Even if I was a novice, I could go along for the ride. I was open, even hoping I might find some spiritual reality along the way.

As the trip to Japan got closer, the excitement grew. Most of the talk centered around the possibility of meeting President Ikeda. One night, as we took a short break from rehearsal, one of the girls said, “I’ve heard that President Ikeda is enlightened”.

Another girl added, “I was told that if I was lucky enough to just see him drive by in a car, I could be instantly enlightened—just by catching a glimpse of him.”

I sat there wondering what it might feel like to be enlightened. It sounded like pretty wild stuff—but then again I’d been chanting and things were starting to happen. To my complete amazement, I’d already gotten that letter I wanted from Mark. Now there was the hope of enlightenment. . . .

As soon as the plane touched down in Tokyo, I was riveted to my window, amazed that I was on the other side of the world. Outside, I was hit by the dense August humidity of Asia, by the sounds of a language I didn’t know, and lots of people with jet black hair and dark eyes. We were all so excited that as soon as we got into our chartered bus we burst into a song. Immediately, though, one of the leaders shushed us. “Oh, no . . . don’t sing that song now.” I wondered why, but didn’t think too much about it at the time.

An hour later, we were driving through downtown Tokyo and someone started to chant. We all joined in loudly, half expecting the people on the sidewalks to chime in, too. After all, this was the “holy land”! But right away our leader said, “Maybe you should wait until we get to the countryside. You know, some people might not like what you’re doing.”

I was curious. I thought, What do you mean? I thought these people were all into this.

I had expected to feel an immediate oneness of spirit with the Japanese people. That our arrival—as the American counterpart of this world peace movement—would somehow be a big event. But as I watched from the window of the bus, I saw skyscrapers, rickshaws, blue-jeaned teenagers and old ladies in kimonos—but nobody was chanting and there wasn’t a welcoming committee in sight.

For the next few days, everywhere I went, I was hoping to get a glimpse of this President Ikeda—never imagining what would happen next.

“The Sweetie Seven” sang five songs for a gathering of about 20,000 Nishren Sho Shu devotees in a large arena in Tokyo. Their thunderous applause at the end was absolutely electrifying. Buzzing with energy—plus the No-Doz I took to fight jet lag—I ran back to the dressing room with the others, where we quickly changed into our marching band uniforms to join the drill team in their floor exercises. There were about one hundred and fifty of us marching together, and once again the crowd cheered us on when we were finished. We all filed off the arena floor and headed for the door. I happened to be one of the last ones out.

And then I heard a commotion behind me in the auditorium. As I turned I saw a Japanese man standing at the railing all the way across the arena. He had on a suit and he was waving. The crowd was going wild and some people were screaming. The girl next to me said, “It’s President Ikeda!” Then she took off running toward him, and so did I.

I was one of the first ones to get to President Ikeda and I pressed myself against the stadium wall, stretching my arm as far as it would go, trying to touch him. He put his hand over the railing to make a speech and the palm of his hand closed over my little finger! For the next few minutes he addressed the crowd in Japanese—and the whole time his hand still rested on top of my pinkie. All around me people were pressing against me to get closer. To try and touch him. But there I was, the luckiest one of all.

Strong emotions rose in me and tears started flowing. I cried through the whole speech. There were tear stained faces everywhere I looked.

But something inside of me was almost standing back watching the whole scene. The hysteria. The tears. Why? What was I caught up in anyway? President Ikeda finished his message and his escorts whisked him out of the arena. People all around me were still sobbing. I just stood there thinking, I not only saw him, he touched me. But nothing happened. I don’t think I got enlightened.

Two more incidents before I left Japan slowly dampened my enthusiasm. First, we traveled to a Buddhist Temple called Taisegigi, near the foot of Mount Fuji. The holy of holies was there—the original Gohonzon, over six feet high and carved in stone. We all got a turn to see it and they told us to take a list of everything we wanted into the shrine, so we wouldn’t forget anything. As my group settled down for our twenty-minute stay, many around me started crying and chanting. I felt a little mercenary for bringing my list of “wants” here. Something just didn’t feel right. All I knew was that I felt as cold as the stone I was staring at.

Shortly before we were to leave Japan, my group leader woke me in the middle of the night. “Be quiet. Come with me.” I got up off my straw sleeping mat and was led down a winding path by strangers with flashlights.

“The Sweetie Seven” had been summoned by President Ikeda. When we arrived at his house we stood there in a daze as he spoke to us through an interpreter. He gave us gifts—silk purses and sandalwood beads. We were only there about ten minutes, but it was enough. I kept thinking, If he’s so enlightened, why can’t he speak English? And why did we have to sneak out? It was then I decided to drop out of this group when I got home.

And that’s exactly what I did. They continued to phone me for about a year, encouraging me to keep chanting. The U.S. Director even wanted to talk to me in person. But I couldn’t go back. I knew they didn’t have the answers I was looking for.

Leaving the group left a big hole in my life because I’d invested so much time and energy. As I started to think about adjusting to a more normal lifestyle, I remembered friends I hadn’t seen in quite awhile. I also thought of my father.

I’d been so busy with the Buddhists, it had been about six months since I’d made one of my routine visits to see my dad. He was still begging me to get him out of the hospital the last time I’d seen him. Even though I didn’t see any way I could take care of him, I hoped there was still a chance for us to build a deeper relationship. So, one Sunday after returning from Japan, I decided to go visit him.

On the way to the hospital I stopped and bought him the candy and cigarettes he liked. When I got to the hospital and went to his room, though, he wasn’t there. Figuring they’d moved him, I went to the nursing station. I gave the nurse his name, but she gave me a blank stare and asked, “Who is it you want?”

“Charles Steiner,” I repeated.

“We don’t have anyone by that name here.”

I insisted I was in the right place.

“When was the last time you saw your father?” she asked me.

My eyes avoided hers. “About six months . . . Uh, I’ve been traveling.”

“Six months? I haven’t been here that long. Let me get someone else for you.”

When a second nurse walked up, she looked right at me and asked, “Who are you?”

“I came to see Charles Steiner. I’m Melody, his daughter.”

Without much hesitation she said, “Honey, he’s dead. He died several months ago. Didn’t you know?”

I was stunned. Grabbing the bag of candy and cigarettes, I ran out to my car in disbelief. I was angry. Sad. I felt like the stone I’d seen in the Japanese temple. I slammed my car into gear and raced to my mom’s place. Why had she kept this from me? Why didn’t she tell me and spare me this painful, humiliating moment?

I burst through the living room door and cornered my mom.

“Why didn’t you tell me Daddy was dead!” I cried.

She just stared at me. Now she was the one who was stunned. “Dead? Charlie’s dead? I didn’t know. . . . I didn’t know.”

Now my mother was upset. Could I blame her after my bold accusation?

As we started to inquire about my father, the hospital told us he died from pneumonia. But a friend who worked there pulled his records and told us the details surrounding his death. It seems the nurses had been taking my father’s cigarettes away from him because he was coughing so badly. Also, since he could only use one hand, he was constantly burning himself. He must have gone into the bathroom with some cigarettes to sneak a smoke. He evidently caught himself on fire and was burned seriously before anyone could come to his rescue. During his recovery, pneumonia set in as a complication to the burns, and he died. We were never notified when he was burned—or when his life was threatened by pneumonia. My dad died pretty much as he lived. Alone.

I was left to wonder why so much of what I really wanted in life had been taken away from me. I never had the family or the home I wanted, Mrs. Hilliard had slipped from my life, and the Buddhist experience was a flop. Now my father was dead. I knew we didn’t have the greatest relationship but at least I had a father—or somebody I could call my father. Now there was no chance for a relationship. I was told they buried him somewhere in the veterans’ cemetery near the hospital. Whenever I drove by all I could do was stare at the straight rows of white crosses—acres and acres of them. My dad was somewhere out there beneath a simple white cross. 

I never did visit his grave.

For the next few years I bounced around like a rubber ball. Graduating from L.A. Trade Technical College in 1969, I did land several jobs in the fashion industry. And between jobs, I’d usually run my unemployment benefits dry—which only reflected how I was feeling inside. Dry. I continued my spiritual search, going from astrology, to yoga, to getting a mantra and meditating, to studying an obscure occult science.

The only thing left that held out any promise of happiness and a future were the letters from Mark. I found I was able to pour my heart out to him—but he was still in the Army. The loneliness I felt left me open to all kinds of influences.

One of the girls I’d gone to design college with came over to my apartment one spring evening. We decided to drop some acid. I was playing the Beatles Abbey Road album on my stereo, but as we came onto the LSD the music started sounding all jumbled together. The acid hit us hard. As I stared at the lit candle on the coffee table it was like watching time-lapse photography as I “saw” it melt down, then grow back to its original size and melt down again. The walls seemed to be closing in on us, too. Everything was spinning and moving so fast I thought I might flip out. We needed more space, so we decided to get outside for some fresh air even though it was after midnight.

Walking down the side streets of Santa Monica, I was wishing I could come down, but the acid had just hit—and it was stronger than I expected. I felt like I was being turned inside out.

Then the strangest thing happened. We were standing at the bottom of a hill and as I looked up into the black, midnight sky I saw a huge glowing cross hanging in the heavens. I blinked, but it didn’t go away. It was a fiery, radiant gold. And it was beautiful. I stared at it in awe, and felt a peace wash into my heart. Everything around me became calm and still. Hoping to hold onto the moment I was afraid to even move. Something deep inside me was responding, saying, I need this peace so bad. I don’t ever want to lose it.

I glanced at my friend and noticed that she now had a long, flowing shawl draped over her head. To my surprise, so did I. We had on long dresses too, that were gently blowing in the evening breeze. As I stared up at the cross all the turmoil stopped and it was like I was in another place, at another time, standing at the foot of this cross . . . a place I never wanted to leave.

But of course, my friend wasn’t seeing the same thing, and in a moment she started talking about something. I tried to stop her—but it was too late. The scene of us at the cross dissolved before my eyes. I caught my breath in disappointment, but try as I might I couldn’t get the image back. Gone were the shawls, the long dresses, and the beautiful glowing cross. My peace was gone as well. I felt like something precious had just been torn from my hands. I was again caught up in the agitation of the trip. We wandered the streets for a few more hours before we returned to my apartment.

It was daylight before the acid wore off and I could get some sleep. But I didn’t forget the cross, or the peace. Later on, when I woke up, I went back to the spot where it all happened. In the place of the cross there was only a tall telephone pole with a cross beam. That must have been what my hallucination hung itself upon.

But the peace that came with it was what puzzled me. I knew Jesus died on a cross, but I’d never thought of looking to him for any answers. Jews didn’t believe in Jesus. And anyway, could you really have a valid spiritual experience on drugs? I didn’t think these questions had answers so I hid that experience in my heart and tried to move forward with life.

Eventually Mark got discharged from the Army, and we made plans to move in together. After four years of being apart we were like total strangers, but our excitement about each other overshadowed everything else. For me it was a dream come true. I finally had somebody I could call my own. Mark soon enrolled in college, and I landed a job in Canoga Park at a videotape production studio called Matrix Image. Now I had every reason to be happy—I had a good relationship with Mark and a good job. And yet I found myself deeply dissatisfied with everything around me—and looking for ways to forget the growing emptiness I was feeling. Even Mark couldn’t fill the void.

I was at a real low point in my life and getting numb was more attractive than ever. Almost every day at lunch, I’d go out with the receptionist next door and drink margaritas. Only in her mid-twenties, she already had a drinking problem—and I wasn’t doing much better. During work, I’d also go into the ladies’ room frequently and smoke some marijuana or hash just to get through the afternoon. I’d even decided to sell some dope, which was really a first. I knew I was getting into a dangerous place.

Inwardly, I was giving up. For all my ideals, and all my searching for the truth, I was coming up empty.

Then the bottom dropped out.

One evening after dinner, Mark and I were having a casual conversation, when he suddenly got quiet. Then he said, “Babe, I want to tell you about something really beautiful that just happened to me.”

“What?” I asked, smiling.

“Well, Marie and I got together.”

“Got together . . . What do you mean?”

“You know, we made love. It was inevitable. I believe it was meant to be.”

I felt like someone had just kicked me in the stomach. Marie was married to Mark’s best friend. Was Ireally supposed to be happy?

“Where was her husband? Does he know?”

“He was there, babe. He saw it coming and just left us alone. He came in and woke us up in the morning. He’s such a beautiful brother.”

I didn’t want to get upset. But even though I’d read the book Open Marriage, it was hard to get my mind open that far. I didn’t know how to compute this in my emotions. As much as I tried to deny it, I felt betrayed. I sure wasn’t perfect, but at least I’d been faithful. I let it go and we didn’t talk about it again. But something inside of me was dying.

A short time later I walked into our living room just as Mark was kissing one of my best friends. This time I was so upset I took a few Quaaludes, and the next morning I phoned in sick.

So nothing was sacred after all. Reality was getting too hard to deal with. I didn’t want to feel pain again. Mark and I didn’t break up, but that bond of loyalty was broken. Somehow I always knew I was living out of a sense of loss—a sense of wanting something that would last. This only highlighted it. It just seemed a lot better to be numb—and I was getting more numb all the time.

The day I met Keith Green, the last thing I wanted was a serious relationship. In fact, all I could think of was getting out of the relationship with Mark.

Near the end of January 1973, Keith showed up at Matrix Image, along with his dad, his grandfather and a friend. Rumor had it that video would be the next big thing. They were looking into the possibility of combining Keith’s music with some of the new video effects we were producing.

As I gave them a tour, Keith seemed to stay right on my heels, asking questions and telling me more about himself than I really cared to know. But I soon found out you couldn’t ignore Keith for long—especially if he wanted to get your attention.

About a week after the tour, I was sitting at my desk when the phone rang.

“Matrix Image. May I help you?” When I answered, a voice on the other end of the line said cheerfully, “Hi, I miss you.”

“Who is this?” I said coolly.

“It’s me—Keith. You know, I was in last week.”

“Oh, yes I remember,” I said. And I thought, How can he say he misses me? He barely knows me.

“I was calling to see if your boss listened to the music tape I left him.”

“I don’t know but I can check on it.”

“O.K. Great. Have you listened to it yet?”

“No . . . not yet,” I said, feeling a bit on the spot. “But I will soon.”

“Great. Hey, do you wanna meet me for lunch today?”

I stalled him, my mind racing for an excuse. But Keith was cheerfully persistent. When I hung up I was a bit surprised at myself for saying I’d go. Although I was hurt about Mark, I still really cared about him. And I definitely didn’t feel ready to jump into another relationship. I needed some space.

But this Keith Green—his directness threw me a bit. Most guys played it cool. Keith was aggressive, not a game-player.

I changed my mind several times before lunch time arrived, but met Keith as planned. He’d made sandwiches, and we went to Chatsworth Park for a picnic. He brought his guitar along and as we sat cross-legged on the grass he played me a song he’d just finished. It was a really beautiful tune, but more than the music, I immediately heard Keith’s heart—or maybe I should say his heart cry. As he sang for me there in the park, he voiced some of the same questions I’d been struggling with, but said them in a way I never would have thought of saying them—like, “Is death the answer, or just a door? Does anyone know?”

I’d already told Keith I wrote songs too, but once I heard how good he was I felt a twinge of regret as he passed me his guitar and asked me to play him one. I sang a few of my songs for him and, to my relief he seemed to like them. Then he said, “I’ve got some other songs I want to play for you but I need a piano.”

We drove to Pierce College, where Keith was taking some classes, and found an empty practice room with a piano. As he started playing, it was obvious he was in his element. He played easily and powerfully. He threw himself into each song with energy and emotion, sweat starting to show on his forehead. And his voice . . . his voice was soul-stirring. I stood there speechless. To say I was impressed would be an understatement.

I had never heard anyone, anywhere, like Keith Green. As I listened to him I thought, This guy is incredible. I can’t believe he’s not making records. But it wasn’t just his music—it was all of him. The energy. The sincerity. The sheer power of his performance.

I was already going to be late getting back from lunch. Keith walked me to my car and gave me a small hug. I drove back to work thinking that this lunch had turned out to be very interesting.

It also hit me that I had just gone out with someone else while I was still in a relationship with Mark. That was really out of character for me—no matter that Mark had been with other girls.

Keith kept calling me at work, so I decided to listen to the tape of songs he’d left for my boss. I was especially taken up by one beautiful love song. It had a soaring, haunting melody line. But the words haunted me more. Most love songs out then were about “revolving door” relationships—here today, gone tomorrow. This song was different. And it was clear that this Keith Green was different as well.

About three weeks later, during another lunchtime get  together, Keith walked me to my car as I got ready to head back to work. We stood there for a moment and Keith looked at me intently. My car door was open and I was just about to get in when he stepped closer and warmly kissed me. I didn’t resist. I liked the way he kissed and I kissed him back.

As I drove back to work I wondered what I was getting myself into.

Keith immediately wrote some free verse about our first kiss in his journal and later gave me a copy, which in part read:

With our electricity and music

Through me

We can amplify the beautiful song of us

After all, you are a Melody

And I am a minstrel

And we are becoming a fact—US.

In short order, things began to shift around in my little world. Mark decided to go to New York and finish the last semester of a college career he’d left dangling to go into the Army. He was planning to come back to California six months later. I was keeping my mouth shut about Keith.

True to form, Keith wrote a rather humorous song about the situation. He called it, “You’re On My List Of Things To Do!” No one had ever written a song for me before, and I was really flattered when Keith sang it to me. The first verse said:

Well I met you at the office

Then you know it grew

And then there was your boyfriend

But then he never knew

That you liked me

And you hate it

Cause you don’t know what to do

But honey, you’re on my list of things to do!

Keith was anxiously counting the days until Mark left. A few weeks later in mid-April, I waved goodbye to him as he drove out of the Matrix Image parking lot on his way back east. Telling people things they might not want to hear was difficult for me, so I let him leave without saying anything about my growing feelings for Keith. Keith had been pushing to see me right away, but I needed some breathing room. So I actually managed to hold him off—for a week.

On Easter Sunday, Keith was to pick me up to go to the Renaissance Fair in Ventura County—even though I warned him I wanted to take everything slowly. I’d just regained my freedom and my heart didn’t feel ready to make another commitment.

When Easter Sunday arrived, so did Keith—a few hours before the time we’d agreed on! His early knock woke me up and I stumbled to the door in a daze. I couldn’t believe it when I opened up and found him standing there in a woven, Indian-print shirt.

“I was so excited I just couldn’t wait any longer,” he said sheepishly. I sighed and let him come in while I went off to get ready. What girl in her right mind could stay mad after an explanation like that?

At the Fair, Keith and I walked around for hours, buying organic food and looking at everyone in their medieval outfits. There were wandering minstrels, jugglers, palm readers, and artisans selling every kind of homemade item you could think of. The smell of burning incense and food cooking all mingled together in a pleasant way, and you could smell the perfumed oils—strawberry, sandalwood, patchouli—floating on the breeze. A lot of people had taken psychedelic drugs and some of them looked very wiped-out. Keith told me his last drug trip was on his nineteenth birthday last October when he took mescaline. It had been such an intense experience, he said, that he hadn’t taken any drugs since. I was still a lot more involved in the drug scene, but I hadn’t done any tripping for a while.

We sat on the grass in the warm sun and talked. Just talked —all afternoon. There was something about Keith that was different from anyone I’d ever known. He was a true seeker. A deep thinker. And even though he was quite serious about life, he had a wild sense of humor that I really enjoyed.

The difference in our ages did bother me a bit—but at least Keith’s life experience and perspective on things helped close the seven-and-a-half year gap between us. He was young, and full of potential and hope for the future—but at the same time he said he often felt “old and senile” at nineteen. At just twenty-six, I knew what he meant.

Within a week, Mark phoned me long-distance. Keith was there, and I took the phone into the bathroom to talk privately. I half expected Keith to get mad and leave, acting like he didn’t care, but not Keith.

He was afraid I might get back together with Mark and he stayed right there in the living room—fuming and pacing the floor. I was on the spot. It was killing me to think I was going to hurt Mark.

When I told him about Keith, he started crying. He wanted to turn around and drive right back to California, saying he was willing to make our relationship more permanent. But it was too late. I told him not to come back for me. We spent over an hour on the phone and I cried, too. I felt so torn. I felt like the most terrible person in the world at that moment. But the phone call ended my relationship with Mark.

Within a month, Keith moved into my apartment.