Ursula

I met Ursula the day of her memorial service.

The one with the imaginary name she kept for herself, the one treasured by her family knowing they would never see her again.

Wife, mother, grandmother, great grandmother.

Artist, collector, patron, poet, life enthusiast, fierce female, eye extraordinaire.

You add all of it and you have a Master Gardener.

Ask her flowers, I am now one of them.

Greeting the woman while alive was knowing you were about to learn something unforgettable. Writing about the woman after her passing is knowing your connection with her is real.

A groundbreaking photographer, her eyes were keen lenses that focused on anyone or anything of genuine substance. Her pupils were lasers for the exceptional.

Every gesture counted.

A discerning art collector with a gift to curate personal spaces along with her brilliant self-made husband, Jimmy Mayer, she made sure that first and foremost, the art lived with them and not the other way around.

Every narrative counted.

The ultimate hostess, she made her space feel yours the moment she warmly welcomed you, and as in the most acclaimed of premieres about to start, her rich velvety drape fell softly next to you, cloaking you with her charm, disarming your defenses to remind you of your strengths, leading you to applaud hers.

Every person counted.

A family woman, her kindred are a testament of the callings of her heart, the curiosity of her mind, and the wilderness of her spirit. All faithful to the meaning of her birth name – Becky, “to tie firmly.”

An extended family never looked so genuine.  Alchemy of diamonds.

Every kinship counted.

Including the relationships forged and polished to perfection by the test of time.

Count me among the lucky ones to know the love of a family tree that never stops giving.

The speech of a stepson on her memorial service confirmed how a woman can earn the reverence reserved for mothers. While drawing distance from his father during a temporary rift, she reminded him that disagreements dissolve, but a relationship with a father should never.

Pastel colors were not her thing, grace definitely made up for it.

Her passion for speed on motorcycles gives meaning to the saying “two wheels move the soul.” She proved it every time she joined a wild group of Harley riders – fast, fierce, determined, joyful –  as if celebrating the ride of her lifetime.

Home was the world, particularly if it was as colorful as the Caribbean, and as tasteful as the morning coffee that only took Malibu Rum.

An admirer of Palladian architecture, she appreciated the timeless quality of dimensions, scale, and proportions.  Her thinking was a fitting analogy.

Reading one of her poetry books prior to her passing, Reflections on the Tao Te Ching, her guidance led me to a verse I treasure.

“Be as balanced as blinded justice, as profound as the endless deep, as magnanimous as the simple truth, as honest as a reflecting mirror, as orderly as a perfect spiral, as flowing as a bountiful river. Go forth on the Journey.”

Ursula didn’t wait, she would cheer.

I am in for the Journey.