That which might have been Alabama 1963

This is not my first writing about John Henry Waddell’s sculpture installation called That Which Might Have Been. This time, I write as an individual who is continuously touched by, what might have been, what could have been, and also what is. I am writing here about a human condition.  Alabama being in the USA gives me cause for reflection. I must, however, accept the fact that homo superior, homo erectus or homo by any name, most probably suffers the condition.


The phenomenon is called prejudice. Most of us suffer from it. The infliction possibly comes with our DNA. The religions we hold also affect how we see and think of people. We judge them from skin color, for sure the content of purses. The list is long, give yourself a moment and you will find your own preconceived opinions not necessarily based on experiences.


Yes my friend, prejudice, a word we are reticent to infuse in our vocabulary, yet a word, whose meaning flows in our veins. Few of us are openly willing to accept the emotions attached to this arrangement of just a few letters.


I see people different than I am — I resent them. Some people speak a language different from the one I do — I resent them. Some pray differently than I do — I resent them. Sometimes, I even hate them! The list is miles long and seems perpetual, conditions of humanity for our pleasure and forever. I question if we are here to shed these human afflictions? Has the time to evolve and emerge from the bog come upon us?


I am interested in what we are uncomfortable with. I am attempting to put light on emotions created by fear. 


Our egos make it difficult to admit we fear what is different. Our passions and emotions often spin out of control. At first, we deny having feelings contra-religion or contra-social. It takes no time at all before we act upon the turmoil created inside.


Under the guise of order, we batter what is weaker or different because we want power over it. We destroy what we are afraid of. We do so in the name of God, country or security, but never do we approach the motivator: fear that comes from what is different and not understood. The other motivator is ignorance, because to learn demands change. The hate we experience could come from what tests our humanity or our consciousness.


We do not nourish the greater self that we are. I suggest this to be a reason why we maybe afraid of our own potential for universal love.


When a child is afraid of the dark, we put a light on for them to see that there is no cause for their fears.  We educate them. They learn not to be afraid of the dark.


To better illustrate my idea, I best tell a story.


 Sculptor John Henry Waddell and his family were returning home after a two and a half years in Mexico. John was forty-two years old.


Within the proximity of Laredo, Texas, the radio frequencies started to work. His wife Ruth, also an artist, turned the car’s radio on.  An American station came on. John, his wife and children were exited about the all-English voices. They heard songs, new to their ears, with tempo almost forgotten. They were approaching home in Tempe, Arizona, and with that came their mounting joy.


The music stopped, a news bulletin followed: I paraphrase, “Birmingham, Alabama, the Baptist Church on 16th Street has been bombed. It was a black church. This is the year of the Lord 1963. The month is September and today’s date is the 15th.  Four girls, Denise McNair, Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson and Cynthia Wesley lost their lives.”

The news was over, the music began again. It was later learned that the bombing was executed as part of the KKK mode of persecuting, lynching, and oppressing blacks. The KKK is an organization still in existence today, in the year of the Lord 2017.


In 1963, I was a young wife residing in New York, I did not know about the KKK. I did not know about segregation, and particularly, I did not know about the governor of Alabama.


Into my awareness came the famous phrase of Governor George Wallace: “Segregation now, segregation tomorrow and segregation forever.”


I was reading one of my magazines where the French press reported the death of four Negro young girls in a church in Alabama. They also mentioned an American sculptor named John Henry Waddell who was prompted by this incident to create bronzes that would commemorate the four girls.


It was decades later that the founder of Gardens for Humanity, an organization that molded who I was to become took me to visit a sculpture garden. This was the place where John Henry Waddell and his wife resided. This master sculpted, his home and studio, and also the foundry was also on the property. I was excited to see the bronze creations. I had forgotten the name from the long ago article.


I drove on a dirt road carved out from the side of a mountain. Close to the edge on the passenger side was a low slope that made this enactment treacherous. To my left a rocky mountainous high desert raised itself up. Trees and bushes were not abundant.


While driving, very slowly, I kept thinking why anyone would choose to reside in such a place. Lo and behold, in the periphery, on the mountaintop, a life-size sculpture greeted me. She was a nude with arms extended and pointing to the direction I was to take. My smile and my awe demanded that I stop the car. To see her better I would have had to scale this terrain upward. I admired this work of art from my car.


I continued my slow drive. Loose rocks bigger than my head pounded the bottom of my sport’s car. A few more feet, also nude, a woman made of bronze played a harp. I swear—I heard the notes.


The road, if it could be called that, was not made for my low car. I realized I had to keep my eyes glued to where the wheels were making their way to an unknown and unadvertised place called the sculpture garden.


Soon enough, what resembled a parking area appeared. I stopped and parked the car. I got out to open the door for Mrs. Adele Seronde, my mentor, a painter and a poet.  “You will love John and Ruth,” she said. The name John finally rang a bell. Could it be the John, the American sculptor I had read about all those years ago?


“Come on in. “Mrs. Waddell said. She must have seen the approaching car. We had brought lunch. I was busy getting a picnic basket and some bags of fruit out of my trunk. Adele, went ahead on a skinny path made for rabbits. She walked the narrow trail to the house without difficulties. She obviously had been there before.


The Arizona sun was nearly blinding me. As in a dream, I saw a figure come out of something resembling a smoky cave. The figure looked like an astronaut. Moments later off came the strange costume and a gray-haired man appeared.


Determined to make only one trip to the house, I was still struggling with the basket and the couple of grocery bags. The man came toward me. I noticed the clarity of his eyes.


“Hi, I am John, let me help you.”


“We might as well go through the studio. I can point out some of the sculptures to you. I am working on a large piece. There are sculptures everywhere here. By the way, I did not get your name.”


“I am Eveline Horelle, and it is an honor to meet you, Sir.”


“Please, call me John. Adele told me all about you, and your involvement with Gardens for Humanity. I heard about you and the gallery. I am glad you are doing something for the community. If you ever want to have a sculpture show let me know.”


Before I could answer we already had walked hundreds of steps outside among bronzes of all sizes. Some were playing musical instruments, some were playing ball, I thought of Greece. They must have been playing soccer.  He opened a door. Indeed, there were sculptures everywhere. We talked and walked between more sculptures. Suddenly, my feet stopped, my eyes became focused, in front of me, a small, yellowed by age newspaper clipping was taped to the wall.


That Which Might Have Been-Alabama 1963, that was the title of the short article I had read decades ago, but this article was in English. It was about the American Sculptor and the four black girls.


Decades had passed—I was no longer foreign to this land and its people, I even spoke their language. I had become one of them.


The photo of the installation clearly showed four grown black women. I was confused. I suffered from a temporary sort of mental paralysis. He kept on showing me bronzes, large and small. On paper he showed me concepts for future works, and on walls I saw some bas-reliefs and some of his paintings. On benches and other surfaces were sculptures still in clay form to be casted. My paralyses changed itself to awe.


We entered the house. Mrs. Waddell greeted me as if we were long lost friends. The afternoon was delightful.  After a simple lunch of salads, a quiche I had made, we had a variety of fruits.


I left the modest home with John. We went back through the studio. This time, he opened another door. Various sculpture installations outside patiently awaited my arrival. I saw and touched bronze. I had never done that before. 10,000 years from now these figures would stand for anyone to see and touch. My amazement kept mounting.


I became conscious that not two hours before, upon entering the property, because of my predisposed attitude, my thoughts were only why be in such a god-forsaken place. The occupants must be nuts.


As we walked, I understood the birthing process of each sculpture.  Master John Henry Waddell did not sculpt anything without a reason. It took a while; I became comfortable among male and female nudes all around me. On the shoulders of a tall woman was a child. He called that installation Celebration. We talked about many things. He told me his work could not go out of style because it was not in style. I thought of myself many called a non-conformist. I understood why he found satisfaction in the work he did and not necessarily in the finished product. I smiled a great deal, while Adele Seronde and Ruth Waddell entertained each other.


Finally, I asked about the article on the wall. The sculptures were not outside. I knew about the four girls with black skin, blown to pieces by a bomb in a church in Alabama. I knew they were innocent children, but no sculptures of dismembered children were to be seen in the sculpture garden. The sculptures in the article were not pictured.


John moved a couple of small sculptures from a bench. He sat and I did too. It was time to give me the explanation I had asked about.


This man, an internationally known master of his art, felt bringing the four girls to life as adults, would express his intentions better. I discovered the passion of his soul, and yet the gentleness of his emotions.


Because of our long talk, today I know that each of the figures face one of the cardinal directions. One of them holds a swaddle cloth, symbolizing the children that will not be born of her. Two figures look to the outside as if to wonder what will become of the world they once lived in. One sculpture has a hand upward she faces north. On her raised arm the sculptor wrote Prayer.


It was during our conversation that I asked John where in Alabama I could see this installation. He became sadden. The governor of that state had not accepted this gift. The sculptures were not appropriate for Alabama. The figures of this installation represented Negro women from his state and under his tenure they would not make it to adulthood. That was best for Alabama.


Perhaps due to ignorance, men of power cannot admit to the wrongs of their prejudice. It has been over fifty years since the foundry released the first casting of these four nude Negro women.


Today in the state of Arizona, this installation can be seen and experienced. One can enter the space between the figures.


The bronzes look toward the massive Camelback Mountain. Find them. They are within in a circle—perhaps a circle of life. Visit them, touch the bronze and know that it will outlast your prejudices. The Universalist Unitarian Church where they are is ironically on Lincoln Drive, in Paradise Valley.

A doctor named Gladys

Today I was with Dr. Gladys T. McGarey, MD., MD (H)… a retired doctor of medicine, a friend, a mentor and so much more. 89 years filled with wisdom, patience, knowledge she picked up from her parents who were medical missionary, India where she was born, medical schools where she learned medicine… She also learned early on during her career that her patients were her greatest teachers…They taught her the art of helping others in the healing process.

This woman knows that medicine is an art, a living art. She has taken the time to perfect this subtle and balanced dance. She is knows as the Mother of Holistic Medicine. This is a mark of distinction no one else can claim. No longer in active practice, nearly 60 years was the time to venture in something else.

I remember the first time I met her. A time when I took better care of my car than I did my body. First of all, she greeted me in the hall way preceding her office door. The greeting was a hug, I must say I nearly fell, most doctors I had met before and since went out of their way never to touch me. Dr. Gladys talked to me for what seemed to have been an eternity. Now I know she was allowing me to express who I was, exposing myself to her, she was getting to know me, the whole person, and yes she was interested to know what was bothering me, but she had no interest in killing or eradicate, pieces of me. She told me about my body attempting to talk to me. I was not being too kind to this body that carried me far and near. Over worked and under paid, my body needed payment, in form of rest, stress management, exercise and proper nourishment. I had no time for that and wondered why I ran out of fuel…

I do not need to go though details but when I left this “woman’s office because by that time I was with a very good friend who gave me tons of advise. My greatest sadness that day was that I did not take notes. Did she cure me? No, she helped me cure myself… Did I take enough drugs to make my head spin and my body sicker with reactions? No, she gave me the tools to change the many things I was doing wrong. This does not mean Dr. Gladys never gave me a prescription? She did when I needed one.

I must go back to today’s meeting, you see, Dr. Gladys with her foundation is teaching about the feminine face of medicine. I will write something just about that, the next time. For the moment, PREVENTIVE medicine is the subject, she talks and educates male and female doctors, nurses and other health practitioners this art… the stuff that stop people from becoming obese, or diabetics, the stuff that allows the birthing process to be a natural one, the stuff that permits the aging process to also be an acceptable part of being alive. I could go on and on but I know you understand what I am saying.

There is a lot going on in the face of medicine, in many hospitals they know that the medical model/system is rather broken. Medical practitioners do want to express the good sides of what they learned.

A series of breakfast/talks are being offered in various places to medical staffs and the general public, these talks are educational in nature. The next one is on September 23, of this year. If you want to know more and be one of my guest, feel free to contact me. is ready to answer questions.

Painting The Canvas

This is not the place to talk about the art of painting on a canvas. The canvas in question was painted with my mind. With great accuracy my fingers followed what was generated by my soul. I distorted the truth and made it mine. I replaced what was with could be. My intention is to tell how The Canvas – A Secret from the Holocaust came about. Like most authors a seed growing between my ears needed room to expend. After a while I remembered stories I heard long long ago. “Why you/” a voice screamed from the balcony, She was sitting on a chair covered with velvet almost matching her shirt. Are you Jewish? Though I said no, I had to verify with family members to know if there was a secret.

A Rendezvous at the corner of RUSHING and CONTROL delivered me to a meeting with CHOICE

It was not too long ago when my second book was ready to be published. It had gone through various edits by professionals, it had been read and reread by many. I wanted it ready for sale on a certain day, at a certain time. All was in place and ready to go. After all I had everything under CONTROL.

Words I wrote caused me satisfaction and contentment. All was in order! The time had come to find the right formatter. Soon the destiny of The Canvas – A Secret from the Holocaust invited me to the next gate.

All the CONTROLs were checked off and a proof arrived. As the author I had one last task; approve this proof.

There were holidays around the corner, a show to attend, a talk, a cause, life and other good reasons were provided to my mind. I did not read the proof because I knew it was perfect. I had paid editors, formatter and they were all professionals. There was nothing to read since I knew the content of the book.I had written every word, felt every emotion. All was in CONTROL. I did not read the proof.

The first edition was printed and most books were sold.

The proverbial green light went on since CONTROL had approved the printed edition. My relationship with RUSHING gained strength. All was glorious.

Only a dear and good friend makes a call and says, “this powerful book offers a great story all women should read it. However, it cannot be offered in its present condition. It has too many mistakes.” She had just finished reading the proof.

RUSHING laughed, “You thought you could CONTROL time!” I went to the manuscript, the original and the edited one. RUSHING laughed again, soon enough I discovered I had given the unedited manuscript to be processed, the one that made its way to the publishing world.

Now with plenty of mud in face and hands I must walk to the process and rectify a grave mistake.

RUSHING is satisfied today because the lesson was learned. CONTROL is also pleased because it offered a lesson now understood.

The new doorway now visible forced me to read: CHOICE. I paused ––– I hoped my intelligent readers would forgive my mistake. I did not know most of them ––– Better yet, I hoped they would not see the mistakes. Would I disregard and ignore them, could I also ignore and my prospective editors or agents? Would anyone reading the book understand about my friends RUSHING and CONTROL?

I am happy to report; I was able to make the correct CHOICE. I opened the door.

The Canvas – A secret from the Holocaust will be published once more. The new edition will bear the same title but will be without the numerous mistakes. One may find additional mistakes but they will be the ones I am not aware of. This book is a story of love’s many levels, integrity of word given, a story of character. The story explores the many choices people made during and after the Holocaust.

No reason is greater than to honor those who lived to tell me their stories and those unable to do so. It is for them I correct mistakes I made.

This is a great time to offer thanks to the teachers I call: RUSHING, CONTROL and CHOICE.

Eveline Horelle Dailey

The World Needs Old Ladies

When the title of this book was given to me by Dr. McGarey, I paused

“Why” I asked.

“Because, They are the Tree of Life”

Over nine months went by, a tremendous amount of time working, typing, editing, more conversations, and more typing–– and now the book is nearly ready for publication by Inkwell Productions.

This journey took me on a sort of self-realization.

The work is biographical, it is literary, it takes the reader around a world not often visited. Dr. Gladys will make you laugh, you will cry at times because it is the way life is. I talk about the life of Dr. Gladys T. McGarey, M.D., M.D. (H). Dr. Gladys as she is affectionately called gave me the material to sift through, decipher, and grow. To do this, she sent me on a journey, to research facilities, universities and other places. I came out with the understanding what the medical practice of a humanitarian took over sixty years to develop. Her background filled with color, adventure, laughter and sorrow brought new thoughts to a world where innovations and new ideas in matters of living medicine or patient and doctor relationship were not always well accepted.

During this seeding time, I stumbled upon some great information.

Dr. Gladys, now over ninety years old was born in India. Her age and her place of birth alone makes this ‘old lady’ rather special. She studied medicine when women were suppose to be barefoot and pregnant. She was young when she was exposed to the principles of mind, body, spirit. As a doctor of medicine, she began to see the things wrong with our system of delivering healthcare.

She is one that is able to see a problem, face it without fear, go around bounders or even climb over them when she has to. She operated from points of balance, patience and tenacity. One must not confuse her gentleness with the inability to be firm.

Reading The World Needs Old Ladies –– They are the Tree of Life will introduce the reader to two distinct voices each delivering the wisdom of the ages. At the end of the book Dr. Gladys brings in some remedies she used for the decades when she was a practicing medical doctor.

During the penning, insights in areas of responsibility for the necessary changes in areas of healthcare delivery became clear to me. Dr. Gladys helped people get well. The medical model however, treats diseases, not people affected with a disease. There are huge differences between the two.

She told me, “People that are sick may have a disease, they not the disease. Diseases are not people. To have successes in wellness we must treat the person with the malady.”

My mind paused again –– I had to look deep into myself. When I am sick, I continue to be me first. Whatever ailment I am the host of, is a condition that I have acquired. I am not the disease.

Though I am the co-author of The World Needs Old Ladies I express here what I know to be true. Every person reading this book will benefit from its content.

Of Numbers and Thirty-three Miners from Chile

The television screen was dark, and I knew all was right for the thirty-three miners rescued from the underworld of Chile after sixty-nine days.  How curious: thirty-three, sixty-nine, perhaps nothing more than a series of threes. And yet how important were numbers for us? Aside from general accounting endeavors, I did not always pay attention to numbers and what they represented. The miners were safe and did not need my concerns, but numbers danced around me, prodding or rescuing something a long time swelling in the caches of my wandering mind.

I had witnessed something grand within the human spirit, and words such as endurance, gratitude and tenacity came to mind, but that was not all. I became aware of an unending order, an apparent requisite to the workings of the universe and humanity. My thoughts were not revolutionary; they were part of things left mostly unnoticed. Yet for thousands of years men knew of a golden order around, above and within each of us. The numbers related to Chilean miners were simply a trigger to pause, think and explore what was in front of me.

I turned my palms to the light with no recall of the last time I looked and examined the hands I used and abused without a thought, and certainly took for granted until I broke one. The smoothness of youth had given way to minute crevices, too many to count. Still, they were well serviceable, and I wondered how long since my last inspection. Was I a programmable machine using convenient implements I never noticed?   My own digits had built a mountain of memories, too many to count today, but watching my hands was not a memory, it was a reality.

A feeling vague yet intense, if that is possible, happened when the television went dark. An inner light illuminated something for me to scrutinize. The motion of opening my hands was an aperture for viewing a world of identifiable and palpable mysteries. A cooperative unity with the universe granted me the seed to grow an idea. First I had to consider the unconventionality of my thinking; once done, an inventory followed.  The exploration of archetypical numbers began. With no conscious intention, I began to explore what I found to be key to something greater than ten fingers attached to my open hands.

Obliging the caprices of my psyche, my palms gave me an accounting long known by others. I gazed at each hand, and knew the unfolding of time had not changed their particular attributes. The finding was obvious, four fingers and a thumb on each end of my arms. The number ten reminded me of sequences used the world over: 100, 1000, ad infinitum!  The rescued miners did not have much to do about my unearthing of my mental gesticulation.

I counted the phalanges, (boned sections) of each of finger and a door opened wide – the pointer had three phalanges as did the other fingers. Had I found where a dozen came from?  I questioned the person closest to me at the time. Did he know these things? Tired, he answered that he did not know and never looked for what I was looking for. He added that he, too, never paid too much attention to his hands. Must be a human thing, I thought. My mind, however, was not resting; a journey had started, and I was not going to abandon ship.

I marveled at the education I received as a youngster. One of my tutors used my body to teach me order, world history, mathematics and what he called sacred geometry. He was at war with my mind and was determined to win. War, every time I saw his face, war!  Today I smiled, thinking about this man born to torment me. Always insisting numbers were the laws by which the universe worked, Mr. Jacques Malaise made my youth a nightmare, and he won the war.

I spoke French at that time and now gave a thought to my fingers. L’index, perhaps to turn the pages and to point to a direction I could not see. Le majeur, the longer, taller finger, the word translating well especially well when addressing the Major of the armies fighting wars outside of my investigation. Then I remembered that in America we use this finger for a certain gesture. I played with l’annulaire, the one which received the annau, the ring I wear. I could not come up with much utility for this finger perhaps it was made to remind me I was married, the one with real purpose I could not forget, the little finger. L’auriculaire, the one made to stick into the ear for cleaning. This thought brought me laugher;

Mr. Malaise reminded me again and again to unplug my ears. My exploration was by no means over; I could not let the dormant le pousse be ignored. My thumb – made to push on, to give the OK in arenas of Rome. My thumb was up, and I could continue with one finger dependent upon the others to use as a whole, perhaps for the greater good and used, also, for all the things waiting to be grabbed.

With twelve phalanges in hand, so to speak, I surmised that they are the basis for dozens, inches and feet. The examination of my hand continued and I remembered my thumb and its three phalanges; the first and second are obvious, the third bone attaches the thumb almost to the wrist. I now had a total of fifteen segments.

All this was nothing more extraordinary to me than a bunch of folding bones forming a particular number. Not so, my mind told me; it sounded much like the voice of Mr. Malaise. “All is in order,” he would have said, “notice the numbers, and you will find great mysteries waiting exploration.” So notice I did, explore I continued. One must smile when one finds out that the source of irritation during youth is a gift to be unwrapped decades later with care and appreciation. My dozen gave up its mystery, but my fifteen forgot to tell me how important it was, but that was temporary.

The Middle East, particularly Mesopotamia, did not enter my awareness immediately, too busy using my hands and paying attention to digits. I needed to clear my mind and look at the various gifts received from the universe. The only way to get there was to find out more.

With an interest in all things Eastern, the fifteen brought to mind that a Hindu month had fifteen days and that each month corresponded to a phase of the moon. Their calendar year contained 360 days – no month with extra days. I remember the lesson well, I was nine at the time, and I decided to watch the moon every night for however long it would take; an eternity it appeared to have been. I had to prove my tutor wrong, he was talking nonsense, I was sure of it. It was worth it to me at that point in time but, alas, it did not happen. The moon changed its face as prescribed by the number fifteen. I did not know then that my Julian calendar followed the travels of the sun and gave me Easter and leap years.

To confuse me further, in the Islamic world they keep prayer order by counting the fifteen knuckles on each hand, the thumb having three knuckles as suggested above. To that is added the tip of the little, ring and middle finger of the right hand, giving them the magic number of thirty three.  An easy task once they learned to recite the ninety-nine attributes of Allah.

Thinking of such things brought me to explore the messengers of the cosmos for the sky was clear, no night lights, and stars twinkled. What a wondrous sight! Two hands made my calculation easy, I had twenty-eight obvious knuckles, and, being a woman, I knew my natural menstruating functions were on a twenty-eight day cycle. How curious, I thought, remembering the moon and its voyages took twenty-eight days. I knew the sun’s division of time had a twenty-eight year circle. What was all this about?
Then the cosmos came crashing down, the geometry, the numbers, and order connecting the cosmos made me dizzy. I closed my eyes, and the next memory rushed in: I wanted to learn the piano. I had great ambitions, no time for tenacity and had never heard the word patience. One morning a piano arrived, a teacher followed.

In my mind I was to become the next Chopin or Herby Hancock, an American I had heard a thousand times. Teaching me do re mi was to be his syllabus, instead he showed me that there was a relation between the eighty-eight keys, and three and four and seven were part of this universal equation I still did not understand. He told me I would find out that the octaves of scaling related to the octaves of human hearing. But all I wanted was to learn to play like the American jazz man, and I was not interested in octaves.

It became evident to my family that piano lessons were not going to help me with my imaginary jazz career. The piano soon made room for another piece of furniture my mother made better use of. She played the violin and understood numbers and octaves. Me, I developed a simple need to hear music and understood that the playing needed to go to those who appreciated what I could not grasp.
The fascination about relations between body parts, the cosmos, and a bunch of miners in Chile kept my mind occupied. I had witnessed a rescue that in turn triggered memories of unspecified materials learned or heard about years before. I realized that numbers were an integral part of the physical me and, perhaps, the spiritual me was to discover these things at another time.

Evidence that numbers were all around me and knowing I had never paid attention to them, I began counting bits and pieces of me and everything immediately within my reach. Made of the stuff of divine origin, proportions in man and the cosmos told me I was onto something, and so were the people that built pyramids and so on.

The news about the miners came and went, but my hands and what I found remained to tell me there is and was an order that comes with numbers and one does not need to be a mathematician to find them fascinating, especially when one finds them in the very construction of the body.
Each number I examined seemed to have come from or with something prearranged, and one could use pages to explore them. Many books have been written about the value of numbers, and while we often think of them in the organization of dollars and cents, they are there surveying our every move.
I was not looking into the various calendars of the ancient world when I thought again about the trapped miners, in the ‘underworld’ of Chile.

Thirty-three miners, three side by side, was easier to deal with than to count my digits and knuckles. Was it humor or coincidence when I learned that the universe orchestrated something to keep me occupied?  Man is born with thirty-three vertebras.
While Plato said that geometry was the knowledge of the eternally existent, Marcel Proust a novelist felt that the real voyage of discovery consisted not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes. I had perhaps opened both my eyes.

Never satisfied, I opened my arms to the heavens, spread my legs apart and had a conversation with Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvius man. I was a circle, I was a square. I could make angles and, to top it all, the golden proportion of my navel broke my body in half.  Proportionately the same condition happened as my chin to my brows divided my face.  I had to adhere to these proportions when I drew my first nude. I already knew that from the tip of my fingers to my elbow, I would find the golden mean proportion at my wrist. Phi they called it. From my shoulder to my brows, from my nose to the top of my head, repeated was this interesting ratio. My hand replicated this progression, my findings went on, and I realized I was all about numbers and their attributes.

Did we have four seasons by accident, was I sitting on a chair with four legs, and is the table holding my computer a square?  Do we humans fit in a circle but understand our world only when it is squared off.

Numbers are still lingering like dust particles in my mind. As the Chilean miners rescue effort materialized, I heard that seven men were to go down. I could not help but think of Genesis and the Sabah, that seventh day. I allowed my eyes to visit the sky, and I saw the seven sisters, the constellation named the Pleiades. I know science and mathematics find many roots in Greece but my mind took another direction. I examined some Sanskrit text and found the seven chakras, the first one being at the tail, the root, the portal, the Kundalini, the Chilean mine, the underground. How interesting that the chakras came with the colors of a rainbow: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet – seven colors. What was going on when my mind was counting or travelling from the hanging gardens known as the seventh wonder of the world to the seven colors of a rainbow?

Seven men went underground, and with the help of many more above, they helped with one of the most heroic, non-violent rescues I had ever witnessed. Pulled from a symbolic birthing canal, thirty-three men with thirty-three vertebras experienced a rebirth as the phoenix rose, and one area of their body after the other departed from the mine. From the root, the sacral followed, the solar plexus, the heart, the throat, the third eye area and finally the crown had left the underground.

The men from Chile provided me a golden mean to peruse divine order or coincidence.  It is now clear to me that whether we know it or not, we are a juxtaposition of numbers.  These numbers can also be used to advance civilization.

It appears, among the builders of the United States, Masonic Masons knew something about numbers. In Washington D.C. at the Freemasonry House of the Temple,  there are 33 outer columns which are 33 feet high.