One whole year already. . . It swept by so fast that I haven’t even finished translating her second book of childhood memories. And yet that work is so dear to my heart!
I remember her funeral. From her grave we could see the hills. The view was magnificent. A little rain mingled with sun, a pearly light, lovely as only Jerusalem light can be. We, the students, the faithful crowd, stood there, feeling orphaned but silent and stoic as proper for the chosen who had had the privilege to follow her teaching for so many a year. And I, among them, was thinking that the hills were hugging her and her crystal-like laughter was playing hide and seek among the clouds like cheerful rays of light, that there was no reason for sadness, that her memory would be forever alive and cherished. Suddenly, I remembered that she was to me the last but one of the very dear and very influential "grownups", the generation of my parents, grandparents, teachers and elder friends, in relation to whom I still felt, in spite of my sixty + years of age, like a child, people who had nurtured and taught me, sometimes tyrannized and hurt me but that I had consistently admired even if I had rebelled more than once to find my own way. The last remaining one of this living shield of people who had once encircled and almost smothered me with the best of intentions, was my father. After him, I would have to see myself as the wise ancestor (hum!) and shoulder the whole burden of awareness and spiritual responsibility. I would be really alone in the world in spite of my friends and children. I would be on the first row somehow and it would be my turn to face old age and take stock of my life. The thought made me burst in irrepressible sobs. One month later my father died.
They had much in common. Both from aristocratic old Sephardic (related) families living in North Africa, both had behind them a long tradition of Jewish erudition, wealth, charity and social prominence. Like her father, mine was a great doctor, a passionate French patriot and an unbeliever in spite of his fond childhood memories as the grandson of a venerated saintly rabbi.
Colette was to me –probably to many others also- a kind of a fairy-godmother. Like the fairies of old, she could sometimes sound to the unwary sharp to the point of harshness, authoritarian, proud and cutting. But she was always beneficent and the student or patient who could open his or her heart and mind, and listen to her with the simplicity and the humility of a real truth seeker, always felt enlightened and made serene again. Her sweet voice and inspiring presence, her snow-white bun of hair, her mischievous smile, her authentic concern and her never-failing instant perceptiveness radiated like the star she said she used to fly to as a child and created around her a uniquely regal atmosphere. We were part of a court and had to dress up and behave accordingly. Her home was open to visitors every Saturday evening (and not, as somebody wrote mistakenly, on Fridays. She was too deeply respectful of religion, her own as well as others’, to teach on Friday night. By the way, she never, to my knowledge, took money for her teaching.) To enter her home was to enter an incredibly beautiful souvenir-filled sanctuary and share with her dearest family traditions as well as private memories. Yet, her awareness to each and every guest was such that her talk was never small talk or egotistical chatter. Even if she described a dress or gave a recipe, it was always in tune with the deepest questions and worries we brought to her to help us heal ourselves. Her life, a constant gift, was dedicated to doing good, understanding and helping people to find joy and meaning in their lives and showing them how to relieve their pains. She herself suffered greatly in her last years but would overcome her own pains and aches every hour of every day. Instead of focusing on herself, they would make her all the more receptive and compassionate.
Just as she never indulged in self-pity, she had no indulgence for the petty lies people often cover up their indecision, cowardice or lack of real motivation with. She would make demands on her students: we had to show tokens of sincerity, purity of heart, forgiveness, generosity, willingness to learn, perseverance. She hated maudlin soppiness and denounced pitilessly every sign of hypocrisy or smugness. Nobody could get away with lip service. She could crash an unwelcome visitor with a word, stop in his tracks a chatter-box with a joke, eliminate a liar with a glare, make fun of a boaster (although she enjoyed to boast quite a lot herself but she would not take any of it too seriously) and see the deepest essence of everyone in a glance. She was fast in her decision-making as well as in her reactions, her critics, her opinions but she was never superficial. Her deep knowledge and intuitive approach of people led her to instant diagnosis and she performed instant recoveries. She had no patience for slowness and stubbornness and all the patience in the world for what she felt was real suffering and authentic motivation for improvement.
Her method of teaching and healing included exercises of visualization and very few words. She believed much more in the impact of a beautiful image, a poem or a song than in long explanations. That is why many of her students were artists and had no intention to do therapy except by teaching art. She could decipher the universal meaning of almost every image, symbol or dream. She was not frightened by any of them and welcomed them as long as we were sincere. That explains the otherwise slightly shocking story of the knife. The woman who held the knife was sincerely angry. Even if we shouldn’t indulge in anger, we shouldn’t hide it either or pretend it doesn’t exist but transform it into something positive which is what life is all about ("make the bad into good" as she used to put it). A famous surgeon’s daughter, she was not afraid of knives but saw them, not as deadly weapons but as instrumental tools. If a woman is able to brandish a knife in anger, she is probably able (if she is Colette’s student and practices her exercises) to use both the knife and the energy for sculpting or carving. She also had a great sense of humor with which she could demystify feelings, unlock situations and help people see things in perspective.
Her belief in reincarnation was not the simplistic superstition it may sound. It was not mere fantasy either. She often said that every Jewish soul has memories and knowledge of the whole of Jewish history. As a child, she and her cousins would tell stories under the succa, during the feast of Tabernacles, about "things that happened to us once upon a time". Everyone picked another period of history, which she or he deeply identified with. In her second book of childhood memories, she tells how she and her family tell in turn, partly as a game and partly seriously, how they escaped and helped others escape from the burning Temple. Her family believed they had the sacred responsibility of saving Jews at each and every generation.
Like my father, she was a young adult at the time of WWII. She and her brother Jose, were involved in the organization of Algiers’ resistance that allowed the Allied Forces to disembark in North Africa in 1942. My father was in the Free French Forces that was part of that same army. Valiance, even heroism, was traditional in those Jewish families.
I met Colette for the first time in 1970. She used to knit a lot and taught me a special stitch, half crochet and half weaving, used mostly in Tunis. Knitting is an ancient art and therapy: it is believed to have been invented by the Phoenicians, a men’s craft, with which they used to ornate their tents and protect themselves at sea. In memory of the Phoenicians, she knitted big curtains in this special stitch. Her back was hurting. She used to recline on her 18th century bed among a mountain of cushions. She looked like a great lady of the past, receiving in her "salon". A photographer, a friend of ours’, used to call her "the great sibyl". At the time, she called herself Beatrice, which is the Latin name of Dona Gracia. I didn’t start studying with her until my divorce in 1977. I then realized that her method is not only a fruit of her intuition and natural gifts but founded on very solid scientific ground. I followed a few classes with her that enriched me tremendously. A few "chosen" would gather once a week in the morning in her lovely bedroom-salon where the walls were covered, from the floor to the ceiling, with paintings, old and new, ancient artifacts from her house in Algiers and photographs of her family. It was an impenetrable closed, magical world, with soft lights and warm, rich colors, conducive to concentration and meditation. We would sit as Pharaohs, feet flat on the floor, hands flat on the knees, the back very straight. She would then say, with her sweet voice: "Close your eyes. Breathe out three times…" and read a poetical sentence which we had to visualize. She never allowed us to remain with our vision more than one minute at a time. She would insist that we "come back to earth" after each one. Then we had to describe what we had seen, using only the present tense. From exercise to exercise, we would, progressively, explore a subject. I followed seminars about birds, masks, physiognomy and dreams. They all went very deep into my own emotional and spiritual life.
Her knowledge of mystical and traditional lore was huge. She used universal symbols that allowed me to bridge gaps between religion, art, fairy tales, myths, theatre, psychology and para-psychology. Most of all, her attentive love, support, never-failing judgment and intelligent exercises have helped me through all the trials of my life. There are few people I am as grateful to as I am to her.
***
Posted by Francoise Coriat on Dec 14, 2004.
Francoise is a theatre designer and translator. She came to Israel in 1967 and has been living in Jerusalem since 1969. She was born in Gibraltar on her parents' way to England during WWII. She was educated in France (Paris) and has been to England several times. She met Colette in 1970 and followed a number of her seminars. She has a little shop-studio in the center of town where she rents, sells and designs theatre costumes and props as well as bridal dresses. Tel (02) 622-3014, "Artishop", Rechov Ezrat Israel 4 (off Rechov Jaffa 60, near the Jaffa and Strauss-King George junction). She can be reached via francoise@012.net.il
(Posted by Larry Pfeffer)
Dec 14, 2004