Tributes to Gigi
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From Piergiorgio
Immagino perfettamente il tuo dolore, lo sento come se mi trovassi in te. E piango Gigi con te. Letteralmente.
Invece vorrei poterti consolare, ma non conosco parole di consolazione. Dirti che volevo bene a Gigi. Dirti quanto mi addolora l'idea di non incontrarla piu'sulla nostra strada. Dirti come la vedo alla finestra della cucina di Shu-Shu, incorniciata dalle bouganvillee, tendermi la ciotola dello zaziki, accarezzare Chagal sulla panca di pietra. Dirti che vorrei esserti vicino a parlarti e ascoltarti. E tacere davanti al tramonto.
Vorrei che bevessimo insieme, nei tuoi bicchierini da studente rivestiti di cuoio: berremo dicendo 'A Gigi!'
I can perfectly well imagine your pain. I feel it as if I were in your place. And I cry for Gigi with you. Literally.
I'd rather be able to console you, but I know no words of consolation. I could tell you how much I loved Gigi. I could tell you how full of pain I am at the thought that I'll never again meet her walking up our road. I could tell you how I see her at the kitchen window of Shu-Shu, framed by purple bougainvillea, handing me a bowl of tsaziki, caressing (our cat) Chagall as she sits on the stone bench of your terrace. I could say how I'd like to be close to you at this moment, talk to you, listen to you. And fall silent together at the sunset.
I'd like us to be drinking together, from your little leather - covered student glasses. We'd drink a toast: 'To Gigi!'.
From Dario & Anna
Il viaggio di Gigi e' terminato.
Per noi che continuamo, il viaggio non sara' piu' lo stesso per il posto vuoto che lei ha lasciato e per quello che lei ci ha insegnato e ci ha dato in questo percorso fatto insieme.
Prima di andare a Paxos, ci aveva detto di aprire le finestre al mattino, bere il caffe' e guardare gli olivi.
Cosi' la ricorderemo, con quel senso della vita e di armonia delle cose che lei aveva dentro.
Gigi's journey is over.
For those of us who carry on, the journey will never be the same - the empty space she has left behind, the things she taught us and gave us, as together we followed the path of life.
Before we went to Paxos she had told us just to open the windows in the morning, drink a coffee and look at the olive trees.
That's how we'll remember her: with that sense of life and of harmony in all things.
From Chiara
Carissimo Terence
Solo tu, che l'hai amata cosi' profondamente, puoi pensare a lei che ora ti guarda, senza piu' soffrire.
Sarete sempre vicini, nel cuore a nei pensieri, anche se, per noi vivi, tutto cio' non puo bastare.
Dearest Terry
Only you, who loved her so deeply, can think of her watching you now, without suffering.
You will always be close, in your hearts and in your thoughts, even though, for those of us who live, all this can never be enough.
From Luciana
Fio mi manca e mi manchera sempre. Anche se la vita ci ha spesso separate, il pensiero e la certezza della sua amicizia mi e' stato sempre di grande conforto. Insieme abbiamo trascorso alcuni anni della nostra giovanezza irrepetibili. Ho sempre amato la sua forza di carattere, la sua serenita', la grande bonta e disponibilita'.
Coraggio, Terry, Fio sara' sempre vicino a te e nel cuore di quanti la hanno voluto bene.
I miss Fio, and I always will. Even if life often separated us, the thought and the certainty of her friendship has always been of great comfort to me. Together we spent a few unforgettable years of our youth. I always loved her strength of character, her serenity, her great kindness and readiness to be of help.
From Sean
I first met Gigi at a PCP summer school in the south of England in the late eighties. She was so full of vitality with a personality so inviting, and with a competence as a healer and teacher, that one could not fail to be impressed by her. I kept up a telephone correspondence with her for several years afterwards; she supervised my counselling cases especially where I needed her acute insight to see how I might be more constructive in the life of a particular client.
We met again in 1995 at the World Congress of PCP in Barcelona. There she introduced me to the work of Robert Langs on dream interpretations. Her insights were stunning and her sure grasp of Lang's protocol made it so easy to embrace this exciting development. During that time she promised to train me in using Lang's methodology as a vehicle for creative writing.
I introduced Gigi to my partner Emily in Barcelona. They got on so well together. I remember over dinner one evening in an open air plaza, Gigi whispered to me, 'I a-know you lo-ove her', in her lovely Italian accent. She went on: 'I get her off the cigarettes in two sessions' , 'I a-know by the way she a-holds the cigarette'. We had such a lovely time that evening in Barcelona, trading memories, enjoying the present moment and sharing optimism for the future. And she was true to her word. The following year Emily visited Gigi in your home in London, and never smoked afterwards.
Also that year Gigi delivered on her promise to help me to apply Lang's method of Dream Interpretation to the business of creative writing at a workshop over two weekends in London. Once again I witnessed her forensic skills as a therapist and her unwavering compassion for her clients as person after person recounted their dreams and she gently assisted their interpretation. Her handling of one unfortunatunate young woman who had been lured into prostitution was a revelation of sheer professionalism and unconditional acceptance.
The lessons I learned then have stayed with me since. I used her protocol to inspire me to write my most recent book, 'Elegy', which sadly she never got to see. There are some references to Gigi in the introduction to that book that may be of some interest to you. I am certain she would have derived great pleasure at my artistic satisfaction but also at being so validated herself in her instincts to use Lang's ideas for creative writing. Two years later I took the advice she gave me in 1995 and married my partner, just in time before she died herself.
I have walked the lonely road you are now walking, Terry. We were both fortunate to have had a loan of two beautiful, wonderful women who allowed us to love them and who loved us in return. I believe that grief however understandable is a negative emotion, like worry and guilt. It adds nothing to our lives except to keep us sad for longer than is necessary. I say this because the love I had for Emily and the love you had for Gigi never dies; it is a constant all our lives. What is gone is the attachment, the needs being met by our loved one which had nothing to do with our love in the first place. Love is its own reward. I still love Emily; you still love Gigi. Nothing alters those feelings.
I am reminded in this by a passage in Mitch Albom's book 'The Five People You Meet in Heaven', wherein the author describes an encounter between Eddie, who has just died, and his wife Marguerite who has died before him. He says:
'You were the best person any of us ever knew, and you died and I lost everything. I lost the only woman I ever loved.' She took his hands. 'No you didn't. I was right here. And you loved me anyway.'
'Lost love is still love, Eddie. It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory. Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.'
'Life has to end, she said, 'but love doesn't.'
From Maureen
Gigi and I were on the same Masters degree course at Regent's College and over the two plus years there we became friends.
Gigi and I were in touch for a few years after I left the college but somehow, and with regret on my part, our professional paths diverged. I remember her as one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, both in her looks and in her warm personality. I myself had cancer prior to starting the course and I remember her as being very supportive. I know she struggled with severe migraine but rarely did she complain. She added immeasurably to my enjoyment of the course, not least because we shared a similar sense of humour. She is certainly one of those people in life that I can say I was lucky to have known and she will always have a special place in my heart.
From Kristo
Per la Nostra Miglior Amica
FELICITA' ... Questo e' un termine di lusso, che poche persone possono permettersi, che certamente non mancava a Gigi, capace di trasmettere a tutti quelli che la circondavano.
Sono stato felice quando ho conosciuto lei e il suo grande marito Terry. L'ho conosciuta solo per caso, lavorando a casa che costruiva a Paxi in Grecia, poi siamo diventati amici. Per Gigi non esistevano le barriere, anche se io ero il suo giardiniere.
Ricordo che quando tornava in isola portava regali a tutti. Aveva un cuore grande ed era molto generosa.
Ce l'ho davanti a miei occhi, le feste che organizzava a casa (solo lei organizzava le feste), arredata con gusto che mi sembrava piu' grande e allegro, sicuramente piu' bella del palazzo di una regina.
Quest'isola aveva incantato la coppia felice. Veramente posto meraviglioso dove gli olivi secolari, i canti degli uccelli, il mare azzurro, il silenzio assoluto, il tramonto del sole al mare, unita con la sua voce ti ricordava i suoni dell'arpa. Non avevo dubbi... stava li' dove Ulisse e' passato.
Tutto questo dava tristezza se lei mancava. Il silenzio che circondava la casa regnava dappertutto. L'armonia con la natura esisteva solo se ci stava lei. Forse per questo la morte ha chiamato Gigi. Nel suo regno ci serve una come lei, pero' sono sicuro che la porta in paradise.
Non ho il corraggio di andare in quella casa... Mi viene voglia di piangere, mi prende l'affanno. I sentieri che ti portano a casa sua parlano: ... non c'e' ... non c'e' E io non ci credo. NON PUO' ESSERE.
Tutta l'isola e' triste senza Gigi, non solo la casa. Pero' una cosa e' rimasta... La sua memoria, il suo spirito felice e libero, il suo sorriso che gira intorno alle pietre antiche, fissate li come una scultura greca. Non ci voglio credere che non sentiro' la sua voce dolce, le sue parole.
Spero di riuscire ad essere un po' come lei.
Con tanto effetto a Terry.
For our best friend
Happiness... is a luxury that not many people are allowed. But not only did Gigi know happiness, she also passed it on to all those around her.
I was happy when I got to know her and her great husband Terry. I only met her by chance, working on the house they were building in Paxos, Greece. We quickly became friends. For Gigi there were no barriers, even though I was just the gardener.
I remember how she used to come back to the island bearing gifts for everyone. She had a big heart and was very generous. I can see her now, organizing parties in the house (only she knew how to organize a good party); a house furnished with such good taste that it seemed to me bigger than it actually was, more joyful even, for sure more beautiful than a queen's palace.
The island had enchanted the happy couple. A truly wonderful place where centuries' old olive trees, birdsong, the deep blue sea, the absolute silence, the sunset over the sea, joined with her voice to remind you of the plucking of a harp. I had no doubts - she was there as Ulysses passed by.
But all of this turned to sadness if she was not there. The silence which surrounded the house spread everywhere.The harmony with nature only existed if she was there. Perhaps that is why death called Gigi. In his kingdom there has to be someone like her - and of course I'm sure he took her to paradise.
I can't face going into the house... I feel like crying, sobbing. The paths leading to her home speak to you: she's not here... she's not here. And I can't believe it. IT CANNOT BE.
The whole island is sad without Gigi, not just the house. But something remains. Her memory, her happy and free spirit, her smile gently caressing the ancient stones, frozen in time like a Greek sculpture. I don't want to believe that I will never again hear her sweet voice, the things she used to say.
I hope to succeed in becoming even a little like her.
With great affection for Terry.
