Brother Marc Schuler, May 23, 1952 - January 28, 2016

I have always fought not to project but to be myself. To retain my own scale, which is a dot, but a vibrating dot, a pulsating dot, that is what I’d like to be. I would like to remain that pulsating dot which can reach out to the whole world, to the Universe. ——Chandralekha, Dancer



Our friend had a good send off. We, the living, colleagues, friends, lovers, and fans-of-Marc, had a way good story swap, food, and some amount of closure. Sure, time and c-c-cold conspired to shoo us out of Roberts Regional Park in what felt like premature evacuation, but we had some good stories, songs, and belly laughs. Portraits painted helped me imagine better the depth of this character Marc Schuler. He did, indeed, pulsate and he reached out to us all in his unique way of making contact - whether obliquely, from a distance, or with tender intimacy.

Living so far away, I knew him in the interstitial spaces around the perimeter of the conference rooms where both of us assisted Advanced trainings of Somatic Experiencing, since 2003. We were grandfathered-in at a time when the Foundation for Human Enrichment’s student population rapidly exploded and they were in dire need of assistants. It was a thrill to rub elbows with the likes of Amini Peller, Lorne Hager, Sandy Shore, and Danaan O’Lahey who assisted Peter Levine at our own advanced trainings. Later, we’d compare notes on assisting at the beginning and intermediate levels - Marc and I in parallel play. Marc assisted Raja Selvam by the Bay, and I in L.A. We joked that he lived sub-Berkeley, and I sub-Burbank.


Sotto voce, we’d discuss the growing pains of the mother ship with Peter at the helm trying to keep afloat and steer his baby - this burgeoning trauma-relief organization into broader shipping lanes and deeper water.

For years, Dr. Levine funneled his own money into FHE, setting a precedent of self-sacrifice for the greater good.

Marc and I talked in the kitchenettes at Mercy Center over our individual pots of steaming kale about the theory and practice of S.E., about the hardship of leaving our individual practice for a full week, and the need to do X number of sessions at the trainings - just to break even after paying room and board. His session log and that of Lee Wylie boggled my mind. Fifteen to eighteen sessions in five days? Wow. I was struggling to keep up with eight to ten sessions.

That humor and sullenness could co-exist so close to the surface in the real estate just under his ever-present cap, was endearing. One day he entered the assistant’s meeting at Mercy Center with a cartwheel, a summersault, a perfect landing in his seat, and a look that said, what ... nothing unusual has happened here. At another training in Petaluma he was unconscionably and inconsolably rude and clearly at the effect of painfully massive dental work. His appreciation for the exquisiteness of the tools we were receiving from Peter Levine, Raja Selvam, and Kathy was profound. His caustic judgements and curmudgeonliness about how stupid traumatized people could be, burned through the convent walls on occasion, scorching our kale and boiling the green juice. It was rare that we shared food, only company. Oh, that coffee smelled so good. He brought his own brewing system set-up, but never offered to share that.

One of my favorite times was the last time we were together at Mercy, though, neither of us knew it would be our last. We got to talking about our grandfathers. He described his as a meticulous, disciplined, engineer. It gave me some insight into one of his probable influences. Marc was certainly precise, a stickler for exactitude - in bodywork, in speech, and in music. He was interested when I told him he could be describing my grandfather, who began working in the aircraft industry in 1910, also an innovative engineer of sorts, designing and building the tools to build the tools to build the airplanes. Both were of German extraction. Both were focused perfectionists with deeply respectful dispositions, with respect for tools above all. (Later I would see Marc’s cooking knives. They were the sharpest ever, hanging from their magnetized strip on the wall by the sink - never to be dulled in a drawer.)

I wanted to know more of this man of mystery Marc. When I felt settled-in at my new home in Oakland, early in 2015, I invited Marc four times to join me for a walk/talk or coffee. Each time, he’d email back after a lengthy delay saying, not yet. Something’s going on.

Memorial Day weekend my husband and I hosted two days worth of open houses, one to meet our new neighbors, and one for our Bay Area family, friends and colleagues. Marc came and stayed about ten minutes. He looked sunken to me and he was very prickly. I suspected that the something going on was affecting his health. More dental work? I wondered.

A big-sisterly urge rose up in me to stand by him protectively, fiercely. I let him know I was here. In October, he called me in response to yet another invitation to get together. Soon, he said. Stuff’s goin’ on here, he said. A few days later, he called and told me of his diagnosis and all about his beloved Picnic Club and how Linda, Sarah, Maureen, and Lynn Ann came to his rescue when they recognized that he was in deep doo doo. He spoke of Marion his old friend coming to take his laundry, wash it to his specifications, fold and return it.

The first time I was invited into his Cleveland Street home / monastery, in December, it took him a full quarter hour to teach me the correct way to enter into his home and to come in contact with his energy body boundary space. I thought, I know how to work with hurt babies whose little nervous systems are all kafoogeldie with no protection from bumps, pokes, prods and assaults on their wee bodies. This man has got some huevos and some humongous hubris. Who was this butt brain turning up his nose and looking down on me from some self-righteous perch? Where was the sweet colleague I used to have a crush on?

Lucky for me, I swallowed my pride and stuck with the lesson so he could train me up - right there in his office space off the kitchen. We read the three papers he’d pinned to a blanket on the wall: Kindness by Naomi Shihab Nye, The Invitation by Oriah Mountain Elder, and the lyrics to It’s a Wonderful World as sung by Luis Satchmo Armstrong. We swayed together, rocking in synchronized motion for another quarter hour. Then he went to lie down.

I’m a good work horse. I’d only come to pick up a shopping list and his laundry to give Marion a break. But he had to sense into my ability to remain present, and went on at length about how Linda could hold space, how Sarah, Mo and Lynne Ann could hold space. He recognized pretty soon that he needed a bigger team, but he fought giving up control every step of the way. He was not used to so many people in his space. He confessed that he’d had more social engagement in the two months since his diagnosis, than in the past two decades. He didn’t have energy to give to people who didn’t get how to be with him.

Cancer is a hungry beast and his was eating him from the inside. For the most part, he was not suffering. He was simply aware and took one nano-second at a time - each in all its exquisite detail.

The third time I was in his home, the new Kaiser Hospice nurse also came for her third visit. I heard that the original nurse was not a good match. She just couldn’t get it. This visit with Lia started with a wobble. She was in a hurry. He was in pain which made him imperious, impatient, and very prickly. I held space while the three of us sat on the floor in his treatment room, where he helped so many clients. Face to face, Marc and Lia told their truths, their hurts, and finally, their appreciations for one another, and ended with an amicable cease-fire. Lia’s fourth visit went much better. Whewh! Ditto with Sukhi, the Hospice Social Worker. When she offered him a rudraksha bead meditation bracelet, he just held it out like a dead mouse and smiled sweetly.

He was a good teacher and a fast learner! Perhaps he was channeling his grandfather in how meticulously he kept track of his medications. I’m sure he’ll be remembered a good long lucky time in the Kaiser cafeteria or wherever the hospice staff sit to swap stories. I think he trained them up rather well.

Later that day, looking longingly out the window at his beloved redwoods, he told me he needed to build yin energy like a redwood tree that keeps growing for thousands of years, but can be sawed off and toppled in under an hour by big yang activity at its base. He told me it was not so easy for him to take in the help and care he was receiving. I said, Duh, Dude. What was our first clue, Mr. Prickle Pants? It was good to hear him laugh.

I could not speak at the ceremony yesterday, too raw. I spent this, the day after, gathering my thoughts on paper. I feel great gratitude for Andrea Smith Gage and Kevin Gage for holding anchor for the community to share our memories. Heart-felt thanks for all the good food brought and shared. Marion found the perfect spot for us to convene. Linda and Sarah hiked in from way down the hill, carrying Marc's ashes. Michael and Michelle brought a redwood tree to plant. That will be a work in progress. We had to leave before that could be accomplished. More than forty folk and a couple of dogs showed up, from far-flung places. Marc would have loved the party - except that there was no coffee.

With grateful heart for the huge family of healing healers that includes Somatic Experiencing Practitioners everywhere,

Melinda