From his cousin Nan, August 31

Dear Bruce,

You have been a very important part of my life. Even though we have seen little of each other for the last 60 years, the first 18 were crucial. You were my ‘twin’ cousin, born first, bigger, stronger, faster, and a special friend. When I was probably about 14, I was chewing gum, while visiting your family at 255 Soledad Dr. You told me I looked like a cow, chewing my cud. Oh, a boy, especially one I knew a bit, saying something important. Very little gum since then. Talk about impressions! At Christmas in Oma’s house in Berkeley, when we were almost 3, or older?? your parents gave me a little stove/oven. You gave me permission to open the package . . and we were told to cease and desist. We played tag and hide-and-seek in the triangle park at the corner of Arlington and Yosemite Aves., just down from Oma’s house.

The trip to the Boy Scout Camp at Pico Blanco, with Uncle Dick telling us the story of The Wages of Fear, as we drove up and over and around the mountains of the Sur. Before that, I think, with tent-cabins in Yosemite Valley, and bears, and making wonderful gooshy, gooey sandy mud on the bank of the icy Merced River, not far from our cabins . . . And eating the amazing things our parents cooked, I think. And tennis, and music, and walking up, up, up Martin Hill from the High School to your house.

I appreciated then, and still appreciate the fact that I was included in your family. It was very special to me to experience life with two parents, and two other kids, different from the scene in Larkspur, providing me with a close-up look at the life in your family.

Swimming at Carmel River, or at PG Beach, exploring the tide-pools, and a batch of hermit crabs, pretty shells someone had collected, dumped on the beach, and then the shells marched back into the water.

At Asilomar Beach, in the summer of 1966, when I was working in the library at Hopkins Marine Station, while Pierre was away on the Te Vega . . watching pelicans . . there were three, in a diagonal line, gliding above the water. Then each, in turn, began to flap wings. You said it was poetry. Yes!

And I think we talked about suicide . . maybe, imagining life without a body, as young people do. About then, our lives diverged.

I’ve missed knowing you, and I hold you, and these memories, in my heart.

From Ani, August 30

Dearest forever remembered Bruce, we love you and will miss you and your amazing presence and vision, your loving and playful nature that always included laughter in the midst of profound contemplation and creativity.

Your great contribution of “never give up”and “always push forward” into our inter-beingness as sacred stewards of the conscious evolution of our generation will continue to inspire us, and infuse us with what is necessary to become and engender a new life-centric “human” species on Earth. We are forever grateful to you Bruce…

As Bruce neared the end of his life, friends and colleagues around the globe were told of his illness. They sent messages, most of which did not reach him in time. But we can read them here. They are a testament to his friendships, his impact on others, and his legacy.

From his sister, Sally, September 20

Over the more than 20 months between Bruce’s initial diagnosis and his passing, he and I spent countless hours — maybe even a thousand— in contact over Zoom, by phone, by email and texts. Our time together in these ways was both painful and profoundly important and gratifying, as we said a deep and extended “hello” before our final farewell.

For this present moment, I want to offer some fragments of poetry that I shared with him during our conversations. I believe he, as a true poet himself, found them meaningful and comforting.

“Ring all the bells that still can ring;

Forget your perfect offering.

There’s a crack in everything;

That’s how the light gets in.”

— Leonard Cohen

“The world changes

The earth shifts

We still make plans

We still find gifts.”

— Lin-Manuel Miranda

From Helen, September 20

A poem by Mary Fry

“Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glint on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry.

I am not there. I did not die.”

From Julie, August 31

I knew Bruce for a year before I ever met him in Santa Barbara. I was living in Massachusetts and in 2005 saw his picture as part of a Conscious Evolutionary website, and I thought, “I’d like to know this man.” A year later I moved to Santa Barbara, became involved with the Conscious Evolutionary movement and did meet Bruce at a Thanksgiving dinner. We enjoyed talking, and over the years, though I moved to another part of California, Bruce and I often had great email exchanges, or I would be part of the larger conversations on his websites.

His passion for raising the consciousness on our planet, for humanity to understand our Oneness connection, and his seemingly tireless dedication to keeping people of resonant ideas connected all over the world have been truly magnificent.

Bruce is a uniquely brilliant soul, and I want him to know I love him for who he is and for all he has done for humanity. May peace and grace surround you, Bruce. Shanti, shanti, shanti. . . .

From Stewart, September 24

I wish I had known you better.  We met several times in person but you were always a presence in Sally’s life.  In the last year and a half you were much more in our lives as you struggled with the ending of your time on earth.  Her enduring love for you was very clear.

Reading all the tributes and appreciations has been a moving experience.  It is so evident how you powerfully and positively affected others.  You had a vision and you were able to inspire others with it.   You had a grasp of the interconnectedness of all being.  It strikes me that so much of what you wrote resonates with what I have been studying lately about the latest thoughts in psychology and psychotherapy – they all stress the relational elements, interconnection and co-creation.   I wish we had had a chance to talk about these things.

It’s a cliché to say that everyone’s life is like a book.  Hopefully this website, with its memories, photographs and appreciations from your friends, family and colleagues, will be a kind of epilogue chapter to your book, and its presence on the internet, which you so well saw as a kind of plane of interconnection, will help keep your memory alive.

From Hillary, September 2

I just received Sally’s post. I had no idea Bruce had cancer. We had been in touch quite consistently since his 2009 visit to Thailand, until this last year.

He had emailed me on April 18th, saying he wanted to ask for my help. I responded and said please do. But he didn’t email again.

This is very, very sad news! I love Bruce, and the love has always been there. And I truly wish I was close to sit with him, and be there.

Bruce will never die. His spiritual devotion to make the world a better place will live on in the thousands of souls that he moved with his heartful words, his deeds, and his spirit.

I sincerely hope for a miracle. . .

From Paloma, at Sarah House, September 27

HE WAS

He was, from the moment we met, someone I liked immediately.

He was a kind soul, even when he felt lost and frustrated.

He was still looking for the good in the situation he was in.

He had the most beautiful hands I have seen in a long time.

He was so tall and we are all very short, yet he trusted that we would be able to hold him and help him.

He was a man who smiled with warmth, the kind of smile that stays with you for a while.

Bruce is a man who will be remembered in this home, which is Sarah House.

He was someone who knew that we are all in this together.

He is part of the fabric that makes Sarah House a special home for those who come to rest and fly free.