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COPYRIGHT 2002 Toronto Life Publishing Co. Ltd.
IN THE FALL OF 1964, AS A 17-YEAR-OLD, I left my home in a suburb of Schenectady; New York, .and came to Canada to study at the University of Toronto. A provincial youth travelling to Paris in a Balzac novel couldn't have felt a keener sense of release, of adventure, of expanded horizons. For the first time in my life, I was happy in my unhappiness:
Although I had been raised Catholic and took up residence at St. Michael's College, I stopped going to mass. No spiritual crisis, no troubled conscience--I just stopped going. Curiously enough, I became intrigued by the intellectual side of Catholicism, which I had not encountered before--the Jacques Maritain and Etienne Gilson school of neo-scholasticism, and those terribly intense, spiritual Catholic novelists, such as Bloy and Bernanos. The French intellectuals stood in dramatic opposition to the defiantly philistine Irish American priests I had known as a child; they had a kind of austere glamour, compounded of the light from the Rose Window of Chartres and the good peasant burgundy served in the cafes where they argued with Jean-Paul Sartre. I cheered them on from a distance, as it were, as if they were my team in the major leagues of philosophy.
Over the next few years, even their glamour began to fade, as various revolutions appeared on the horizon. Cosmic enlightenment, Timothy Leary with his promise of LSD-enhanced orgasms, Abbie Hoffman with his vision of politicized hippies--all this was infinitely more exciting than the Church had ever been.
In turn, unbeknownst to me, the nuns and priests at St. Michael's College--many of them, anyway--were quietly embarking on their own revolution. The year I arrived at that college, these doctoral students in theology, experts in the philosophy of St. Bonaventure and the phenomenology of Edmund Husserl, were sitting in a room with a woman named Lea Hindley-Smith and weeping over their negligent fathers or their angry mothers.
Lea had a penetrating gaze, a bouffant hairdo slightly smaller than a papal tiara and a corpulent frame over which she alternately draped two satin smocks: one a gold colour, the other purple. She had no social or academic status; she was born in Cardiff, Wales, in 1916, and as an eight-year-old had heard about her father being carted off to a lunatic asylum. Despising her mother as a weakling, she faced the grim task of making a living in the world with no resources but her own ingenuity and determination.
These were considerable. She worked as an artists' model and a nurse and learned--where, I've not been able to gather--the theory and practice of psychoanalysis, with a sideline in the art of hypnosis. She married a man in the textile business and with their three children moved to Canada in 1948. When her husband developed a heart condition and was unable to hold a job, Lea was left to her own wiles. She worked hard, running a boarding house, dealing in antiques, reading tea leaves and palms and tarot cards at parties. Her first love, however, was emotional healing; slowly she built up a Clientele, in the teeth of opposition from her husband, a cranky, bitterly jealous man. He could hardly stop her, though, since she was now the breadwinner. It was a short distance from reading palms--the art, in reality, of gauging the feelings and reactions of people--to psychotherapy.
Gregory Baum, a theologian teaching at St. Mike's, had met Lea while looking for therapeutic help for a friend. He was so impressed that he introduced her to others at the school, and by 1964--though it isn't clear whether she had any hard credentials--she had an extensive therapeutic practice at U of T. The priests and nuns visiting her home on Madison, with its macrame wall hangings, were enchanted. They had finally encountered someone who listened to them, who understood them, who wanted to help them. Were they deluded? Hardly. Lea was a canny judge of human beings. And when she spoke, people listened. Her voice--a vibrant soprano, unwavering and sympathetic--was the kind that instantly alerted the nervous system of the auditor. It was not a voice made for small talk. Whatever she said, she believed absolutely. She knew how wretched her clients felt, and she was determined to salvage their lives. There was almost a desperation in her resolve, as if--and this was something she herself pondered--she were reaching out to her father in her unconscious, trying to save him from his fate.
She was also, without being fully aware of it, a true revolutionary, a figure whose time had come. In 1962, two years before my pilgrimage to Toronto, Pope John XXIII had called the Second Vatican Ecumenical Council to reconcile the Church with the modern world. Perhaps he had heard the first tremors of what Tom Wolfe would later call the "happiness explosion," a search for individual fulfillment unparalleled in history. The priests and nuns at St. Michael's heard those tremors, and their response was to seek inner peace through therapy. Of course, Lea Hindley-Smith offered something more than Freudian psychoanalysis--that austere, rigorous practice involving a lonely analysand and a scrupulously detached analyst. She above all refused to be detached, to stand aloof from her patients. She was like a loving but firm schoolmistress. Every thought and feeling was allowed, accepted--then put in its place.
From those early meetings arose Therafields, the name coined in the late summer of 1967, when Lea and the nuns and priests--now turned acolytes--bought a 100-acre farm in the rolling Caledon Hills, a weekend retreat for marathon therapy sessions. Soon after, houses were purchased in the city, group homes in which people could live together, counsel each other, explore their conflicts in weekly sessions led by a therapist, At its height in the mid-1970s, Therafields owned an eight-suite apartment building, four rural houses with extensive land, two vacation properties in Florida, two office buildings in midtown Toronto, and at least 18 houses in the city. (A number of other houses were leased.) Eight hundred people paid monthly fees to the organization.
By then, Lea had thrown out her smocks. Her outfits were elegant and tasteful, with only a few accessories--silver shoes, floral-patterned silk scarves--testifying to a certain impulse to the gaudy. (She no longer weighed 200 pounds, although she remained stout.) There was something disconcerting, however, in her tendency to acquire and then discard accommodations. An apartment in Rosedale had been bought, lived in, then sold. The Willow, an immense country home, was designed as her residence by an architect named Visvaldis Upenieks, who later became her lover, and built by Therafields members; I worked on the plumbing. She lived in it for a while, then bought a condo at Palace Pier, which Therafields members also renovated and customized.
We had no idea what was behind this restlessness, no idea she was even then hearing a knock on the door from her worst fear. It was her father's nemesis, it was the shock that had never gone away, it was madness--coming for her now. Changing residences did not help. It knew her address.
IN 1968, AFTER FOUR YEARS IN CANADA, I married a fellow University of Toronto student in her hometown of Pittsburgh. We returned to...
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