The family’s shame demands my silence. They would erase him from all records, and in fact I sometimes doubt this magus brother, quite unmentionable, ever lived but in my fantasies. Gladly would I all such doubts embrace, but... sleeping: dreams torment me; waking: still a gaunt, relentless visage now permits me neither rest—nor work.

And so, my friends, if from your service I should wander, if from my wonted work I am displaced, if to your loving calls I seem as mute or deaf, please know...

Though dead, as loudly as all living, now my brother to me calls.

When I could set aside the burden of his memory, my life went on; all this Center busied me. So simple and so occupied I still would wish my days, except some Spirit gnaws within on conscience, inciting me to journey to the Truth: to sweetly resurrected brotherhood — in a Heaven — or a Hell; in a truth or a delusion.

Oh, would that I could claim that spurs of truth at last unleash my tongue. In fact it is the dreaming and the reveries, the haunting of the peaceful hamlet of my mind: my brother calls from o’er the grave, where coward I had willed he’d rot away.

Apologies I owe you all if you received the family myth that holds me eldest of our six. But Francis was the eldest brother, namesake for Assissi’s one, and as a child I worshiped him (and surely both his parents, too). Alas, the voice this Francis heard was not to Rome a-calling; not church bells but Tibetan bowls resounded as his inner drum. And so when mother, father, all us sibs he left and cleaved unto a monastery, he died... to us. To speech, to heart, to family tree he died. And ever more from kinfolk speech he’d excommunicated be.

So when the word returned: corruption their despised temple smit and he to stony prison went: the pact of silence then was doubly sealed, and no such would be brother evermore. This dirty little secret of our genes was sacrificed that all our names rest clean. The lies and secrets grew so stout that when mere facts would counter them, my eyes would glaze and ears fill up, and reason ceased to lead.

The papers said this Francis mine, obsessive scholar and stark lunatic for Truth, descended in the human mire, and turned his pen to pornograph, and sold its rotten fruit of flesh. Then happily could kin rejoice: no longer did he share our name. And: what relief! when through a violent act he met untimely end.

Then why should dreams and whispers, rumors by the crazed, tales of ciphers, or some anagram disturb my inner peace? entice me from my life work’s plan? How should some foggy quest distract me from all service, teaching, healing good... to lead me into moldy cells and scurvy books — whence wiser souls have fled?

It seems my heart was never swayed: by reason, rumors, family dogma’s poisonings. If tongue and even mind (in cowardice) abetted saints’ assassins’ axe, they never from this breast celestial vision of my Francis exorcised. At last my heart and mind and tongue insist on union, spurn distraction till the truth be known. My brother: for what purpose did he live? My brother: was he vile as report? His metaphysics wrenching blasphemy — or visions of insight divine? His art... redeeming social value — or a pornographic brine?

You may look at me and wonder: is it wise to so pollute myself — immersed and closely grappling with such shallow use of mind? Is it worth the risk to my own soul (which only vaguely hopes for his the best)?

As you now wonder, yes, so too do I, and have sore wrestled — oh, perchance some dozen years — but here I am at last:

For twenty years I’ve offered thee, dear friend, whatever might some ease for aches provide (and you no blood relation!), and spurned my brother to the side. As years I’ve given thee, I’ll now for him some risk. Less often shall I see thee, less often greet the door. Where once I could halloo or greedily embrace thee, now more and more I’ll delegate: and while thou sleep’st, I’ll ask my pen to parchment kiss (though not with ink but brother’s buddhi blood) — that any grace my quest achieves may blessing thine be called.

Admittedly, in missing thee — and teaching, healing, rare retreats! — I selfishly shall wish thou missing me, and train my mind to dream it sees thee, climbing higher after greater feats.