He’d sluice the Pleiades

The Pleiades? A cluster of stars in the constellation Taurus. To Sluice? To wash or rinse with a stream of water. A Herculean task for sure. And an appropriate one when I think of Mark Doren Rea.

I met my ex-husband, the late Mark D. Rea, while attending BU School of Theology in 1978. Mentioning him as ‘the late’ is difficult and painful to admit. He was only 68 when he passed August 8th of 2021.

Mark was a scholar, runner, musician (violin), poet and philosopher. When we met, he wore his hair long with a reddish beard. Think of the Western/traditional Judeo-Christian image of Jesus and you will come closest to his appearance back when we met on the BU School of Theology campus.

The phrase, sluice the Pleides, comes from a poetic phrase I often heard him say. I never read any poem of his (or anyone else’s) that included this image except for one I wrote many years after our parting. From time to time he’d say this while in our Boston basement studio apartment on Bay State Road – usually in the context of a philosophical musing. (The studio apartment is better described as a long, narrow hallway!)

I mention this poetic image as an example of the kind of creativity housed in Mark’s imagination.

This blogsite entry tries to re-understand our relationship – and the breakup that occurred. Married back in 1979, Mark and I were together for ten years. I should add that we first eloped in a civil ceremony at a Justice of the Peace’s home in Dedham (MA). It was a ‘dark & rainy’ November night and we’d gotten lost trying to find the officiant’s home. When we did arrive, the JP’s wife (witness) was already in her nightgown & bath robe! The brief, unflattering civil ceremony commenced and we were legally married. Months later, after much turmoil, we had a Christian ‘blessing’ ceremony. Our union got off to a tumultuous start.

I wish I’d been a different person with Mark back then and could have intervened in his financially ruinous behaviors. How, you may ask? Perhaps by insisting on going over our finances. He was entirely closed-mouth about this and many other subjects – such as his sugar levels.

Almost ten years later, Mark and I divorced (1989). It took, I think, two years for me to realize divorce was on the horizon. During these two years we were living in a two-family house and I had started working for FCD (Freedom from Chemical Dependency). More later.

At first, I’d suggested a separation, but Mark countered, “a separation is nothing but a divorce.” It shocked us both, I’d say, to set divorce proceedings in motion. It felt like watching surgery on myself.

This timing of this divorce was not long after we’d bought a 2-family house with another couple in the western Massachusetts ‘hamlet’ of Brimfield. Neither of us, or our co-owners (long-time friends), had ever expected our marriage wouldn’t last. Along with the move to Brimfield I’d started a new job with a non-profit organization to present drug and alcohol awareness classes. As you can imagine this ‘job’ unearthed many issues. I had to confront my own past use, primarily marijuana.

Mark was a long-time pursuer of many chemical opportunities (since his Oberlin college days) and when we met was quite enamored of Carlos Castaneda whose books described various encounters with and teachings of Don Juan, a Yaqui shaman. He’d told me that Jimson weed (a member of the Belladonna alkaloid family) and Peyote (from a cactus, it contains psychoactive alkaloids, particularly mescaline) called to him. The Jimson weed, Mark would relay, took on a persona and would manifest to him. After ingesting or smoking the Amanita Muscaria (a psychotropic-containing mushroom) some kind of emanation also called to him.

Ironic that, back in high school, I had entered a ‘Why you shouldn’t do drugs’ essay contest sponsored by a local savings bank. The bank offered monetary prizes and, best of all, opportunity to have dinner with Bobby Orr of the Boston Bruins at his Boston restaurant. I entered the contest and placed third.

And later on, at BU, walked into toking up with Mark. Strange fate, yes?

Mark and I both abstained from drugs once on a meditation path but that was after several years of use. This abstinence more or less coincided with finding The Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda (both of us had been grad students at BU School of Theology). Mark’s friend from Oberlin days had recommended this book when we ran into her walking the BU campus. But this was the second time the book was suggested to him. Back in Oberlin, Mark had been on a class-organized trip to Greece. Typical of Mark, he went off hiking a mountain by himself and, at the top, came to a small village. As Mark told it, the ‘only American’ living there found him out and invited him to a meal. During this time the guy made Mark promise to read the ‘A.Y.’ (as it’s often called) when he returned home. ‘This should be the first book you read when you get back,’ was close to what I recall the man said to Mark. Back in the Oberlin bookstore, Mark saw it on the shelf and said to himself ‘not yet.’

Although we eloped and had a ‘blessing’ our finances (much too technical a term) were in horrible shape. We initially lived with a friend of mine in her large Wellesley home. But we needed a place of our own so rented (for a hundred dollars per month or so) a one bedroom, uninsulated house out in the woods of Hopkinton, MA. I was again working at my HS/college stand-by job, the fabric store, Natick Mills. But by now the side effects of smoking pot had begun to make me alarmingly depressed. It was during this time that Mark went to work for a carpet cleaning company. On one of his first drives into their Framingham office he skidded on ice and bashed the rear passenger-side door into a telephone pole. He drove on without reporting the crash but a neighbor telephoned the police. Mark lost his license. We moved closer to Framingham and I drove Mark into this cleaning business each day.

Even now I can see Mark walking up to me outside the courthouse for our divorce proceedings. He wore a once-new brown leather Aviator’s jacket. But both he and the jacket now looked bruised. I felt numb.

For the next 30+ years I would hear of Mark – of his move to California, his second marriage (to an SRF devotee) and then divorce. This 2nd spouse at one time, I was told, went down on her knees, begging Mark to get a job, any job, rather than rely solely on his business enterprises.

Or I’d catch a glimpse of him at the annual convocation of SRF in LA. But we never truly crossed paths again until I was recently texted by a friend that ‘Mark Rea died – such a shock.’ Yes, the news was an enormous shock – even for this happily remarried gal (26+ years to the wonderful Kevin).

I soon reached out to Mark’s younger brother, Peter, via Facebook for confirmation. In the past couple of years we’d become Facebook friends due to our mutual spiritual interests. We both were members of the same meditation fellowship. As was Mark. As is my husband, Kevin.

As mentioned, Mark was only 68 years old when he passed – born November 1958 in Ohio. What happened to him? Was it Covid-19? Peter quickly answered my text and forwarded a message from his older sister, Patricia (always Patti to me, back in the day). I knew these siblings – Patti and Peter from my marriage to their oldest brother.

The text message about Mark’s last days was appropriately matter-of-fact. Overall it conveyed (to me) the stark intensity of Mark’s decades-long battle with Type 1 diabetes. Peter’s text read:

‘My sister Patricia started messaging me that he was in intensive care on a ventilator. Maybe for one week. I guess he started bleeding quite a bit and it was over. Complications from diabetes. God bless Mark D. Rea! God bless you, Jan!’

Peter’s text prompted me to know more… if possible. I looked up Peter’s sister, Patti, on Facebook and (without being ‘Friends’) texted her. It felt intrusive to ask but I did so nevertheless. Patricia – whom I will refer to as Patti – kindly responded, asking if I was the “Janice who was once married to Mark?”

Our text exchanges, phone call and subsequent time spent during a restaurant dinner helped me so much. I cannot explain – to myself or in this blog – how this semi-closure helped my heart. I’m grateful to Patti for the time spent.

I’ll return to my history, or pre-history, i.e., before Mark…

Back in ’78 I was also a M.A. candidate at Boston University School of Theology (the oldest United Methodist seminary in North America).  No, I was not a seminarian or wanted to be one.  BU drew me to a newly-formed Master’s of Theology program that catered to religious / philosophical seekers without requiring a ministry goal.

Throughout my B.A. studies at Regis College, I’d focused on English and History. Not overtly religious I attended this all-women’s Roman Catholic college in Weston, MA greatly due to my mother’s influence. It also helped that I was able to commute to classes while keeping my part-time job in my hometown of Natick. In my senior college year I began to experience a need for meaning in my life beyond the study of literature and history. Catholicism, however, was unattractive. I’d even gone so far as to telling a priest in the confessional that I was officially ‘resigning’ from the Church. He asked me to pray ‘two Our Father’s and three Hail Mary’s’. Odd spiritual advice, I agree, but it was an odd thing for me to say to this confessional, parish priest.

For what it’s worth, I distinctly remember reading in the New Testament and being struck anew by a very familiar passage, Follow me*. This occurred during the summer prior my senior year at Regis College (at that time an all-women Catholic college. Lord, what was I in for!). This New Testament call – tumbling down through the ages – began to haunt me. What did this mean? Or rather, did it mean anything to my life?

Not wanting to pursue a traditional Roman Catholic path, I nevertheless began researching theology-type degrees and finally applied to BU, Harvard and University of Chicago. BU and Chicago accepted but Harvard did not. (Later, I learned from a Harvard employee that they had filled their quota of Roman Catholic female applicants. Was this true?) But Boston University was introducing a new degree program, a Master’s of Theology (MTS) and I received a full scholarship. But I also never completed the degree.

After spending a grueling year at home (post college) working in the A/R billings dept for NCR, I finally went to BU. Grueling because I had to hide my intentions/interests to leave from my co-workers. It felt dishonest although the company could have fired me if they were dissatisfied by my job performance! However, working 40-hours+ a week and saving every dime helped keep my sanity. Most of my friends were already ‘away’ at grad school. So, I rode my bicycle for miles after work, burning off my impatience. The fall first semester couldn’t come soon enough. My parents drove me and my sparse belongings into BU.

In Boston I lived in a brownstone on Bay State Road near the Theology school. Many of the residences on this street were part of BU’s on-campus housing system.  Our brownstone housed grad students (primarily theology) and my top floor room held three bedrooms. I shared my room with a woman who turned off the lights at 7pm and slept until 8am. I learned my first week that she was on anti-depressants; her personality was foggily diffused. No surprise I hardly stayed in the room and studied in the Theology school library.

Altogether our dorm held about eight graduate residents. Each evening we had the option to gather in the basement kitchen for a communal meal, rotating the cooking, cleaning duties. But if you ate, you had to cook and clean up.

After one of our fall dinners (it was my turn to buy, cook), a 6’2” tall, long-haired & reddish bearded (Jesus-looking) lanky, somewhat starved-looking grad student had joined us for the meal at the invitation of another resident. Mark, as it turned out, asked me if he could help with the dinner clean up. I was at the kitchen sink, ‘sure, thanks.’

During the group dinner it had come up that my father recently suffered several heart attacks and was hospitalized back home in Natick MA (about an hour from Boston). I was very torn about staying at BU although I’d only just moved in and started my fall classes. As it was, I took the subway home as often as I could.

Mark stood by me at the kitchen sink, helping me wash & dry dishes. He was very easy to talk with – and about – the most difficult things. This conversation began a series of conversations around the Bay State Road dinnertime. Our romance began during the Halloween celebrations on campus.

Let me jump forward to when Mark – having received his MTS – decided not to pursue a doctorate. (He was extremely concerned about the amount of his college debt, I recall.) Instead, Mark decided that a nighttime security job would allow him to make money and spend time ‘reading’ philosophy; Immanuel Kant comes to mind. But to apply for this job he needed to cut his hair short and shave off his beard. I literally sobbed when I saw him after this Samson-like transformation. Perhaps my reaction reflects poorly on me – yes, I loved Mark but undergoing this type of drastic appearance – now in order to wear a security guard uniform – made me physically, psychically ill.

* Fall 2021- My grief about Mark, about my failed marriage, began to seep into my daily thoughts after learning of his death. I recall – intensely – the helplessness I felt during our marriage. I was in almost constant distress over Mark’s well-being back then. For example: He’d return home late in the evening and, without testing his glucose level, began eating ice cream. I’d questioned this and he’d say, “I know my sugar is ok. I can tell.” End of discussion.

A few years prior we’d had a close call with his sugar levels. He’d had a cold and was in bed; wanted to drink apple juice – no testing. I finally called 911 as he became more and more ill. The EMT said that when he walked into the bedroom he could smell sugar in the air – ketoacidosis. At the hospital they told us that his glucose levels had been off for a long while. He needed to test diligently. I could only hope…

Grief. I don’t remember grieving over parting from Mark when I left our Brimfield, MA home. Yes, a strange admission and seemingly heartless. I’d say that emotional anemia had set in. And yes, I initiated the divorce. I’m not craving sympathy but striving for a better self-awareness by acknowledging the death of this marriage. Below are two of the main disturbances that (for me) broke us apart.

Finances – I so wanted to get through to Mark concerning his health (diabetes control), his ‘career’ choice, and his finances – borrowing money to continue his business endeavors. It became all too apparent that he would never budge from this desire for financial freedom. The carpet cleaning business he started was called ‘Freedom Carpet,’ in Framingham, MA. This cleaning service expanded into a small carpet store at a local mall. Mark was able to sell this business for a decent profit ($40k I am guessing) and we purchased a home in the Sturbridge/Worcester area.

Except for the Security guard job he briefly held after getting his graduate degree (reading during his nighttime shift), and working as an independent carpet cleaner, Mark never had an official ‘job.’ During the time running the carpet business, he attended and became gung-ho about a life insurance sales company called (then), A.L. Williams. The premise was to encourage full life insurance holders to ‘cash in’ their policies for Term Life (which A.L. Williams sold). Here is a brief explanation of this concept that drew Mark to study and receive his insurance license and eventually to sell the carpet store/cleaning business. From Wikipedia:

‘In 1965, Art Williams’s father suddenly died of a heart attack. He had a whole life insurance policy that left their family underinsured. Five years later Art Williams’ cousin Ted Harrison introduced him to the concept of term life insurance, a simpler alternative to whole life which requires less cashflow and which, at that time, was almost never sold and rarely heard of outside the insurance industry. Williams was taken aback by the idea of not knowing that there was a choice when buying life insurance and described the whole conversation as “disturbing,”[2] recalling his father’s death and referring to the fact that people had no idea of such a product. Believing that families were paying too much for whole life policies that left them poor in the wallet and deeply underinsured, Williams joined his cousin at ITT Financial Services in 1970. In June 1973, six months before ITT went out of business, he left and went on board with Waddell & Reed, another Buy term and invest the difference (BTID) company that saw early success.

Williams gained momentum at W&R and became regional vice-president (RVP) the same year, with a sales force that covered 6 states. Despite the numerous benefits of working at W&R in comparison to ITT, it became clear to Williams that with a corporate structure in which the executives, not the sales force, owned the company, financial decisions would always have priority over the clients and there would be limits on how much the company could grow.

On February 10, 1977, Williams and 85 associates founded their own company A.L. Williams & Associates on a simple philosophy: “Buy Term and Invest the Difference.”[3] He convinced many customers to switch from their conventional whole-life insurance to term policies. The company’s rapid growth to become the largest seller of life insurance in the U.S. was enhanced by his emphasis on promoting his people. He was one of the first to have weekly video conferences on the company’s private television broadcast system. This allowed him to personally speak to each of his 225,000 plus agents and to create a family feeling that inspired them to become Financially Independent. A.L. Williams became Primerica Financial Services. (See: Arthur L. Williams Jr. – Wikipedia)

Mark and I were impressed by the A.L. Williams story. Mark soon sold Freedom Carpet and studied for his Security’s License which he passed the first try (no mean feat – this license allows financial professionals to sell securities and/or offer financial advice.) After selling the carpet business we bought a home in Worcester area where Mark opened an office to recruit and sell the A.L. Williams concept. I would emphasize as strongly as I can that Mark was possessed by becoming financially independent.

Where was the earlier intention to return to Oberlin and teach philosophy? Gone, long gone.

Mark was always self-employed, self-motivated. To be honest, I didn’t know details of his financial dealings until we filed for divorce. After making up our list of meager possessions, Mark asked me how we’d handle the $50,000 debt he incurred. $50,000 debt? What was he talking about? I was stunned. I felt naïve and stupid. Which I was.

The lawyer then I hired (with a loan from my parents) asked if I’d co-signed for this ‘Household Finance’ loan (I’d since learned). ‘No, I hadn’t.’ The lawyer assured me that I was not liable. Relief came over me.

I have since learned of Mark’s financial dystopia (my terminology) since our parting decades ago. It’s not my intention to reveal details inappropriately; details that I didn’t know personally. However, in Brimfield, where Mark and I co-owned a two family house, our co-owners discovered that Mark had taken money from our common household account. This owner/friend had to press Mark again and again to reveal – admit – his inappropriate ‘use’ (“just borrowing”) of these funds. The money in that account was finally restored by Mark (how, I don’t know) and he was removed as an administrator. Embarrassing and baffling for me, for our co-owners, to say the least.

Sorry to say, I was made aware long after our parting that Mark continued to go through inestimable amounts of money. I can’t understand this at all – his having or ‘maintaining’ (my interpretation) large amounts of debt, risking other people’s money, draining savings and/or retirement accounts. My only direct experience from those early days with Mark was the aforementioned $50,000 unpaid Household Finance loan. And, the aftermath from when Mark broke his hip.

The broken hip occurred while Mark was vacationing with his family at Lakeside, Ohio (the summer after we separated). He fell during a basketball game, stayed in bed and was in much pain, refusing medical help. His father questioned this reluctance. He’d let his health insurance coverage lapse, he admitted. I can only imagine how this enormous medical bill was paid. I assume his father paid some or all of it.

Discovering Diabetes – Mark and I had been visiting his family in Ohio to attend the annual family reunion at Lakeside. This was a few years after Mark started his ‘Freedom Carpet’ cleaning company. We were living in Framingham, Massachusetts. Mark had been losing weight, he told me, to help with an ailing knee. Always slim, his frame was becoming skeletal even under the two undershirts he began to wear. At Lakeside, and later at his family’s home in nearby Rocky River, I noticed he continuously carried a glass of water with him. His father, John, confronted Mark toward the end of our visit. ‘Mark, you should get checked out. You are getting increasingly thin. Joslin Clinic is in Boston.’

Back in Massachusetts Mark and I visited Joslin Clinic where he was quickly diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. He wept when the doctor told him the news. I was stunned. It was frightening for both of us to learn of this diagnosis. I was relieved that (back then) we had health insurance but couldn’t fathom the life-long challenge of this disease.

Diabetes was a scourge in his family. His sister, Pamela, died of an infantile pancreas (as I recall) while the family was vacationing in the Bahamas (a traditional family destination). It was an excruciating event. The family didn’t realize how ill Pam had become, and, also, very thin. Mark mentioned that she had stayed in her tent. She became so ill she was in a coma – my understanding. Mark and his father took turns trying to resuscitate Pam but she was gone. I cannot imagine the impact of her death.

When Pam’s illness was discovered, the family had ordered an amphibious rescue plane to bring her to a mainland hospital. The plane landed in Cistern Cay on Easter morning. I cannot even begin to imagine the return flight to Ohio and how this family ‘survived’ Pam’s death and the aftermath of understandable guilt.

When first meeting Mark’s parents at their Rocky River Ohio home, his mother, Ruth, blurted, “Oh, you’re the same age that Pam would have been.” I had learned of this tragedy much earlier from Mark but somehow hearing this made a strange impact. I felt sad, uneasy, and helpless. Pam and her death was always present and I was just a stranger in the midst of this all-too-personal history.

I knew that Mark’s loss of his sister Pam was a very deep wound. I was not very agile in helping him ‘deal’ with these inner lacerations. During the too-few marriage counseling sessions when the counselor asked if he’d like to have individual time – I felt him close off and turn away from the offer. His reaction surprised me then… and now.

My grief? I couldn’t help him. Remembering how I couldn’t get through to him is of no comfort. I failed him.

And if we continued together, I’d witness more and more of his dogged attempts at financial freedom – selling term life insurance (remember A.L. Williams?), investment counseling, carpet cleaning (his company was called Freedom Carpet – his idealism was always honored, even with carpet cleaning!), home building, etc. But not to return to academics where he was valued! Early on in our relationship Mark mentioned that he intended to return to his alma mater, Oberlin College, and teach. Part of me crumbles inside remembering this.

Mark died of complications from diabetes on Sunday, August 8th, 2021 after spending ten days in a St Petersburg Florida hospital. His fiancée of 2 1/2 years, Andree, who accompanied him to the hospital when he fell ill, wrote, ‘It was a real shock to me that one night in the hospital, where we expected him to come home the next day, turned into a downhill slide of ten days into eternity.’

Mark’s sister Patti was on the phone with Andree and with Mark’s physician about his condition. (Patti, a physician on the East Coast, mentioned to me that Mark’s platelets were around 100 whereas a healthy human body has around 300,000.) Patti spoke to Mark two days before he died. He had been intubated for some time as his breathing had become shallow. Andree held the phone up to his ear and Patti was able to speak with (or to) him. As Mark’s nearest living relative, Patti made the decision to discontinue the intubation but, as I understand it, he passed before this was done.

Lastly, my husband Kevin and I joined a Tampa SRF group’s memorial Zoom service on Saturday, Oct 30th – anonymously.

* But Jesus said unto him, Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead. Matthew 9:9