Anne's relationship with Peter gave John an idea. He knew that Peter had developed an ongoing, for the want of a better word, camaraderie with Anne that could not quite be defined, as yet, as a physical attraction, but it was very close to it. Peter had placed Anne on such a high pedestal that he could hardly reach the Olympian elevation himself.

But if anyone could convince Anne about the benefits of an fMRI follow-up, it would be he. And, after all, Peter Brown was a physician dedicated to neurology.

"Perhaps he isn't quite as fanatical as I am," John muttered to himself, "but his commitment to science could not be questioned. And Peter knows that Anne would not be placed in harm's way."

The next day he spoke to Peter.

"I thought you might find out if she would be willing to enter a regular follow-up program. After all, she's not a child anymore and is well capable of making her own decisions."

This wasn't strictly true, not in the legal sense, but in all aspects that mattered, Anne was mature well beyond her biological age. The very next Friday, just before the regular dinner for all her friends, Anne announced that she would be more than happy to continue with the fMRIs, provided they did not interfere with her music.

"The scans are interesting, but music is my life."

Only if the fMRI confirms this supposition, John thought. He meant that only if Anne continued to have a life. They were venturing here into still very unknown territory. For some reason his excitement was dimmed by a strange sense of foreboding. When things were too good to be true, that was usually because they were. For the now, he decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

The month following Anne's debut on the stage of Théâtre Maisonneuve was as hectic as any in Anne's young life. She rose early, went to bed late. She worked as she had never worked before. It was never a question of her performance. It was always the problem of the orchestra rising to her level. Of meeting her demanding standards. Sir Ian Barton did his best to call her only when absolutely necessary. Even that occurred more often than he would have wanted. Once again, Anne was becoming noticeably tense.

"You must learn to relax, my dear. Leave the orchestra to me. I'll bully them until they do you justice. Trust me," he repeated many a time, adding all sorts of other assurances.

Sir Ian was right. He usually was.

As for Jorge di Vargas's Intermezzo, it was the first premiere of a short piece by a Canadian composer to receive accolades from all the professional critics. But poor Jorge would never be sure if it was due to the quality of his composition or to what Anne had done with it. He strongly suspected the latter, although, eventually, the two really became one. As for the performance of the Brahm's Concerto, well... There were only two things that separated it from all the other performances in Montreal. First, it was the soloist herself. And the second was almost as unique. Anne's very last note was followed by deadly silence. Whether people had refused to accept that the concerto was over, or whether they were just swept into a different reality, no one would ever know. But it wasn't until virtually the whole audience had risen to their feet that the first hands joined in applause. The applause lasted until Anne had returned to the stage a dozen times, bowed and sent kisses, then climbed to the conductor's podium to kiss the conductor, which act, needless to say, invoked another storm of applause.

Just as Sir Ian had promised, it was a night no one would soon forget.

And this was just the beginning.

John Brent came down himself to pick Anne up and drive her to the Montreal Neurological Institute. Once Anne had told him that she could spare perhaps as many as three hours that after-noon, her availability took precedence over all his other commitments. Even Peter could not extricate himself from his duties, but being a Director carried its privileges.

The patient scheduled, a follow-up case and thus involving no risks other than a slightly bruised ego, had been rescheduled to a later date. Anne submitted to all the boring ritual of scanning with patience and equanimity. Two hours later Peter, who had just finished his duties, drove her home.

Peter had very mixed feelings towards Anne's evidently forthcoming career. He knew that Anne was not yet seventeen. He also knew that the feelings he had for her had nothing to do with her age. He wanted to protect her from the world at large, from the iniquities associated with a life on stage, in so-called show business, no matter how noble in her particular case. He trusted Sir Ian, but he trusted himself more. He was wondering if he should take time off, resign if absolutely necessary, from the MNI and chaperon Anne on the forthcoming Canadian, and planned American, concert tours. Then he realized that the only person from whom Anne might need the protection of a chaperone ­ was himself.

"I shall miss you," he murmured without looking at her.

"Me too," she replied, also looking away. A slow-moving tear began its tremulous descent down her cheek.

"Will you write? Email?"

She didn't answer. There was something in her throat that would not let her speak. It was true that she was not yet of age, but she had heard about, she'd even seen girls her age running around with boyfriends, smooching in dark doorways, and not-so-dark nooks in the park. She was growing up rapidly in all ways that would, and did, continue to change her from a girl into a woman. Would he ever notice, she wondered? Ever?

There are moments when one's heart takes over the affairs of one's head. Peter pulled over into the Mount Royal lookout. He then almost brutally pulled Anne into his arms and then with contrasting gentleness touched her lips with his own. They sat like that, speechless, barely touching each other's lips, until finally the magnet which drew them together increased in force and their mouths drank of each other's longing.

"I love you, my love, I love you, always have...."

Anne closed her eyes and listened to the words that in her ears sounded like the most beautiful concerto. "Me too," she whispered at long last. So rich when said with her fiddle, so inadequate with words. "Tell me again...." she pleaded.

He did. Many more times.

More has been written on the subject of this four-letter-word than on any other subject. More nonsense has been garnished with this apparently inexhaustible staple than seems possible for the rampant imagination of man. Empires have been built and lost; heroes have been elevated to Olympian heights; gods have been conjured and murdered, as have thousands of their followers all in the name of love. Love of what? Power? Beauty? Prolific riches, Faustian talents, beguiling secrets of an enticing woman?

Some say that love is the greatest power on earth. Isn't love the very antithesis of power? Perhaps it is the most irresistible force, rather than power.

What limits the efficacy of love is not its own frailty but capacity of the recipient to accept it. A deaf man cannot accept the love encapsulated in the harmonies of a musical masterpiece; a blind man cannot appreciate the ebullience of the old masters, or the shimmering light of the impressionist. Nor can we experience love if we close the floodgates through which it threatens to overwhelm us. And finally, until we realize that love is not a feeling, an emotion, but the most irresistible force binding the universes together, we shall never experience true love.

And thus we are told: Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind...

So many of my good friends file out, dutifully, to their many churches (almost) every Sunday, presumably looking for their God and, once there, they proceed to love Him as best they can. Yet, how can they? How can they love what to most of them is a mystery? Who is this mysterious Lord? Can one love a God one never experienced? Surely, one cannot love what one does not understand. When Spinoza said "to define God is to deny God", he merely refused to set limitations which such a definition might impose. He did not advocate abject ignorance of the source of Life, on the Source of All. And most of all, the Source of Love Itself. But the ignorance of my brothers and sisters doesn't stop there. My dear, honest, truly decent friends have only the vaguest idea what is this heart they are supposed to commit to such a task. They seem to have an even lesser idea of what is soul, and only a vague impression of the real function of their mind.
Let us try to eliminate all "mystery" from the commandment.

You are the Lord.

You are the sole architect shaping reality from the inexhaustible abundance of the Universal Creative Spirit. You create your universe, your truth. You are the Truth. According to what you believe in that becomes your life, your health, your joy, your wealth, your pleasure. God, the ineffable, the unimaginable, incommunicable, indescribable, inexpressible, unspeakable... will forever, as Spinoza would say, remain undefinable. God the Spirit, the unchangeable, immutable Source, the Father, is That from which all draws its substance. But since, as far as you are concerned, your power is infinite, the Lord, the High Self, the I AM, the Living Christ, the Only Son of God is de facto God. The Lord and God-the-Father are identical in "quality", though not in "quantity". One cannot tell the difference between a single drop of saline water and the rest of the ocean, because their nature is identical. At this level of perception you were never born, you will never die. YOU ARE even as I AM. There is no outside agency, no outside interference that has the power to influence you against your will. Jehovah (the Lord) confessed to Moses that His name is I AM, and He warned that thou shalt have none other Gods before me. The Lord is thy God. And none other. Fifteen hundred years later he who showed us the way said: I and my father are one. Inseparable. The same truth promulgated centuries apart.

Will people ever understand?

It is this God within that we are admonished to love. And love, in this elevated state, means to become one with. To lose the boundary where you cease and the Lord begins. To become One. Are we any closer to understanding who is this God? We must defy Spinoza once more. God is not just the fountain of life. God is LIFE Itself. To love God is to love Life. It is to love immortality. (I am the resurrection and the life) . Create your own list of perfections, of abundant life, of beauty, of harmony and order, of love and com-passion, of unimaginable wealth, of the realization of all your indestructible dreams... and then fall in love with them. When you do, you will love God. You will love Love Itself. If you settle for any less, for any imperfection, any blemish, then you don't love God but some lesser deity. You will create yourself unto an image and likeness of a lesser god. Only perfection is acceptable. Be ye perfect.

It is that simple.
And what of soul?

Soul spelled with a capital S, is defined above. It is the I AM. It is a mode of being. Soul is but one and It is the expression of the divine attribute of Individualization. In you and in me. In all of us. In animals and plants. In rocks and grains of sand on a distant beach. In stars and galaxies. In the vastness of space. Without end.

Soul spelled with the lower case: "soul", represents the sum total of all that you (the individualized I AM) have accomplished, from the beginning of time, towards the realization described above. It is your subconscious. It is your feminine aspect, your anima, which defines and nurtures that which you are. And the very essence of your soul that controls your thoughts, your behavior, is your heart. You must learn to love Life, Perfection, not only with your conscious mind, but also with the totality of your being. The desire for and the love of Perfection in all Its Attributes must be instilled in your heart. This means your total subconscious must be impregnated with it. When it is, your soul will be worth saving. Every aspect of you will be preserved for eternity. You will give an individual expression to the Universality.

And what of your mind?

The mind is the means, the executive function. Every miracle is a miracle of the mind. Mind is the machine, the instrument, which creates reality. Whatever your mind dwells on, for any length of time, sooner of later becomes manifest in this, the material world. When you want something, you must ask, insist if you like, in the name of your High Self, by the power of your Mind. The authority is there at your disposal. It is your ultra mind. Your super-consciousness. It is your dream factory. When you learn to love God, when you learn to employ the creative force exclusively for the good of the Universal, you will have learned to love with your mind. You will have learned to love yourself. Your true, real Self. And since the individualized Soul is one and the same in every being, in all of creation, you will love God in your family, your neighbors, in your friends and associates. You will discover Him in all His modes of being. Throughout the universes. For ever. And since love unites, you will never, never, be alone.

Isn't it fun?

A church, any church, of any religion, has only two functions. First, to teach and assure every man, woman and child that God is within his or her own being. And the second is just as straightforward. Since this statement is true of every one of us, surely, we must, per force... love one another. What we really love is the God manifested in and through each one of us.

This is what love is all about.

It has been said that as you rise in consciousness to-wards the bliss of heaven, your power increases enormously. Yet, when you finally "get there", all you find is Love.