“Grief, I’ve learned, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go”–Jamie Anderson
It has been said that the best ghost stories are the ones written with psychological twists and unexpected turns. I suppose that means the ghost story I am going to share isn’t a good one. In fact, it seems more of a love story than a ghost story at all. And yet, despite that, it is the most tangible evidence that I have ever experienced of there being proof of afterlife. More so than anything else I’ve witnessed on this earth, and I say that having previously lived in a very psychically active house. Perhaps this is why it has taken me over two years to finally share this story. As odd as it is, it is every bit the truth of what happened that night, and for that reason I have struggled with how to write it. There is much justice that I must serve to this ghost story in its first retelling since it happened.
So no, this tale won’t be full of eerie moans and footsteps. There will be no things that go bump in the night. Instead, this is a story of life and death, of love and grief. Of the people left behind, and those who didn’t want to leave. The proof of love everlasting and how we never truly leave the ones we love. And I can’t believe that I am saying this, but I believe that Marvel’s Vision said it best when he stated: “What is grief, if not love persevering?”
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What a strange thing it
is to mourn an ending that
never once began.
Time is a circle, the snake eats its tail.
We come and go in cycles, souls bound to a wheel that not many seem to see. The same patterns repeat over and over in micro and macro. I find myself caught both in the wheel and outside of it, desperate to get off. To stop the churning and circling fate that seems to bind me to repeat the same mistakes. To cause the same hurts. I try to tear my body from the ropes that lash me there but it just doesn’t work. On some days I wish I could go back to oblivion and peace, not knowing of the wheel. But it’s there all the same now, what is seen is not unseen. And once the teacup is shattered, there’s no putting it back together, not as the same cup it once was. Maybe that’s okay, as long as it holds water?
There is no such destruction as that which is wrought in the name of love.
And I have held life and death in my hands, and chosen both paths out of love and mercy.
But both paths still lead to the same outcome.
I fight against the wheel and it ignores each pull and tug and scream. I want to get off more than anything, and perhaps one day I will. All I can do now is to keep up the fight for better days, like I’ve done time and time again. Maybe that cup still holds water.
Time is a circle, the snake eats its tail.
“If eternal existence is altered, then it must become more beautiful; and if it disappears, it must return with more sublime image; and if it sleeps, it must dream of a better awakening, for it is ever greater upon its rebirth.”–Khalil Gibran
Life has been busy, a pell-mell dash through seasons as summer is now fall, and I have neglected my writing for over 2 months somehow. My full-time career asked much of me over the last few months, and a breakdown of leadership above me lead to some very stressful moments and tense situations. We overcame, but it was touch and go for a moment. On the positive, I’ve had the wonderful opportunity to write and design for something truly special, and to meet some wondrously creative folks. I only hope it’s something I can continue with as it’s a true passion for me. All the while, I’ve balanced the regular needs that go into motherhood of both human and furry children.
I’ve been a little blocked, too, to be honest. A little gun shy on writing, and feeling unworthy. But I’m finally determined to break that spell as my friend Edwin told me a few days ago: “if you’re a writer you’re never blocked, you just need to write through it”. So I suppose I have no more excuses, and better out than in. This dream came to me weeks ago and I have waffled on posting it, but for the spirit of writing, I present it, warts and all.
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“He who has not been bitten by the serpents of light and snapped at by the wolves of darkness, will always be deceived by the days and the nights.”–Khalil Gibran, The Broken Wings
Wild dreams, dark dreams, bright dreams. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? There’s so much to say, so much to write about, and yet I find nothing in words that can truly describe what has happened over the last few months. Some of it I can’t write about as it’s not mine to tell just yet, though perhaps one day I will. Lovely moments, wondrous and bright, and then heartbreaking ones, too. For a long time, I felt like I was holding onto threads and praying they wouldn’t fray too soon. Just a little longer, to hold onto so much. But good news has come now, and we’re taking it all day by day, driving miles and miles while the world seems to unravel around us. In the end, it will all have been worth it, if dreams can be believed. That’s why I even began writing this blog to begin with: because someone believed in my dreams.
So tonight, as I sit on my porch surrounded by beautiful strands of hammered-copper lights, I write of a few dreams I’ve had lately. Though they were all dreamt on different nights, they seemed to blur together over days into one message.
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We choose our joys and sorrows long before we experience them.–Khalil Gibran
It seems I’ve been in a bit of a writing rut again. Many, many dreams have come to me over the last few months, and yet I cannot find the words to do them justice or give them waking life. I suppose too, that there’s a certain theme that is running through my day to day right now. There are so many things I want to share, to say, especially to those I love, but the words die on my tongue before they are ever spoken. I’m getting bored with myself over it honestly.
I’ve been trying so hard to heal so many, myself included, and it seems that must go on for a while longer. That may be part of my block. But I keep on hoping for miracles and happier, sun-kissed days to come.
I do have a post in progress about an absolutely wild ride of a dream that will hopefully be out soon. But until then, another dream of time and space…
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5 years. I can’t really believe that, or take it all in.
That first March 4th; I never thought a sunrise could be a view so cruel. In the stinging light of that new day, all I could feel was your absence with such aching. Such a careless thing, that morning.
Doesn’t time know to stop, out of respect? Just for a moment.
A moment where you can still be here, and we can laugh and speak of hopes and dreams. Swap pictures of kids and pets, and argue over politics. A moment where you’re in the world again and the world is better for it.
There have been 5 of these mornings now, always so sunny, and you’re not here. How dare there be such light on a day without you? And yet that’s all you would have wanted anyway.
There is such cruelty in the continuity of a world without you. I speak of you to others who have never heard your name, who will never truly know the mark you made on my world, on so many worlds.
But you are very much still with me. In my words, my actions, my heart.
So I’m left behind, keeping you in heartbeats. And now I’m blowing off steam to try and lessen the pain.
Tomorrow, the sun will rise as if you were never here at all.
But you were.
And you always will be.
Soyez comme l’oiseau, posé pour un instant
Sur des rameaux trop frêles,
Qui sent ployer la branche et qui chante pourtant,
Sachant qu’il a des ailes!
(Be like the bird who / pausing in her flight awhile on boughs too slight / feels them give way beneath her /and yet sings / knowing she hath wings)–Victor Hugo
When I was a young girl, I spent many summers abroad in France, my grandmother’s country. I remember how exciting it was to count down the days until the trip every year. I would wish for time to speed up, even through Christmas, just to get there! Each summer, we would spend a few weeks in Paris, then Is-en-Bassigny, and then finally, Roquebrune-sur-Argens, which was my favorite. Built into the mountainside just off of the French Riviera, Roquebrune offered beautiful views of the Provence from its great heights.
My most favorite part about the townhome we owned in Roquebrune was my bedroom window. Situated at one of the higher points in town, I could see for miles out of that window, and I spent untold hours in the evenings sitting on its thick ledge of the 300 year old house. This was a nightly occurrence for me, because I loved to greet the starlings as they danced their murmuration across the sky in the evenings. Appearing over the horizon like a great, black ribbon, they would dive and turn, undulating through the twilight to an erratic dance of birdsong as the sunset burned orange and ember behind them. Eventually they would come closer overhead and completely dominate the sky with the moon rising behind them. Then as gracefully as they came, they flew beyond our town and out of sight. I was entranced each time, as if every night was completely new to behold.
It has been 16 years since I last sat in that window and watched the birds dance their nightfall ballet. I think back to those memories often though, despite the time. Some people imagine a pristine beach as their happy place, and I imagine the starlings at my window, and I can seem the just as vividly as they looked so long ago. It’s no surprise that I should then dream of them, from time to time…
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The body of man has in itself blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile; these make up the nature of this body, and through these he feels pain or enjoys health. Now he enjoys the most perfect health when these elements are duly proportioned to one another in respect of compounding, power and bulk, and when they are perfectly mingled.–Hippocrates
It is with some apprehension that I write tonight, as I don’t really want to write about this dream. I don’t want to shine a light on such darkness, or let it out. And yet, I keep having the dream. As if keeping it in somehow empowers the thought and drives me to dream it again and again and again. So tonight: a catharsis in hopes that I should rid myself of this recurring unpleasantry, and to clear out the black bile of melancholy that visits nightly.
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“The fifth angel sounded his trumpet, and I saw a star that had fallen from the sky to the earth. The star was given the key to the shaft of the Abyss.”–Revelation, 9:1
A very short post for tonight, but one that needs writing as the dream that came to me this past Friday night seemed quite interesting and worth sharing.
Very rarely my dreams take on a voyeur-type scenario in which I am watching over someone’s shoulder as they read, write, or draw, completely unware that I am watching. In this way, I have seen messages, letters, and books coming to me weeks or months beforehand.
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