Mystical Pen Pal
Mystical Pen Pal
Where do we go after death? I once asked Dr. Gilly and he said, “I don’t know. Let me know when you get there.” In later years, I had the opportunity to ask a very famous yoga master the same question. He responded, “They’ll let you know when they get there…maybe.”
Apparently they do. Or so say more than half the people who have lost someone close to them, according to those doing this kind of research.
They report seeing their loved one’s face, smelling their scent, hearing their voice, having vividly real dreams about them or even encountering animals or birds who seem to momentarily embody their deceased wife, or parent, or child, or beloved friend.
My grandmother swore that after Grandpa’s death, she would feel a rib tickle while standing at the stove, which had been his affectionate tease since the early days of their lifelong marriage. It gave her comfort and made her smile.
The professionals call these occurrences “bereavement hallucinations,” or “Extraordinary Experiences.” But I find both of those descriptions somewhat negative or, at best, clinically vague. Words that link with mental illness on the one hand, or any and all kinds of paranormal events on the other.
Kind of like diminishing them and failing to convey their profound essence.
We can painstakingly dissect a Monarch butterfly to analyze and label all of its bits and pieces. But that will never come close to the essence of a Monarch shimmering in the sunlight as it rests on a flower, drinking nectar and flicking its wings. Or explain how inestimable numbers of these delicate creatures can possibly fly almost 3,000 miles in late autumn in search of warmth, covering approximately 5 acres of forest area where they overwinter in Mexico.
Magic simply doesn’t fit within the strict specifications of scientific taxonomies and statistics.
All of that is a rationale for my calling these after-death phenomena “mini-miracles.” Opportunities to transcend our everyday senses and perceive something beyond that is very real.
After my baby brother died at the age of 51, I found myself fretting about what happened next for him. He’d made a full life and had deep, loving relationships despite crushing health problems, so I figured if Heaven is a real place, he would be there.
But how to be sure? He didn’t espouse any organized religion. In fact, he was an atheist. A skeptic. He even subscribed to magazines targeted to skeptics, possibly because he harbored a secret hope that someone would prove him wrong and by doing so, prove that the ethereal is every bit as real as a toothbrush. Or a computer. That there really is more than just this.
A few months after his death, I was jostling to nab a recently vacated seat at an overcrowded bagel shop. I bumped into a guy and murmured a routine apology without even looking at him. “Sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He insisted, “Oh, I think you’re seeing things just fine.”
Then I did look at him. He was tall, slender, with dark hair and eyes, bearing a resemblance to my brother. As I watched, his facial features suddenly melded into a new shape and became . . . my brother’s face. Feeling like I had stepped into a different reality, I stared, speechless. He smiled and said, “I’m just fine.”
All the noise and bustle of the crowd around us faded like those cameo shots in a movie. We smiled at each other, total strangers basking in what was, at least for me, a mini-miracle. Then he turned and left the shop.
And with all the certainty and comfort of a warm blanket, I knew my brother was just fine.
When my mom died, there wasn’t any such message. I had been working very long hours in my clinical practice for the years before she passed, and I felt horribly guilty. I knew my brothers were taking really good care of her, but I was her only daughter.
A wise person once told me, “There’s no need to punish people when they mess up. Most of us punish ourselves more than anyone else would.”
He was right. Words began beating my head like self-flagellation. She was my very best friend, and I took her for granted. I should have made more time for her. Built more memories. Helped my brothers. Been there. For all of them.
But how?
My job was helping kids with significant disabilities and their families and their teachers. It took all my heart, energy, and time. I was putting in 50-hour weeks and giving training classes.
I kept telling myself, “I’ll go visit next month. We’ll take a trip together next year.”
After her death, I was granted 3 days of “bereavement leave” thanks to a union contract. Many employers offer less . . . or none whatsoever.
I flew to Reno for her funeral and stayed at our family’s favorite hotel right across from the airport. The one with a statue of a jolly chef permanently grinning at the coffee shop entrance. I fought the perverse urge to punch him.
We went through all the necessaries, even had her favorite music – a bagpiper - at her memorial service. When that lone piper began his stately march up the center aisle with the haunting skirls of “Amazing Grace” reaching as though into infinity, I broke down. Then I mentally checked out.
You’ve probably had that happen – when you keep up appearances and go through the motions? The hugs, heartfelt but fleeting. The plastered smiles and polite conversation. The regrets of not seeing loved ones more often, “it’s so hard with everyone living far away,” and “Here’s my email, let’s keep in touch.” The flowers and food (“Oh, I didn’t know you liked deviled eggs,”) and the exhaustion when I finally reached my hotel room and fell into bed.
The next morning, I came out of the shower and glanced at the wall-size window which had become opaque from the shower’s steam. Something was etched there.
I moved closer and my heart leapt into my throat, then I choked up. Sprawled across the window was a huge heart with a happy face and the words, “I love you.” Like a message from a mystical pen pal. Mom.
Of course, I know Mom didn’t manifest in physical form and write a message in the hotel window’s steam. But the synchronicity of what someone had written there appearing at that exact moment gave me permission to pretend she did. That all was forgiven. That I could stop feeling guilty and begin the process of healthy grieving.
Aside from being utterly grateful, how can we account for these mini-miracles that appear in the guise of the mundane? Singular moments when our awareness tilts a little bit sideways to reveal a grand glimpse of our true essence. Like the Monarch, we are more than our bits and pieces. Much more.