Tag: spiritual

The Park Bench

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The elderly man sat down on the bench in the park and looked across the lawn to the tennis courts.  It was the first day of spring and the courts were full with youngsters, it reminded him of the love he once had for the game.  He remembered the trip he took to Wimbledon’s Centre Court for the final, all those years ago.   He hadn’t watched a game in a very long time and today was not going to be the day for catching up.

At the top of the bench there was a shiny silver plaque, the inscription in italic read ‘George Knox – loving father and husband, died as he lived in peace and love’.  He looked at the plaque for a moment and thought about George.  The family had done well, the bench was in a lovely spot, it got the warmth of the afternoon sun but also benefitted from a little shade at one end from an old oak.  The oak tree had been there for as long as he could remember, before the tennis courts, before the playground and long before the bench.  The scene, together with the glorious sunshine, was perfect for today.

The man had not been to the park for a very long time, he had never before sat on the bench.  Today was special, he was in the park to meet someone.  He turned to the gates, she would come from that direction and it wouldn’t be long now.  The clock above the bandstand showed it was a little after two thirty in the afternoon and she would have certainly finished her lunch. There she was, slowly entering the park with her walking aid, a small trolley with seat she pushed along in front of her to steady herself.  It gave her some independence and allowed her to visit the park when it was warm enough, today the temperature was just right.

Even from that distance anyone could see Marion was a fine woman.  He didn’t move towards her, he had to hold himself back but he watched every tiny step she made as she walked slowly and purposefully towards the bench.  There was a glimmer of a smile on her lips as she approached, she would be happy to see a space to sit herself down.  Now he was sitting along side her, he looked closely at her profile and again marveled at the fine bone structure and soft almost milky skin.  There was no need for her to wear make-up but he noticed a little lipstick, feint and unnoticeable to most but there all the same.  Marion was wearing her Christmas earrings, red enamel clip-on’s with a little sparkle.  He wondered why she had chosen today to wear them again.

The trolley was left to the side of the bench, she had taken the last couple of steps unaided.  They would not be taking it along with them, he would give her all the aid she needed from now on.  Marion sat on the bench until the sun set over the park.  It was only then that anyone noticed the old lady had died peacefully, her heart stopping gently at three, twenty-three.

George and Marion Knox walked together from the park arm in arm, reunited once more.

The Receptionist

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The receptionist hated her job with every atom in her body.  She hated the dreariness of the days, the sadness of the people who used the service and the total disinterest of the people who were supposed to be providing it.  It was a joke that the organization she worked for supposedly provided therapeutic services in the community.  If anyone needed therapy around here, it was her.

She was tied to the horrid job though, and probably for all eternity.  The rent needed to be paid and the credit card bills wouldn’t go away and she really needed those holidays to warm her bones.  If only she had chosen anther direction when she was at school, not hung out around the bike sheds smoking with the boys and stuck her nose in a book instead.

What else could she do she wondered for the fifty-millionth time.  She had made many of those life decision lists that were recommended on the internet, she liked baking cakes, but everyone could bake cakes, she liked to dance (poorly), she liked to cook, she liked animals, what was clear was that she liked nothing that would ever make her any money.  There must surely be something she hadn’t thought of, she just needed to find it.

Travelling to work this morning on the train, with the same blank faces she saw every day she again realised she was dying.  Not dying from a terminal illness or anything, just dying a little bit more everyday in her boring job.  The same old monotony, day in, day out, the rest of her life.  What did her life, as she was leading it have to say for itself, what did it say about her.

She checked her purse to make sure she had the lottery ticket, it was the only way out of here at the moment, that is until her prince comes along if he ever realises she is waiting.

She prayed again to St Jude, saint of hopeless causes to take pity on her.  Then, to be extra sure to St Anthony, the finder of things, to find her a way out of here, hopefully to somewhere warm and St Christopher who might help with that too.

Who else was there up there that could possibly help?  She thought of Arch Angel Michael, he had influence she had heard, she would give him a try, but how, she would need to look that one up.  She opened a browser and typed in his name finding a list of sites dedicated to him immediately.  It appeared all you needed to do was ask him to be by your side, help with negativity and believe he was there.  You could also ask him for a physical sign on earth, so you would know he was there. It was surely worth a go, she would give it a try, what did she have to loose.

The receptionist closed her eyes and followed the instructions carefully.  ‘Dear Arch Angel Michael, could you help me see my way, be with me, protect me and show me a sign that you can hear this’.  Just as she was getting in the flow of the conversation with Michael the door buzzer went off.  She pressed the intercom to enquire who was there.  ‘ Stationary delivery’, she pressed the button to release the door and let the delivery guy in to the building.

A young guy, actually a very nice looking young guy entered the reception area carrying a delivery note.  He was wearing a colbolt blue T-shirt with a company logo of what looked like a sword across the chest.  She directed him to the stationary office and went back to her desk.

A pile of letters needed to be put into envelopes and posted, she had better get on with it before lunch.  She could then head off early to the post office before going to the café in the park.  She looked up as the stationary delivery guy left the building with a wave in her direction.

At the park, she got her sandwich from the café and headed for a bench by the lake.  The sun was shining and it cast a bright glow across the water that seemed to stop just short of the bench.  As she sat, she noticed a single feather, white and fluffy and new.  She picked it up, held it aloft and then gently let it fall to the ground, watching as it span in the summer breeze.

‘Mind if I sit here’? enquired a voice, a nice, soft and gentle voice.  She looked up to see the delivery guy, sandwich in hand standing by her bench.  She smiled and moved along to make room.  She wasn’t so sure she was hungry for the egg mayonnaise sandwich now, maybe it would be best to save it for later where she didn’t have to worry about it falling down her chin.

Heading back to work after lunch, she thought about Mike.  New to town, single and drop dead gorgeous.  He was working at the stationary company as a stopgap to save for the trip around the world he intended to do with his camera.  He was an aspiring photographer and had recently been displayed in a local gallery.   He would be back on Monday with the remainder of the delivery, she must remember to wear her new shoes, and Monday couldn’t come soon enough, maybe this place wasn’t so bad.  She picked the delivery note up from the in tray she had left it earlier, ready now to unpack the boxes.  The piece of paper in her hand read Michaels’ Stationary Supplies and just below showed the delivery of a box of Arch Lever Files.

What was the name of that angel she had been talking to earlier?

Transitions

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I believe in life after death but it scares me.

My fear, I know is only the fear of the unknown, like how I felt before I ever flew in an airplane.  All of those unanswered questions, how would it stay up in the air, would I survive the fall if it didn’t.  Then my father took me up in a small cessna, we soared above the land and into the clouds, free and at one with the beauty of the sky.  My stomach moved with the wind, up to greet my heart and down again.  My feet, so redundant from the earth, hung from my small body waiting for their next step.

It’s the same with many new experiences, snorkeling, writing, speaking out in public, a new job and those first date nerves.  Until I have reached the other side of the experience I have no map of it or understanding.  It is clearly the transition and loss of any control that scares me not the event.

The separation of my soul from my body worries me, will it know where to go will it leave anything behind, what colour will it be and what will that say about me.  What about the scars, how will the soul carry these memories.  What about these poor souls you hear about that are lost, left to wander the earth until rescued, will my soul find its way.

We get so entrenched in our lives as they are, without the chains that hold us to the everyday, what will we do without these ties.  It took me a year to get used to being me after I quit the job I felt I was dying in.  I had spent years going through the motions that I felt kept me safe in a job I was not happy or ever my true self in.

This year I have found me, talked to myself and explored my new world.  I have made new friends, much kinder, more interesting friends.  The reason for this I think is because they are the people I have met while doing the things I want to do, they like me are drawn to certain areas and experiences.  Through my new world I believe I have found love and that I really care about the people in my life, not for what they give me but for what we share.

I do worry about those people I love when I die, the separation from them even if only for a short while pains me to think about.  Will I really be able to see my family grow, will I carry my worries as a parent with me or will I know then that everything will be okay.  Will my son feel me close by and catch me from the corner of his eye, will he notice the signs. What about the people who wait to greet me, that have been watching my mistakes on earth, will they too understand.

When we make this next transition, will we understand, does the soul that has travelled through many lives really recall them all.  Will this last existence make sense when remembered with all the others.

And then what……

Talking to Myself

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‘I’m going to keep on talking to you until you listen, that’s right there is no ignoring me you are going to have to eventually answer back’.   I was talking to you as I wondered the flat, soaking up all the memories that took me back so many years.  I could smell you everywhere, in the linen on the bed, in the clothes laid out neatly over the chair and in the air I breathed in deeply.  ‘Are you listening to me?’ I called out to you as I looked at the photo of us by the bedside.  It was taken many years ago and faded from the sunlight that steamed in through the window, even today.  The smiles were still there, in that black and white photo and reminded again me of the fun we had that day.  We always had fun, whatever the situation at some point we always found the funny side of it.  When you do eventually decide to start talking to me I will ask you if you recall the day in Cambridge. If you remember the day when stupidly I pointed out the Waterstone’s bookshop and told you I thought they would have some very good books in there.  Not many people would have got the madness of that, my connecting visiting a university town with the stock of its bookshop, certainly not the people who gave us strange looks and stepped around us as we sat huddled on the pavement outside the store unable to move through our laughter and tears.

The silence was broken with a crash from the kitchen, what had you done this time.  I walked into the empty room to see a cup on the floor and broken in half.  The cat looking down from the dresser with an indignant look that told me the cup had been in the wrong place.  I picked up the pieces and called out that I was sorry for assuming it was you.  Where are you, the flat is not that big, what are you doing.  I wonder if you are watching me and I just can’t see you, are you smiling.  I finish the washing up, putting your cup where you like it by the polished kettle, I’m sure you wouldn’t have minded me using it.  I look around the room to make sure everything is in its place and the table is clear of crumbs before heading down the hall.   I put on my coat, hanging next to yours in the hallway and linger looking at my reflection in the mirror, I look beyond myself at the room behind me, everything is as it should be, except for you.  As I pick up the key from the tray by the door I try one more time.   ‘I hope you are in more of a talkative mood when I get back’ I call after me ‘please try’.

I leave the light on for you as I close the door and head off down the street.  The evening is drawing in and the children look like they are heading home.  I pull my coat closer and hope that the medium on the church platform will have more luck with you tonight.

The Whisper

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Someone spoke into my ear, whispered clearly, a man’s voice I think, deep and soft, but I didn’t quite get it.  It woke me from my sleep although I don’t think I was quite there yet, just at that in between space between sleeping and not sleeping, that comfortable, warm trance like state we seek when attempting to meditate and switch off the world.  I sat up and looked around the room for the source of the whisper, looking into the spectrum of grey mist and shadow.  The moon was bright and the large sash window cast shadows around the room, but they were just shadows, everything being familiar and as it was when I turned off the light. My cat Eris, watched curiously from the bottom of the bed, I could just see her outline and feel the warmth of her body stretched across my feet and although I couldn’t see her face I knew she wasn’t amused at the interruption.  I’m sure it wasn’t my imagination, I know the voice inside my head, it’s been there all my life, it’s me, sounds like me and thinks like me.  This was different, a voice close enough to be in my head but just outside.

I wasn’t frightened which surprised me, I felt almost privileged but disappointed I had missed the message.  I waited for the voice to come again, speaking out loud into the darkness, hoping for a repeat whisper and wanting to understand the reason behind it.  Silence filled the room, trees swayed silently in the distance through the window but even the usual noises of the city seemed to be muffled.  I strained my ears for the sound of anything, a heartbeat maybe but nothing but the slight drip from the tap in the bathroom down the hall.  I lay down again on my side, hair tucked behind my ear, searching the large mirror to the side of my bed surveying the room, watching for the movement I knew would not come.

I slept, without interruption this time, a sound sleep of a familiar dream, the dream I have often although it varies it’s the same repetitive dream.  I’m travelling across water and as I look down waves crash powerfully against a shore.  Sometimes I’m in a plane and occasionally I view the scene from a cliff or somewhere high above floating.  But I always see the water and its always moving and deep, somehow communicating, the white froth of the surf against the blue of the sea as it crashes against land.  As I travel tonight I am aware of the silence, the waves should be loud but they are not, it is as if the sound is turned down. There is always a house, not ever the same but the house is always large with many rooms of which I have to travel through.  During my many journeys through this dream, I have visited castles with huge dome like ceilings, family homes, churches and old farmhouses and I have walked through all of them searching for the room I am supposed to enter where I will find an answer.  The dream is sometimes frightening and sometimes pleasant, the atmosphere changes from room to room, I occasionally linger in a room, run from some and through others.  Tonight the house is old and the walls are cold stone, I hear my father talking to his wife in the distance but I don’t see him. My father is usually in this dream, due to arrive or just leaving but I always catch a glimpse of him although it is my journey and he too is travelling.

I wake and lay back on my warm pillow, molded by sleep, I breathe in the new day.   Through the window the old tree moves gently in the wind as it towers above the city buildings.   I think about the voice and wonder who it was, I’m certain I heard it, that it was a man and it was familiar.  I ponder also on my dream, I didn’t find what I was searching for but I will travel there again I know this with certainty. Eris wonders around the room, brushing against the bed, as is her routine, she is waiting for her food, as if I could forget.  Slowly I push back the duvet, hold it aloft as I step from the bed and head from the room.  I stop with my hand on the door and look around once again……………………………..