Thoughts on a Sunday Morning
Every evening, feet in the water. What is it about the ocean? This ocean? That deep vibrating sound of waves building, then breaking, then gently lapping and frothing and you. Mom. Why do you appear at that very moment? Over and over again. Just like the waves? In essence? This isn’t Lake Michigan. No Petosky stones in sight, no driftwood. Lots of seaweed and footprints all over the wet sand, but no, this is not Lake Michigan.
And then, in my new positioning around you leaving the planet, she came out of nowhere. A Medicine Woman. Was she real? Is she real? She is now a regular in my life but how is it that only I see her? Hear her?
That first evening, she turned to me, handed me a pad of paper and a red pen and she said that I was not to speak to her. If I needed to communicate, to please write, but do not speak. She said that she would speak to me. If I needed to remember anything that she shared, to write it on this pad with this pen.
Mom. She has been in my life for fourteen years now. Your jewelry box from Kashmir, with the woman standing in golden light beneath the flowering tree, now contains energy laden necklaces and earrings that she has slipped into my hands, saying that these were for me, each at a particular time, to help guide me.
She is solid flesh, I have felt her hands when she places these crystals in mine, but she evaporates with the wind. This being so, what about you, Mom? On the updrafts of my imagination, I hear your voice, I feel your touch, but I wonder. With all of these levels of being, I am open to being surprised by you. Perhaps you would consider, feet in the water, turning and presenting me with the most perfect Petosky stone of all, or emerging from a wave with that frisky fresh look on your face.
If the Medicine Woman can do it, maybe you’ll think about this.