A few days ago I quoted from James Lee Burke this: if there is a such a thing as wisdom, and I have serious doubts about its presence in my life, it lies in the acceptance of .... the knowledge that those who have passed on are still with us, out there in the mist, showing us the way, sometimes uttering a word or caution from the shadows, somethings visiting us in our sleep, as bright as a candle burning inside a basement that has no windows.
I mention this because yesterday I had lunch with my extra daughter Stacey and she talked about some things she has experienced just after burying her Grandmother. Small things to anyone who wasn't paying attention: rain stopping for the seconds it took to run to her car, not just once but several times in one afternoon, a flower from the funeral left on one of her son's car seats in the back of her car, a few other things that made it clear that her Gramma was still seeing her.
Many people believe in God. Many people do not. Not many people have belief in that middle, spirit world. Oddly, I do. I truly believe that some of the dead carry on. Not all of them. But some. Stacey's narrative confirmed that for me, once again.
When my Mom was alive, I called her every Sunday. Every. Sunday. I remember calling her from a pay phone on an island off of Sicily, from a hotel in Tunisia, many times from Paris or Rome or small towns in other cities in Europe. Now when 4:00 rolls around on Sunday afternoon, I look up expectantly because I expect her to be calling me. So I talk to her for a few minutes, just to satisfy her curiosity of where I might be on that particular Sunday. I do believe she is listening.
There is more to say on this but right now the words are few.
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