Metallic Gold, an Artist, a Friar and a Marine

For me, there is no death, there is only life.

Places of burial are sacred to me. They provide me with immense peace. I am at home standing upon the thin line between worlds I wholeheartedly walk into. It is natural for me to be among the departed.

Spiritual weight I am used to. I am an ultra-extra sensitive empath, medium, energy and body worker and all around practitioner of the healing arts as a whole, so I kind of have no choice in that matter and accept spiritual matters humbly and with reverence.

Boundaries are crucial. What is disturbing is when others, beyond your control, overstep the boundaries you have carefully honed for yourself as you bled through life when you step away from the calm serenity of the world you created and into society. 

Not all society, mind you, but most of it. That kind of suffering is beyond my control and I am exhausted from having to deal with it. Alas, this is how the world currently works. I stay away from it as much as possible, yet we must exist within both worlds, simultaneously at times.

Jean-Paul Sarte penned my state of being nicely in Being and Nothingness:

"Sartre contends that human existence is a conundrum whereby each of us exists, for as long as we live, within an overall condition of nothingness (no thing ness)—that ultimately allows for free consciousness. But simultaneously, within our being (in the physical world), we are constrained to make continuous, conscious choices."

No kidding. Not an easy thing to do.

Upon waking, I wished to get deep into the woods, my ultimate grounder. Instead, I was diverted to a cemetery to visit my Father on Memorial Day. The need to go there was so intense. Magnets pulled me there.

Driving, I turn down an old walking path, one not meant for driving, yet I drive down it anyhow. I entered a part of the cemetery where the sun rarely shines. On this day, it did.

Directly before us were rows upon rows of trees. 

I put the Jeep in park, got out and knelt down on one knee on that path. I crouched down low and listened to the birds singing, to the hum-buzz of the dead, living. The wind whipped my hair around my face and in that moment, I was fully awake and alive staring up and into trees.

Kneeling down in awe to those before me on this strange Earth, I knew then why I was guided to this healing place.

My son and Mother were with me. It is always only the three of us visiting my Father and my Uncle. They are side by side, yet passed 15 years apart.

My son diligently dressed up my Father's military memorial stone. I was only 15 when he passed so the gold faded to grey. My son, the artist, on his knees in the grass, painted over each letter and scroll, in shiny metallic gold, matching exactly how that stone was the day my Father left this plane.

Next to my Dad is my Uncle. The Franciscan Friar. He never fully took that oath publicly, spiritually, yes. I tore away the overgrown grass, the three of us worked in the sunshine, a perfect day, soaking up the energy of this dear Earth. We cleaned the stones, polished them, and placed flowers and memorials by each.

As we worked, silently, the birds, squirrels and wind sang to us. The beauty of nature, existence itself, rumbled within and around all of us. Freely, open and accepting of all that is, the three of us understood that we were in another world, standing and praying on holy ground.

I knelt before a most divine tree and took several shots of her upturned arms reaching towards heaven. I placed my right palm lightly upon her ancient skin letting her know that it is safe, that I am here in reverence. Then I turned my chin upward and saw dozens of emerald tops of sainted holy heads, all standing in lines, like soldiers. 

On Memorial Day. 

At that exact moment, my son yelled out, "Mom! Look!"

Two massive, majestic hawks flew over all three of our heads. The wingspans were immense. They circled back and forth, like fighter pilots, several times, painting the sky, and our lives, with blessings personal to each of us. They continued to circle until we left each graveside.

There are no coincidences.

I inhaled deeply, my hair dancing with the breeze, and looked all around me. My blood, my bones, my very soul, all of me - on fire - with the absolute aliveness of nature and the spirits that guide me on this well worn path.

They told me to keep going and that everything will be fine. They told me I am loved and watched over. They told me not to worry so much. They told me that life, dear soul, life is good. They told me that they will help me grow into the woman I am yet to become.