Author’s note: As we begin a New Year, I’m posting a journal entry that falls near the beginning of my book. In fact, this story is the 2nd journal entry of The Hope and the Knowing.
I hope you don’t mind, I decided to save a few of the eeriest, most mind-boggling entries for the time of publication ;) ;)…. Nevertheless, the following thunderstorm was a fearsome one, hitting our town on Christmas Eve just hours after Max left our world… so they say.
Hoping you enjoy this story and the other true stories posted to my blog.
With warm regards,
Mandy
Journal Entry
Wednesday 12/24/2003
Christmas Eve
Chandler, Arizona
At around two o’clock in the morning, I awoke to a deafening boom as torrents of rain whacked the windows, not unlike the bombing of London. Lightning bolts lit up our living room like Grandma’s colossal Christmas tree – all happening in Arizona, in the heat of the night, in the dead of winter – a mere five hours after Max left our world.
Too fearful to make a run for the bedroom without him, I rolled myself into our pathetic old afghan, my makeshift security blanket. Thunder bellowed like Thor himself as another bolt blew... and another… and yeow, a shocking third! Cowering in a corner of the living room, I screamed like a banshee. Maybe I’m leaving my body… no… more like my mind. Then, without warning, a blast hit our roof, or so it seemed.
Thankfully, the house hasn’t toppled… yet, I thought. It’s just those daylight detonations besieging an overwrought mind. Reaching this cosmic conclusion, I surfaced like a cave dweller ready to view the world. “What a strange phenomenon,” I said aloud, as if this meager stab at a scientific approach might bring me some relief. It didn’t. For another bolt blew and all I could do was cringe and crawl back to my corner. Fingers trembling, I managed to reclaim my ragged afghan.
Glancing up at the ceiling, I cried in silence, Oh, how I miss my Max, a man I never thought I had taken for granted.
But somehow, I did.
I must have.
Yet, no matter my sorry words, the storm showed no mercy as bongo sticks pelted the patio table. Perhaps in an act of defiance, I finally got up enough pluck to fling open the living room blinds and confront my tempest. Staring out into the mist and an all but visible backyard, at last, my sentiments softened as I remembered how much Max loved the rain. Whenever storm clouds threatened, he’d lift the garage door and call me out to catch the sights. Together, in our little haven, we’d watch nature fling its fearsome fireworks. And smell the sodden earth and the sweet, wet grass. There I felt happy, at ease in Max’s company, protected in his arms. Sometimes it seemed he called me out to see the storms just so we could connect, share those beautiful moments of closeness and camaraderie. Yet, even as he and I both became a part of my cherished past – a past so new and troubling in its very finality – the thought of our thunderstorm moments somehow had the effect of allaying all my fears.
Soon the winds blew the clouds high as if heading out to chase some distant folly. At long last, I managed to amble my way back to bed… er the sofa. Punch-drunk, I nearly sat on my tabby cat. “Oops, Tiggi, digging at that old afghan! Here, come sit next to me,” I said, pushing on a pillow, soon to become her paw partner. Rolling and tumbling around a bit more, we finally found our comfy spots and settled in for the night.
I don’t recall waking up again… till dawn.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
METAMAN
Journal Entry
Thursday 12/2/2004
Around 10:30 a.m.
While waiting in my doctor’s office, I was reading a pamphlet when, out of the blue, came the “Metaman” tune. Straight up, I perched wondering if Max’s little ditty had come blazing through to me from some parallel dimension. You see, I never knew how to whistle the tune he wrote, back when. I mean, I could hardly even remember how it went. Max was the only one who could whistle it as perfectly as I “heard” it today while sitting in the doctor’s office.
*****
So, what is “Metaman” anyway?
Well, one day about five years ago, Max and I had been lounging on the back patio, talking about the things we’d do when we retire.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea!” he said as he brushed Tiggi, lounging on the picnic table. “I’m gonna give the old folks in Sun City a super time.”
“How’s that?” I said while nosing through a Victorian magazine.
“With popsicles. Metamucil popsicles.”
“Whu?” My brain lapsed into a kind of stupor and the magazine slipped through my fingers. “What did you say?”
He put down the brush, knowing he now had my undivided attention. “Picture this,” he said, “me driving my white truck, playing a little ditty as I hand out Metamucil ice cream bars in a wide assortment of flavors and colors.”
“Okay, now I know you’re joking.”
“Nope, I’m serious as a post. Think of it, it’ll be fun and good for them. Good for me too.”
I was practically boring a hole through his shirt as he said, “So hey, here’s ‘Metaman’ – dig it!” And suddenly, impromptu, he began to whistle a cheery little tune.
As the last lilting note bounced off the table, Max sat back and said, “Well, what do ya think?”
I just shook my head and cackled, “Well, I have to admit, Metaman, you have created a catchy little number there. Carefree, light… a popsicle kind of tune.”
Thus, Metaman was born.
But was Metaman a tune or a man?
In retrospect, I think it was a little of both. Like a big kid, Max used to whistle his tune on weekends, especially whenever he could catch up with the ice cream man and get our Saturday drumsticks. Max had such a gregarious nature. I wouldn’t have put it past him to ask the popsicle man what he thought of Metaman… the tune, that is.
*****
So today, as I sit waiting for my doctor, I hear Max’s sweet little ditty for the first time since he died. Its light-hearted tenor brings such happy thoughts to mind. Tapping my toes, I turn the page of my medical pamphlet, and there at the bottom of the page I see canisters – colorful Metamucil canisters.
Max! I shriek in silence.
Oh, what am I doing? Sighing, I stash the pamphlet in my purse. Time to take a trip down the hall before the nurse calls my name. But on the way back, I am touched by the lovely voice of Karen Carpenter. Her melancholic sound is resonating through the office Musak:
I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve
I wish I were with you...*
Somehow, I manage to restrain myself until I reach the car. Then, safe inside, I let go.
-----
* “Merry Christmas Darling” from the “Christmas Portrait” album released in 1978. Written by Richard Carpenter & Frank Pooler and recorded by The Carpenters.
Thursday 12/2/2004
Around 10:30 a.m.
While waiting in my doctor’s office, I was reading a pamphlet when, out of the blue, came the “Metaman” tune. Straight up, I perched wondering if Max’s little ditty had come blazing through to me from some parallel dimension. You see, I never knew how to whistle the tune he wrote, back when. I mean, I could hardly even remember how it went. Max was the only one who could whistle it as perfectly as I “heard” it today while sitting in the doctor’s office.
*****
So, what is “Metaman” anyway?
Well, one day about five years ago, Max and I had been lounging on the back patio, talking about the things we’d do when we retire.
“Hey, I’ve got an idea!” he said as he brushed Tiggi, lounging on the picnic table. “I’m gonna give the old folks in Sun City a super time.”
“How’s that?” I said while nosing through a Victorian magazine.
“With popsicles. Metamucil popsicles.”
“Whu?” My brain lapsed into a kind of stupor and the magazine slipped through my fingers. “What did you say?”
He put down the brush, knowing he now had my undivided attention. “Picture this,” he said, “me driving my white truck, playing a little ditty as I hand out Metamucil ice cream bars in a wide assortment of flavors and colors.”
“Okay, now I know you’re joking.”
“Nope, I’m serious as a post. Think of it, it’ll be fun and good for them. Good for me too.”
I was practically boring a hole through his shirt as he said, “So hey, here’s ‘Metaman’ – dig it!” And suddenly, impromptu, he began to whistle a cheery little tune.
As the last lilting note bounced off the table, Max sat back and said, “Well, what do ya think?”
I just shook my head and cackled, “Well, I have to admit, Metaman, you have created a catchy little number there. Carefree, light… a popsicle kind of tune.”
Thus, Metaman was born.
But was Metaman a tune or a man?
In retrospect, I think it was a little of both. Like a big kid, Max used to whistle his tune on weekends, especially whenever he could catch up with the ice cream man and get our Saturday drumsticks. Max had such a gregarious nature. I wouldn’t have put it past him to ask the popsicle man what he thought of Metaman… the tune, that is.
*****
So today, as I sit waiting for my doctor, I hear Max’s sweet little ditty for the first time since he died. Its light-hearted tenor brings such happy thoughts to mind. Tapping my toes, I turn the page of my medical pamphlet, and there at the bottom of the page I see canisters – colorful Metamucil canisters.
Max! I shriek in silence.
Oh, what am I doing? Sighing, I stash the pamphlet in my purse. Time to take a trip down the hall before the nurse calls my name. But on the way back, I am touched by the lovely voice of Karen Carpenter. Her melancholic sound is resonating through the office Musak:
I've just one wish on this Christmas Eve
I wish I were with you...*
Somehow, I manage to restrain myself until I reach the car. Then, safe inside, I let go.
-----
* “Merry Christmas Darling” from the “Christmas Portrait” album released in 1978. Written by Richard Carpenter & Frank Pooler and recorded by The Carpenters.
TOADS AND MUPPETS
Journal Entry
Thursday 11/25/2004
Thanksgiving Day
Afternoon
Max’s brother used to call him Toad. It had a way of sticking. In fact, one Christmas I bought Max a little light-up toad for his jacket. He even deigned to wear it when he was in the mood. And we ordered “Mistletoads” labels for all our Christmas cards. Toads had become a delightful way of celebrating our lives.
Then, one day we were telling each other stories about some of the shenanigans we got into when we were kids. Max confessed that one time when he was no more than a tyke, he did something “just plain stupid.” Of course, he did this thing because his parents had told him never to do it.
He had been playing a game of, “I wonder what would happen if….” and, as if to challenge the very laws of nature, he stuck his tongue up against an icy pole. Well, needless to say, his tongue stuck to it. That must have been spine-chilling enough. But, to make matters worse, the boy soon realized that no one was around to help him “unstick” it.
What a quandary for such a small child. What could he possibly do?
Well, before long, Max figured out that whenever he exhaled, the warmth of his breath melted some of the ice. And in minutes (seeming like hours) he was finally able to retract his tongue without undue suffering… except perhaps for the indignity of it all when he finally told his parents about the ordeal.
*****
So today, I’m sipping a mocha coffee, my Thanksgiving dessert, while watching a Muppet movie. And what, or who, should appear on screen? Why, it’s a tiny toad. But the poor little fellow is crying for Kermit’s assistance. Due to toady’s miniscule size, I am barely able to make him out. It seems he is saying something like this: “Ermie, elp ee! Elp ee, ermie!” He moans but to no avail. Then, as the camera rolls in, I finally catch a glimpse of the toad in full view.
But alas, the little guy’s tongue is stuck to something.
No, it can’t be.
Yes, it is.
A pole, an icy pole.
I’m “losing it,” coffee backfiring through my nostrils, splattering all over my jeans. I grab a heap of napkins from the table and shout, “Wow!”
“It’s like déjà vu,” I cackle, catching dribs and drabs of coffee straight away.
Then, in a flash, comes a high-spirited sound… like from where, another dimension?
Regardless, the words are clear and strong: Luv, it’s like déjà went! he cries.
Thursday 11/25/2004
Thanksgiving Day
Afternoon
Max’s brother used to call him Toad. It had a way of sticking. In fact, one Christmas I bought Max a little light-up toad for his jacket. He even deigned to wear it when he was in the mood. And we ordered “Mistletoads” labels for all our Christmas cards. Toads had become a delightful way of celebrating our lives.
Then, one day we were telling each other stories about some of the shenanigans we got into when we were kids. Max confessed that one time when he was no more than a tyke, he did something “just plain stupid.” Of course, he did this thing because his parents had told him never to do it.
He had been playing a game of, “I wonder what would happen if….” and, as if to challenge the very laws of nature, he stuck his tongue up against an icy pole. Well, needless to say, his tongue stuck to it. That must have been spine-chilling enough. But, to make matters worse, the boy soon realized that no one was around to help him “unstick” it.
What a quandary for such a small child. What could he possibly do?
Well, before long, Max figured out that whenever he exhaled, the warmth of his breath melted some of the ice. And in minutes (seeming like hours) he was finally able to retract his tongue without undue suffering… except perhaps for the indignity of it all when he finally told his parents about the ordeal.
*****
So today, I’m sipping a mocha coffee, my Thanksgiving dessert, while watching a Muppet movie. And what, or who, should appear on screen? Why, it’s a tiny toad. But the poor little fellow is crying for Kermit’s assistance. Due to toady’s miniscule size, I am barely able to make him out. It seems he is saying something like this: “Ermie, elp ee! Elp ee, ermie!” He moans but to no avail. Then, as the camera rolls in, I finally catch a glimpse of the toad in full view.
But alas, the little guy’s tongue is stuck to something.
No, it can’t be.
Yes, it is.
A pole, an icy pole.
I’m “losing it,” coffee backfiring through my nostrils, splattering all over my jeans. I grab a heap of napkins from the table and shout, “Wow!”
“It’s like déjà vu,” I cackle, catching dribs and drabs of coffee straight away.
Then, in a flash, comes a high-spirited sound… like from where, another dimension?
Regardless, the words are clear and strong: Luv, it’s like déjà went! he cries.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
What is The Hope and the Knowing?
The Hope and the Knowing is an upcoming book written by Mandy Berlin. Her journal manuscript contains a chronological account of paranormal and supernatural happenings which began just hours after the death of Max Blau, the author’s husband. Along with the mind-blowing and sometimes miraculous events witnessed by the author, she details a number of bizarre and inexplicable occurrences reported to her by mutual friends and loved ones dear to Max. Ms. Berlin, a former agnostic and research scientist, has kept a fastidious and comprehensive account of episodic data. She refers to a phenomenon as an event, beginning with those that happened the night of Max’s departure, December 23, 2003, and ending with the incredible event that occurred on the first anniversary of his death.
Through research and review conducted after the occurrences of these uncanny activities, Ms. Berlin learned that the phenomena she and her cohorts observed, heard or perceived tended to cluster qualitatively into a number of classes. These categories include but are not limited to: the physical movement of objects in and around rooms; numinous dreams; apparitions and other spirit encounters; synchronicities; automatic writing; the movement of rare coins; object alteration; electrical demonstrations and electrical breakdowns; third eye phenomena; spirit communications received through clairvoyance, clairaudience and clairsentience; astral travel; guide communications; validation of an event through event repetition; and the discovery of validating written records after the occurrence of the significant event. The writer examines these and other topics in the sections that follow key events. These sections, labeled Post Scripts, are reserved for post-event research and review where she offers explanations and an interpretation of the event in question.
Although the time frame of Ms. Berlin’s book is December of 2003 through 2004, the paranormal, supernatural and synchronistic happenings have gone far beyond the boundaries of one journal year. Surprisingly, the rate of occurrence increased in 2005 and 2006, especially with respect to synchronistic activities. She attributes this fact, in part, to an increased focus on event recording over time. The author believes she lost track of some of the paranormal happenings just after her husband died, because she either misplaced her notes or neglected to record them in the face of such awesome activity. Although Mandy’s incredible encounters with Max have not been as frequent as in the early years, they do happen from time to time, notably on special occasions. For this reason, she has staunchly continued to document rare and unusual events, even into the year 2010.
Author’s note: To protect my friends, loved ones and colleagues, I have changed their names in my forthcoming journal. However, I assure you that no character nor story in this book is fictitious. Each and every incident documented in The Hope and the Knowing is true to the best of my ability to capture and record the quintessence of a phenomenological event.
Through research and review conducted after the occurrences of these uncanny activities, Ms. Berlin learned that the phenomena she and her cohorts observed, heard or perceived tended to cluster qualitatively into a number of classes. These categories include but are not limited to: the physical movement of objects in and around rooms; numinous dreams; apparitions and other spirit encounters; synchronicities; automatic writing; the movement of rare coins; object alteration; electrical demonstrations and electrical breakdowns; third eye phenomena; spirit communications received through clairvoyance, clairaudience and clairsentience; astral travel; guide communications; validation of an event through event repetition; and the discovery of validating written records after the occurrence of the significant event. The writer examines these and other topics in the sections that follow key events. These sections, labeled Post Scripts, are reserved for post-event research and review where she offers explanations and an interpretation of the event in question.
Although the time frame of Ms. Berlin’s book is December of 2003 through 2004, the paranormal, supernatural and synchronistic happenings have gone far beyond the boundaries of one journal year. Surprisingly, the rate of occurrence increased in 2005 and 2006, especially with respect to synchronistic activities. She attributes this fact, in part, to an increased focus on event recording over time. The author believes she lost track of some of the paranormal happenings just after her husband died, because she either misplaced her notes or neglected to record them in the face of such awesome activity. Although Mandy’s incredible encounters with Max have not been as frequent as in the early years, they do happen from time to time, notably on special occasions. For this reason, she has staunchly continued to document rare and unusual events, even into the year 2010.
Author’s note: To protect my friends, loved ones and colleagues, I have changed their names in my forthcoming journal. However, I assure you that no character nor story in this book is fictitious. Each and every incident documented in The Hope and the Knowing is true to the best of my ability to capture and record the quintessence of a phenomenological event.
Dumb Animals?
I’m taking a break from my book postings to tell you a story about something that happened last week:
Wednesday 11/24/10
Around 2:00 p.m.
Some say cats are just dumb animals, but I’m here to tell you that 'ain’t' the case.
The day before Thanksgiving, I’m in the mood to meditate but I’m also feeling tired, what with all the rushing around before the holiday. Then, around two o’clock, I can’t seem to stop yawning and start to think it would be great to break all protocol and meditate lying down. (Maybe not a good idea to try this at home. Otherwise you might miss your meditation altogether.)
Tiggi (my cat pictured at bottom of blog) is sunning herself on the love seat as I pull up some stones I bought for meditating. Remember, stones are derived from the energy of the earth. Just as uranium emits powerful frequencies of radiation, stones emit varying energy frequencies. Today my objective is to clear the chakras or energy points of the body, especially those in my throat (thyroid gland) and the frontal lobe (third eye area; seat of the soul). For those who don’t go in for that kind of stuff, simply think of the breathing process involved in meditation and the intense focus on specific areas of the body. The mental concentration along with deep-breathing tend to have a stimulating effect on the thyroid gland while clearing the brain/mind to receive more information.
So I lie down on the couch and put a rose quartz pyramid stone on my forehead, centered just above my eyebrows. I’m sure you can imagine how funny that must look to an outside observer. Nevermind… getting into it, I center a polished green malachite at the base of my neck. Malachite is a lucky stone that aids in sleep, as I am soon to find out. I had temporarily misplaced my all-purpose quartz stone, so I decide to use malachite because of its intense energy properties. Used properly, malachite guards against radiation of all kinds, making it appropriate for a low-functioning thyroid.
Soon I begin the deep breathing process and focus on the malachite and my throat. Feeling good… and in a little while… my alpha brain wave state streams into delta and I drift into a twilight sleep. Sorry to say, I never even had a chance to focus on my forehead or the pink pyramid, but you see, my state of bliss is already complete. So what do I care?
Then, from nowhere, I hear a bleating sound like a goat. Once more, I’m wide awake. But the stones are rearranged all cockeyed and I don’t want them to fall. So I fiddle around with them until they’re dead center again. Lying there, I’m thinking, “Did that sound really come from a cat?”
In next to no time, I sense the warmth of a small body as Tiggi’s head converges on the target; wriggling nose about two inches from my face. I glance slightly to my right to find her eyes moving back and forth from the pointy pyramid… to the malachite stone… and back to the pink quartz again. Soon her green eyes grow nearly as large as the verdant malachite as she releases the eeriest vilification I’ve ever heard coming from the bowels of a cat:
“What the heck are you doing, you strange person?!” She hisses. (Well, that's to put it mildly.)
The stones fall to the floor because I’m no longer able to contain my belly laugh. “Tigg, it’s alright!” I hoot and pick her up and give her a thorough brushing. “See, mommy’s just having a little fun!”
Now Sweet Stripes is purring in my lap, and life is fine once more.
Wednesday 11/24/10
Around 2:00 p.m.
Some say cats are just dumb animals, but I’m here to tell you that 'ain’t' the case.
The day before Thanksgiving, I’m in the mood to meditate but I’m also feeling tired, what with all the rushing around before the holiday. Then, around two o’clock, I can’t seem to stop yawning and start to think it would be great to break all protocol and meditate lying down. (Maybe not a good idea to try this at home. Otherwise you might miss your meditation altogether.)
Tiggi (my cat pictured at bottom of blog) is sunning herself on the love seat as I pull up some stones I bought for meditating. Remember, stones are derived from the energy of the earth. Just as uranium emits powerful frequencies of radiation, stones emit varying energy frequencies. Today my objective is to clear the chakras or energy points of the body, especially those in my throat (thyroid gland) and the frontal lobe (third eye area; seat of the soul). For those who don’t go in for that kind of stuff, simply think of the breathing process involved in meditation and the intense focus on specific areas of the body. The mental concentration along with deep-breathing tend to have a stimulating effect on the thyroid gland while clearing the brain/mind to receive more information.
So I lie down on the couch and put a rose quartz pyramid stone on my forehead, centered just above my eyebrows. I’m sure you can imagine how funny that must look to an outside observer. Nevermind… getting into it, I center a polished green malachite at the base of my neck. Malachite is a lucky stone that aids in sleep, as I am soon to find out. I had temporarily misplaced my all-purpose quartz stone, so I decide to use malachite because of its intense energy properties. Used properly, malachite guards against radiation of all kinds, making it appropriate for a low-functioning thyroid.
Soon I begin the deep breathing process and focus on the malachite and my throat. Feeling good… and in a little while… my alpha brain wave state streams into delta and I drift into a twilight sleep. Sorry to say, I never even had a chance to focus on my forehead or the pink pyramid, but you see, my state of bliss is already complete. So what do I care?
Then, from nowhere, I hear a bleating sound like a goat. Once more, I’m wide awake. But the stones are rearranged all cockeyed and I don’t want them to fall. So I fiddle around with them until they’re dead center again. Lying there, I’m thinking, “Did that sound really come from a cat?”
In next to no time, I sense the warmth of a small body as Tiggi’s head converges on the target; wriggling nose about two inches from my face. I glance slightly to my right to find her eyes moving back and forth from the pointy pyramid… to the malachite stone… and back to the pink quartz again. Soon her green eyes grow nearly as large as the verdant malachite as she releases the eeriest vilification I’ve ever heard coming from the bowels of a cat:
“What the heck are you doing, you strange person?!” She hisses. (Well, that's to put it mildly.)
The stones fall to the floor because I’m no longer able to contain my belly laugh. “Tigg, it’s alright!” I hoot and pick her up and give her a thorough brushing. “See, mommy’s just having a little fun!”
Now Sweet Stripes is purring in my lap, and life is fine once more.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
INCESSANT MURMUR SURROUNDS MY BED
Journal Entry
Sunday 11/21/2004
At 6:45 a.m.
In a twilight sleep, I’m hugging a lump of something. Snoozing and waking, I’m inclined to think it’s Max. “I’m sorry I lost you,” I say as tears stream down my cheeks and onto fluffy pillows. A cheery hum fills the room, and in a little while, I come to the cosmic conclusion that the chirp is emanating from an animal of a different sort. Lifting my head nary an inch, I find myself sniffing the shiny mane of a black cat.
“Oh Allie!” I say, snorting and wiping fine hair from my mouth. As if put out, she lets out a high-pitched cry. So I stroke her ear and say, “There there, sweetie, it’s alright.” In a little while, she hangs loose and I pull her close to me. Soon we’re off and away once more.
But not for long. Now something else is trying hard to disrupt that dreamy state of consciousness I so rightly deserve. I groan, realizing I won’t get that extra Sunday snooze after all; for an incessant murmur seems to be surrounding my bed like a high-pitched electromagnetic charge.
Where is this infernal noise coming from? I put my ear up to my little one’s head and she gives me a sideways glance, like hey dude, what’s happening? Her purring has stopped yet the maddening drone persists. I close my eyes.
Before long, I’m able to make out the familiar timbre of it all. Max. And in a flash, an echo as his thoughts stream to the forefront of my brain:
You haven’t lost anything, and you have gained so much more:
in love and compassion, in insight into What Is; into All That Is!
*****
I sigh and breathe into fluffy pillows and relish my dear one’s sentiments for as long as I can without losing them. Then I turn to the end table where I (now) keep pad and pen. Quickly, I scribble his words down on paper for posterity, and maybe with a little luck, for all time.
Sunday 11/21/2004
At 6:45 a.m.
In a twilight sleep, I’m hugging a lump of something. Snoozing and waking, I’m inclined to think it’s Max. “I’m sorry I lost you,” I say as tears stream down my cheeks and onto fluffy pillows. A cheery hum fills the room, and in a little while, I come to the cosmic conclusion that the chirp is emanating from an animal of a different sort. Lifting my head nary an inch, I find myself sniffing the shiny mane of a black cat.
“Oh Allie!” I say, snorting and wiping fine hair from my mouth. As if put out, she lets out a high-pitched cry. So I stroke her ear and say, “There there, sweetie, it’s alright.” In a little while, she hangs loose and I pull her close to me. Soon we’re off and away once more.
But not for long. Now something else is trying hard to disrupt that dreamy state of consciousness I so rightly deserve. I groan, realizing I won’t get that extra Sunday snooze after all; for an incessant murmur seems to be surrounding my bed like a high-pitched electromagnetic charge.
Where is this infernal noise coming from? I put my ear up to my little one’s head and she gives me a sideways glance, like hey dude, what’s happening? Her purring has stopped yet the maddening drone persists. I close my eyes.
Before long, I’m able to make out the familiar timbre of it all. Max. And in a flash, an echo as his thoughts stream to the forefront of my brain:
You haven’t lost anything, and you have gained so much more:
in love and compassion, in insight into What Is; into All That Is!
*****
I sigh and breathe into fluffy pillows and relish my dear one’s sentiments for as long as I can without losing them. Then I turn to the end table where I (now) keep pad and pen. Quickly, I scribble his words down on paper for posterity, and maybe with a little luck, for all time.
Monday, November 15, 2010
VIVID DREAM OF MAX
Journal Entry
Friday 10/22/2004
Half Moon
Around 6:00 a.m.
I had another amazing dream. Well, not just a dream, more like a vision. In this vivid trance, I saw Max dressed in grey as he broke through the front door of our home. Frantically, he called out my name, “Mandy!”
“Mandy, where are you? I can’t see you!”
Awestruck by his wild appearance, I tried to speak or at least say his name. Yet, suddenly, I seemed to have lost my faculties.
At this point, Max became frenetic, pacing back and forth… roaring from the rafters like Panthera onca, “Mandy!”
“Where did you go? I need you!”
Though I wanted to speak, I was mute in the dream. Yet, I wanted and so needed to be there for him. And with that thought, came a sudden ability to scream, “Max, I’m here!”
“Over here!” I cried, running toward him. Our eyes met, like we had achieved some kind of lock-on delirium. He made a lunge for my body and raised me up to his corporeal being. In the dream, he seemed real, like a spirit who had a living, breathing body.
There, at the landing, we held each other in desperation. “Mandy, I’m so sorry,” Max said sadly. “I won’t leave you again.”
“I promise.”
“Max,” I sighed, relieved just to hold him again – and to hear his sweet, soulful sound. Yet, perhaps because I was afraid he might evaporate into thin air, I would not, could not, loosen the grip I had on his arm. He had left me before – in death, that is – and I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
Standing still, it seemed I could read his thoughts and sense his every emotion. As I held him close, I let the water from my eyes bathe his aching heart and soothe his restless soul. Before long, I understood, all these months he had been just as weary as I. Nevertheless, I wasn’t worried, because I knew that together we would find peace and wholeness again, even in a dream….
Hand in hand, like children we drifted out to a captivating Land of cascades, sea green gardens and trickling waterways where every enchanting wish comes true. A breathtaking sense of delight washed over my body, mind and spirit. Falling further and further into a state I can only describe as freedom and joy, at last, I loosened the vice grip I had on my darling’s hand. I certainly didn’t need to hold him so tight… for my consciousness, my entire being began to merge with his as we moved into a state of harmony… into a synchronous state of divinity… a place of endless bliss where we carry on together though physically apart.
*****
What a downer waking up can be. It is at first, but ultimately I know it doesn’t matter.
All that matters is the vision… more real than life itself.
Friday 10/22/2004
Half Moon
Around 6:00 a.m.
I had another amazing dream. Well, not just a dream, more like a vision. In this vivid trance, I saw Max dressed in grey as he broke through the front door of our home. Frantically, he called out my name, “Mandy!”
“Mandy, where are you? I can’t see you!”
Awestruck by his wild appearance, I tried to speak or at least say his name. Yet, suddenly, I seemed to have lost my faculties.
At this point, Max became frenetic, pacing back and forth… roaring from the rafters like Panthera onca, “Mandy!”
“Where did you go? I need you!”
Though I wanted to speak, I was mute in the dream. Yet, I wanted and so needed to be there for him. And with that thought, came a sudden ability to scream, “Max, I’m here!”
“Over here!” I cried, running toward him. Our eyes met, like we had achieved some kind of lock-on delirium. He made a lunge for my body and raised me up to his corporeal being. In the dream, he seemed real, like a spirit who had a living, breathing body.
There, at the landing, we held each other in desperation. “Mandy, I’m so sorry,” Max said sadly. “I won’t leave you again.”
“I promise.”
“Max,” I sighed, relieved just to hold him again – and to hear his sweet, soulful sound. Yet, perhaps because I was afraid he might evaporate into thin air, I would not, could not, loosen the grip I had on his arm. He had left me before – in death, that is – and I wasn’t about to let that happen again.
Standing still, it seemed I could read his thoughts and sense his every emotion. As I held him close, I let the water from my eyes bathe his aching heart and soothe his restless soul. Before long, I understood, all these months he had been just as weary as I. Nevertheless, I wasn’t worried, because I knew that together we would find peace and wholeness again, even in a dream….
Hand in hand, like children we drifted out to a captivating Land of cascades, sea green gardens and trickling waterways where every enchanting wish comes true. A breathtaking sense of delight washed over my body, mind and spirit. Falling further and further into a state I can only describe as freedom and joy, at last, I loosened the vice grip I had on my darling’s hand. I certainly didn’t need to hold him so tight… for my consciousness, my entire being began to merge with his as we moved into a state of harmony… into a synchronous state of divinity… a place of endless bliss where we carry on together though physically apart.
*****
What a downer waking up can be. It is at first, but ultimately I know it doesn’t matter.
All that matters is the vision… more real than life itself.
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