NO ROOM FOR IT’S ROOTS Part 3

Sometimes I’ll see someone like they’re standing right in front of me, but I only see their face.  A perfect circle of golden light about the size of their face surrounded by darkness.

These people are always so happy.  And beautiful beyond belief.  Each time I think that one is the most beautiful of all, but they’re all absolutely, totally, flawlessly, perfectly beautiful.

I bought a book written by a man who was elderly when he died.  When I started to read it, suddenly there he was.  He had no age, was very handsome, laughing and happy.  I got his message clearly: “She’s reading my book!”  Now that made me laugh.  Why would he be so thrilled that an obscure person was reading his book? Was I the only person on the planet reading it?  Or was it that I needed to read it badly?  Don’t know.

When my daughter was killed the city people were using her side kitchen door which everyone used so we sat on the patio next door waiting.  I’ll skip over everything to this part – after being there a long time suddenly there was a circle of light on my shoulder.  It surrounded my daughter’s face.  Her head was lying on my shoulder and her eyes were closed.  Later someone took me home, she was still with me, in the same position.

I knew I wouldn’t sleep but I went to bed anyway.  I lay there watching her sleep.  Even though her head was close to mine I could still see her face.  Just before daylight she opened her eyes.  I watcher her eyes, saw the puzzle in them, saw her remember what had happened to her, watched as a tear flowed out of each eye.

She seemed to realize she had her head on my shoulder and sat up.  She was very close and I could see her like I always had.  I could see the struggle on her face – she knew she wasn’t here any longer, yet I was the first person she saw – from there.  I had talked to her about seeing dead people, and she figured it out.  In her eyes came the beginning of understanding, then the entire thing vanished.

She stayed with me for a few years.  Even when I couldn’t see her I could feel her presence.  I had kept some of her things and was going to have to move to a bigger place.  Each time I thought about an apartment she would place a hand on my shoulder.  I learned she was telling me that wasn’t the right apartment.  I finally found the right one.  I was writing an email to a friend of hers, telling her I wouldn’t be able to go there as I would then live in a place that my daughter had never been.  Didn’t think I could stand it.  Suddenly there she is – in my new apartment.  It was like a cut-away with a wall missing.  She was walking through the rooms.  Then she stopped in the hallway, turned and looked straight at me.  I stopped complaining and moved.  She went there with me.

Another time I was sending an email to someone about her dying and there she is in front of me, dancing around, kicking her legs, throwing her arms around, and saying, “Yeah, I’m dead!  I’m dead!”  She was so funny.

I missed her presence one night and wondered where she was.  Then I saw her.  My younger son was sitting at his computer.  She was standing behind him, her hands on the back of the chair, looking over his shoulder at his computer.  She visited all of us.

She stayed with me a few years, with my breaking heart.  When her murderer was sentenced to prison she was jubilant.  Almost immediately she showed me her back which meant she had to go.  She came over and kissed my forehead, then turned away again, then came back again and again to kiss me again  She knew when she came back here she would be someone else so this was it.  I don’t think people ‘recycle’ this fast normally, but I had already been shown that she was coming back to us.  She was laughing and happy because of that.  For me it was bittersweet.

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M’LADY

Many years ago I wrote an article that was published in a small newspaper – whose name I can’t remember – that serviced the area where I lived. Shortly before the July 4th holiday they asked folks to send in something they had written that celebrated some aspect of the holiday. I had an essay that I had written a few years earlier about the head of the Statue of Liberty so sent it off, and it got published.

Recently I came across this article and was struck by how it was written: the POV is from a division between the head and heart. I see now that that is a great cause of conflict but is a POV that is common to mankind. Notwithstanding that fact, I liked the essence of what I had to say back then so am publishing it here. There’s just one idea in the article that disturbs me: “men to match her mountains” – where are they?

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M’LADY

With a cold analytical eye I view the head of the Statue of Liberty with amusement and disdain. She has the coarse features of a man and the smudges commonly associated with little boys. The seven-pronged tiara atop her copper head is reminiscent of the helmet of a long-forgotten knight. Since her hair resembles a powdered wig dating from the Middle Ages it is a blessing that she stands so high and therefore, can’t be seen too closely.

She has a dazed, half-dozing, complacent look which belies the symbolism of radiance and defense that’s attributed to her. Overall, she leaves me wondering about the taste and dignity – and sanity – of the man who created her. I wonder, too, about the intelligence of a country that would point to her with pride.

On the other hand, when I look at her with my heart she takes on softness and grace. I see a crown of thorns wisely placed on a head whose eyes never close, whose vigilance never ends, whose hope never dies. In her face I see the height and breadth of a nation who adopted her as their own, then found that it was she who owned the nation, allowing each of us to live here through the grace of her generosity while gently reminding us that we are all representatives of these United States.

I see the faith and guidance she exudes to all who are persecuted throughout the world. The hand she extends to those who have crawled upon her shores. The freedom, opportunity, and abundance she offers to all. I see the mind, the soul, and the freedom of man being challenged by tyranny and coercion. The Lady stands as a symbol that man can not only rise to meet such a challenge, but did.

From her lofty perch she shouts that opportunity will always knock, that liberty will survive the subjugation and greed that oppose it, and she weeps for those who live under oppression.

Her stately spirit is formed by the noble men who have died to make this country great, and is constantly being renewed by those who work to maintain its greatness. After tears of blood, broken spirits, and desolation her place in the sun is secure. The radiance of her might shines across the world to help direct the way of all those who seek their place. The beam she sends forth carries tenderness, wisdom, truth – and courage, strength, justice.

Behind her calm eyes I see a fierceness that almost frightens me, stayed only by the benevolence and discernment that serve to reassure me. She looks confident that Time cannot erase what her Spirit has built. She’ll always have men to match her mountains because she’ll produce them.

In some small way she belongs to me alone – my own personal symbol of greatness and goodness. But I’m happy to share her with my fellowman, providing the viewpoint is always from the heart.

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