Cat Reincarnation

Some people believe that animals are part of the reincarnation chain. I wonder as I look at Mz Lizzie curled up on the bed beside my PC. Is she exhausted from the life she led before or is she re-energizing for the next life ahead of her? She is perfectly content to lay there most of the day, just waking up to see what particle of food or drink I’m bringing in to nibble on while I read online. She’ll pounce onto the worktable next to me, sniff my cup, then turn her nose up, content that it isn’t something she will lower herself to taste, then turn around and leap back onto the bed, find a fresh spot and settle in again.

She has awakened me in the middle of the night to communicate something to me. I don’t always understand what she is telling me, but most often I do. This is amazing to me even after going through this for the last eight years. At times, she will also very gently pat me on the shoulder with her paw while I’m deep in concentration writing and lost in a past century. The first time she did that I nearly jumped out of my skin. Writing can be intense.

If life goes as I expect it to go, we should be coming to an end about the same time. So I’ve decided that I’m going to take her with me when I go. Maybe in out next lifetime I can be the cat and she can pamper me.

Rodin & Camille & Reincarnation

Knowing the sculptor Rodin through his art impressed me for many years. I went to the Rodin museum in Philadelphia studying his pieces. I devoured books with his art work. Small reproductions of The Kiss and The Thinker complimented my garden and my bookcase. As an artist, he fascinated me. Then one day I saw the movie Camille Claudel and noted the way their relationship abused and destroyed her. My respect for him and his art dissolved. No, the man and his art cannot be separated.

I sought information, reading various viewpoints about this passionate couple. But I only saw Rodin devouring the talent from Camille, draining her of her natural right, to better his own self. This obsession between them screams ‘why’ to both of them.  Why did they remain in such a personal power struggle? Obviously he gained from it. She couldn’t sever herself from him even knowing that she was dying because of it. 

It makes me wonder if relationships such as these are a result of a former life. It is often said that when we reincarnate, we meet the same people again but in a different kinship. What life could they have possibly led before to create such beautiful work but such a personal disaster in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Kenny's Watch

It was a year later when I held his still-ticking watch in my hand. Still ticking. He was dead, gone for a year and his watch was still ticking. I didn't know whether to lash out in anger or sit down and sob. My precious first born son, my baby, was dead before he reached twenty-five years of age, in a car accident.

His car was demolished, He was dead without a scratch on him I'm told. But his watch was still ticking. It too, didn't have a scratch but the band was broken.

I put his watch away, still ticking, to look at on another day.

Twenty-six years later I read in a book where someone picked up the watch of their loved one who had died an hour ago. She was stunned. In reading this sentence, I broke down and cried as if I had never cried before. That moment was still buried inside me. Deep inside me. I don’t think of him until a reason comes to be that makes me think of him. Yet I read a sentence in a book and break down and cry. Does it ever truly heal? Are we ever reconciled with the tragedies in our lives?

Even understanding about life-after-life, and accepting it gladly, it’s the loss of the physical that lingers and wounds.

Contentment and Life-After-Life

Many times have I wondered how a person could be content when they chose to live in a small world. Some that I’ve known never lived anywhere else that the neighborhood where they grew up. One man I talked with boasted of never having been outside his state. He said he didn’t need to see anywhere else, all he needed was right in his own state. Another man in particular told me proudly that he never left Bordentown, New Jersey except for his stint in the Army during World War II. He was stationed in nearby Fort Dix. He drove a big Cadillac but never outside the tiny area where he found happiness or at least contentment. As far as I know he never married, either. That may have had something to do with his being able to follow his desires and not weave someone else’s into his own.

My youth quietly judged these people to be of less intelligence than me. In my mind they must be. Not to have the urge to see other parts of the world must be indicative of a lesser mind. As time and experience led me on a path to compassion and understanding, I came to realize that their contentment was just of a different nature than mine. If anything, these people I’d talked to already attained their area of satisfaction whereas I was still searching for mine.

Adding to these deductions is my study into life-after-life. I’ve come to believe that people with shortened lives, as in dying young, and those happy with their limited (as I saw it) lives are not deficient at all. They have worked out their karma from a previous life. In the case of shortened lives I firmly believe they were here to bless us with their presence, to give us something needed, even if it is the experience of loss. Love and tenderness comes out of the pain of sorrow, if nurtured.

The Lively Ghosts of Ireland

I recently bought The Lively Ghosts of Ireland by Hans Holzer, published in 1967. My copy was given as a Christmas gift in 1996 to Barbara from Jan & Hal.  It’s inscribed on the free front endpaper. Here it is 2012 and I’m buying one of his earlier books that I somehow missed. But then it was old when it was gifted to Barbara.  I’ve collected some of his books but haven’t read even half of all he’s written.

Holzer is basically the only parapsychologist that I’ve continued to read since I started in the mid 60s after I experienced my first premonition. I was driving a car on Kuser Road near the old clay pits where I learned to swim as a kid. (My mother's friend Kip threw me in the deep water and said "swim.") Suddenly I saw a boy on a bicycle run in front of my car. I just stopped. Seconds later a boy came flying down a path out of the woods and bang! Right into the side of my car. I just sat there stunned. He got up, picked up his bike and took off in a flash. I think he was afraid I would get out of the car and holler at him or maybe tell his parents. But I was frozen in place. I took a deep breath and drove away very slowly.

It was soon after that I became aware of Hans Holzer and began by reading his first book, Ghost Hunter published in 1963. I continue off and on because I like his style. He presents his experiences in a neat, clean way. No dramatics, interesting but not pompous or theatrical. And he takes witnesses and a psychic along with him on his expeditions. He tells of his experience then delves into the history of the place. Who could ask for anything more?

End of the World

As I sat waiting at the Duke Eye Center for my turn for tests, etc. an 87-year-old man came in and sat next to me. His wife, a former nurse was also here for her checkup. He asked each one of us within the area where we were from and where we lived now. He obviously wanted to talk. As soon as someone answered he would have comments, personal ones to make about that place.

A bit later I happened to again sit near him in the ‘waiting for an injection’ area. The man seated on the other side of him was reading a book about angels. I was reading Beautiful Madness by James Dodson about gardening. The oldtimer apparently had not had enough of talking. This time he talked about his brother’s overnight cure of cancer by his own (the 87 year old) handling of crystals. Then he went on to tell us that a wealthy man hired 12 time travelers to find out when the world was going to end and how.

According to him, it will be this December when a meteor comes between the sun and the earth. I wanted to tell him that my card reader said I will be here until I’m at least 85 which will be into 2025. I had a few other comments to make to him but why take away his joy in delivering such news. 

I wondered how long he expected to live without the meteor prediction. Also where was he during the 'big crash of 2000' when the computer predictions were disastrous. Where do these people come from? And why do they gravitate to the seat next to me?

American Bandstand

Can’t you just hear that theme song as soon as you hear the name American Bandstand? Bandstand. Back in ’54 two years before Dick Clark entered the scene, the show was hosted by a big guy, Bob Horn. That’s when three girlfriends and I played hookey from 8^th grade and went to Philadelphia, experiencing my first time seeing ‘trains’ running overhead of the streets making a loud rumble and dark shadows on the roadways. I was appalled at the dirty, filthy streets and a little alarmed at the exterior of the TV studio. It looked like a an old broken down-factory without windows.

But my mother was just as excited as I was, dressing up to be on television! I’d be dancing with the stars of the day-teenagers just like me. Without hesitation of the consequences of being caught absent from school without proper permission; principals in those days were definitely NOT ‘hip’ and would NEVER allow us to go. We were a merry group. The mother of one of the girls was familiar with the City.

Our first surprise was the small area that looked so big on the screen at home. It always looked so crowded with lots of kids. It was a crush but there weren’t so many kids in reality. Most of those were regulars and danced with the regulars. I did get to dance twice, with a tall, 6 ft. guy. A full foot taller than me. I remember stretching my arms up to reach him. So I did get on TV filling Mom with glee.

The following Monday when we got back to school, the secretary called us in. Uh-oh. After she closed the doors, she piped up, smiling. “Hey, I saw you all on Bandstand last Friday! You looked great!” She was beaming and happy for us adventurous kids. The principal, of course never would watch that show so we were safe with our daring.

Writing Workshop

Getting back to leading a “Writing Your Memoir” workshop at the library reminded me how much enjoyment comes from writing with others. Starting with lists of places we’ve lived, choosing one and writing about it brought back memories long buried. Good memories.

Our writing began with describing the surrounding exterior area that a stranger would see when approaching our home. Sight, sound and smell were incorporated into the physical. After listening to the writing about a dorm, and two very different houses that were so easy to picture from the descriptions, we moved inside to a particular room.

Out of seven of us, at least three of us chose the kitchen and each one was very different from the other but as each of the writers read from their pages, I could feel the warmth and deep feelings come through their words.  It was a good session.

Invitation to Dine & Laugh & Enjoy

For all my North Carolina friends, and those that aren’t, it’s time to invite you to spend an hour with Terri Grady, Linda Paschall and me in the Community Room at the WCMLibrary on So. Front St. on Wednesday 28 March from 1:00 pm to 2:00 pm.

We will be talking about history and food, family and food, stories of food and some of those wonderful memories that certain foods bring back to us. What is your favorite Thanksgiving Day memory from the table? I know you have one. We all do; some good, some funny, some still stinging with the pain of it. We’ll be offering our Warrenton Woman’s Club fund-raising project, the delightful Recipes & Remembrances Cookbook for $15 and will have a table laden with samples for you to taste from some of the recipes in the cookbook. Come out and have lunch on us. A little taste of this …..a little taste of that…… while you listen to our tales of food and life and have fun. Ummm. Dips, Hors d'oeuvres. Casseroles, Cheesecake, Lemon Bars, & more.

Heart Valve Replaced with No Pain

I heard Angelo’s words in my head and carried his triple by-pass experience, from back in the late 80s or early 90s (forgive me on dates) with me the entire time that I was recuperating. Of course I watched him struggling to heal but I had no idea what he was really feeling or suffering. It’s not like he would ever complain about something like that. He saved his complaints for more mundane things. Now I have an idea.

But I didn’t have the pain I think he had. NO PAIN. I’m still sore inside but of course. I had a rather blaze’ attitude about the whole thing until the anesthesiologist explained what he was going to do to me. I got a bit serious then, but I had seen myself healing in my mind’s eye so I couldn’t get too intense about it regardless of the great respect I have for these knowledgeable and skillful people who held my life in their hands, literally.

In between anesthesia (as I understand it and I’m medically blank) he gave me what he called a ‘giggle gas’ (again I’m remembering with a fuzzy mind) this is where the patient tends to rattle on about whatever.

 “Oh, my God! What did I talk about?” I asked with great anticipation. He smiled and said “Pickle Ball. And furthermore everyone in the OR talked about it for two hours because they had no clue just what it is.”

I also remember telling my pacing, anxious son just before the surgery not to worry because I’d had no visitors. Both my mother and brother had visitors i.e. loved ones who passed away, come to them for a period of time before they, too passed away. It must be a family tradition.

Watching a Man Who Loves His Work

It’s great to watch a man who loves his work. It shines out of him without his even being aware of it. At least it seems that way to me. That’s how I felt as I watched Dr. Donald Glower come into my Duke U. hospital room each morning, once as early as 5 a.m. (like he couldn’t bear to wait for another moment to pass) to check his work, as in the sutures, etc. resulting from his replacing a deteriorating heart valve recently. And I have a certificate to prove that a cow gave his life to save mine. Noble animal.

The entire week was a joyful experience for me. It wasn’t only the doctors who impressed me it was the entire 3300 patient care floor, RNs, those who take your blood, wheeled me to x-ray each day, cleaned my room, and the receptionist at the point of the floor, right across from my room.  A camaraderie blanketed the floor.

The floor is laid out in a triangle, which works very well; the receptionist point, as I thought of it, was certainly an oasis of cheer at the entry position. Many patients were in pain, some struggling with other problems added to their heart repairs but responded to any bit of sunshine sent their way. It’s encouraging. There were always bantering, merriment and joking going on in this area and I loved lying in my bed listening to the flow of playfulness going on. I felt it very important and encouragement in the middle of struggling back to normalcy.

I talked and listened to everyone. How did they choose the medical field, how long did they work here, who were they, what plans did they have for that night. I do admit to one noticeable difference. They all looked like they should be in high school!

A Dead Body For The Queen

Sounds like the title for a good mystery novel but in fact a dead body has been found in the garden on the Estate of Sandringham, the Norfolk retreat of Queen Elizabeth in England. The Queen and her entourage are there enjoying the season. At least they were until now.

So Agatha Christie, where are you? We need your expertise on the case! Morse is gone. Inspector Lewis and Detective Sergeant Hathaway won’t leave Oxford. The DCI Barnabys, both past and present along with DC Ben Jones are small village coppers. Mrs. Bradley can’t be found. Hercule Poirot is in Belgium and Zen is in Italy. Father Brown is in church.

Lord Peter Wimsey, Inspector Alleyn, or Inspector Lynley, the 8^th Earl of Asherton and his brilliant partner Barbara Havers could be called. They would fit right in. Wait a minute! Stop the clock, bring out the cell phones and call Rosemary and Thyme……they could solve the crime, catch the killer and then fix any damage done to the garden. Then all Brits can sleep safe in their beds again, even the Queen.