The Ghost On The Bridge

Sometimes just a stroll across a bridge can ease the discomforts of the present time. I did that yesterday. I hope you enjoy taking this walk with me today.

The Ghost On The Bridge

I suppose he built the small bridge of a familiarity, perhaps a time long past that he wished to resurrect into the time of now. Whatever the reason, I found myself standing in my Aunts backyard yesterday staring at this delightful structure that the neighbor had placed to share both his yard and her own. It covered no water, simply grass grows beneath it, but for me it brought back the sounds of the bubbling of a small creek from so long ago. I took the hand of the ghost that beckoned me and moved over the familiar arch of the wood plank and landed in a place I once loved. The yard around me suddenly bloomed into floral, to my left the Cape Cod inspired small white home appeared, and all of discomfort of 2020 evaporated into the smile of old Mrs. White as she followed the path to greet me. I call her old because in the time that I knew her being just a child she was 105 and had lived four lifetimes. In truth she was likely no more than 70 yet her deep wrinkles, the testament to hours tending her gardens, created the illusion of someone much older.

My Nanny lived across the road from this fairytale place in a small cottage that smelled of sulphur ,the sink and bath drains a testament to the old well water that created the inevitable rust stains. Instead of doors she had the beaded curtains so popular in the 1970’s, and each time I walked through I would walk slowly allowing each bead to fall off me as if I were entering some magical space. I loved it here. At times we would simply stay close to the cottage for the day, and would wander outdoors. To the space in between her home and the next, a large marsh area that gave birth to what seemed a thousand baby toads. I carried a large pickle jar, lined with grass and collected my new friends. If I overfilled I would laugh as the top toads used those below as springboards on which to propel themselves back to the ground. It was not uncommon to find me filling my pockets when the jar became burdened. I always released these small creatures back to home at the end of my adventure. To the back of the cottage a collection of old vehicles, parked haphazardly with a big yellow bus the focal point in the middle. This bus became the fodder of my imagination as I would climb aboard and sit alone dreaming of where it might one day take me. In my mind I painted it with peace signs and pink flowers. In todays world this heap of old metal would be removed, too dangerous for small children, and part of me wonders what the children of today might miss in not having an old bus to build dreams on.

Then we had days where we were to visit old Mrs. White. As we would walk down the long laneway from the cottage I would get excited as the weathered fencing would appear. There was, as you might imagine, a small gate that pulled outward and to this day I can still hear the creak that opened into wonderland. I would always run first for the broken down bridge that spanned the tiny waterway beneath it. Large trees overhead gave the sense that I had walked into where the fairies lived. Old Mrs. White would be across the way, bent over whatever bloom she was tending, and would always stand up and wipe her hands on her pants as we approached, launching into a conversation about something or other that would light up her wrinkles and remind me of crinkled tin foil. On some Sundays after church she would host her infamous pancake breakfast; the highlight of my church experience. To this day I believe my Nanny only went because it was something to do, or she wanted to catch drift of whatever gossip might be swirling in the small Meadow Lilly community. She was far from the religious type, yet nearly every Sunday she would sit in the pews as old Mrs. Whites son delivered his sermon, while I would color pictures of Jesus in the Sunday School below. But pancake day with Mrs. White was always the day everyone looked forward to. She was the quintessential witch of the time and the mother of the pastor. I wasn’t so much excited over Jesus but to me she was everything I hoped to become one day. The old lady in the white house, with the weathered lean-to buildings that housed her wheelbarrow, her garden tools and a plethora of old jars of odds n sods.

I would often catch on our walk over, the tiny toads and deposit them beneath the bridge. If she ever noticed she never said a word about my filling her yard with the little amphibians.

As I stepped back over the bridge yesterday I stopped and gave a grateful wave to old Mrs. White. For the reminder that when times are more difficult than they once were, that we can find some solace in old and familiar places. The reminder that some bridges should never be burned but left to stand waiting for us to cross back into a fairy tale of old buses, baby toads and the old lady that lives across the way.

In love, in light, in laughter.

Tania

Grieving The Distance

“Sometimes I feel so- I don’t know – lonely. The kind of helpless feeling when everything you’re used to has been ripped away. Like there’s no more gravity, and I’m left to drift in outer space with no idea where I’m going….”

“Sometimes I feel so- I don’t know – lonely. The kind of helpless feeling when everything you’re used to has been ripped away. Like there’s no more gravity, and I’m left to drift in outer space with no idea where I’m going’
Like a little lost Sputnik?’
I guess so.”
― Haruki Murakami

This is a lengthy writing and I thank you for taking the time to read it. Before it continues I want you to try to find something positive from the journey we are currently on together. Stop and reflect on how this may have altered or will alter the person that you thought you were. From my own personal pages I have discovered a remarkable “lacking” on my own journey that has deeply surprised me. But that is for the next blog. For today let’s talk about the grief in our distance. 

If I can predict and assure you of one thing it is that at the end of this discomfort you will remember the pain of lonely and it will make you a better human.

I can say with complete honesty that prior to this current place we are in that I don’t really think I understood loneliness. Which means I couldn’t construct empathy for the lonely as effectively as I will following this experience.  If anything, I think I may have envied them slightly the freedom to be alone.  As a natural introvert I love being by myself…

But not this time.  This time the loneliness feels like crippling grief, an emotion I have adapted to through my work, and one that I can place aside at the end of the work day.  Yet how do I put it away in its tidy box when the entire world around me is grieving.  Grief naturally comes in waves, it affects one person one day, another the next but in the middle of it all is that energy of peace that allows us to breath until the next roll crests. But not now. Not today.  Today we are all collectively as entire populations toppling about on the lifts and the crashes of a tidal wave that doesn’t appear to be descending to something manageable enough to swim in.  If I can frame this for you from the position of fresh grief, from a place of just having lost someone you love; we are in that first few days through the mourning period where time stands still, where nothing feels natural and auto pilot has engaged to get us to the other side of it safely.  But in this moment exists one major and influential difference in how we heal our respective pain. This time we cannot reach for each other to console.  And that’s making this experience unlike any other you will have been through or may go through again.  This is grief at its profoundest state and nothing in our lives will ever feel so uncomfortable after this is over.

To those that shy from human touch I now understand how painful that might be for you, and I want to learn who made it that way for you.  The soul, the very basis of what makes us human requires the act of connection.  Physical connection. Whether it be sitting across from someone in the coffee shop, walking with a friend, or sharing a hug…it is a natural need to feel closer than six feet away.

I stood in the cemetery the other day at the end of a row of headstones.  Six feet apart and six feet down. I believe that the basis of this is more logical of course in that most caskets are approximately 6 feet in length or more. That six feet down is more appropriate so that the earth doesn’t give up what is buried below.  All set out for geographical reasons. But as I stood there staring I wondered…why doesn’t this place feel as lonely as the world feels outside of it today? Here in our resting spots we are six feet apart. Why do I feel peace here but not out there? And then I realized.  We’re not six feet apart underneath of it all. We are head to head, toe to toe. Mere inches separate us even if on the ground above it seems farther.

Here and now we are separated by six feet painted on a sidewalk. Taped onto a grocery store floor. Our soul energy that lives in our hands is trapped into latex gloves, and our reassuring smiles are hidden in masks. The only thing we can connect to now is the eyes. Eyes that are tired, are vacant and are lost in the same grief as your own.  No one in the crowd knows when the discomfort ends. No one can tell you that it’s going to be OK.  No one can pat your hand and say it all ends somewhere soon. And there is nothing lonelier than living that.  Nothing lonelier than not being able to connect in the support that only another human can provide.  We can talk about connecting energetically but when it comes right down to it…we didn’t come to live together as humans to only connect this way.  We cannot, it’s impossible to fully feel the energy of a soul when the human body is tucking it away behind individual walls created in our own unique life stories.  We came together on the human journey to feel the beauty and the love that comes with physical touch. To remember that behind every facade exists something we know already. Something we’ve shared space with in another place free of our physical restrictions.  Maybe we all forgot about that. Maybe that’s what this is all about after all.  Maybe we needed to remember that we all need to feel loved.  We just couldn’t possibly have known the experience we would have to share together, the losses that we would accumulate together or why it would happen the way it did.

I have witnessed something remarkable this past few weeks.  In the lineups of people standing  six feet apart I have seen less and less of us looking down at our phones.  Instead I am seeing the bare naked souls standing behind another with a strange and wistful stare. It didn’t take me long to figure it out.  It wasn’t boredom. It wasn’t frustration.  It was the sound of the soul speaking in the silence.

“I need to be closer. It hurts to stand alone”

I don’t have to hope that we all one day need to try to remember this feeling. I know without a doubt in my mind, in my heart or in my soul that we will never forget this feeling. And for that part I am grateful.

Because this isn’t at all about changing things. This is about remembering what we came here for.

We came here to touch each others lives.  We came here to learn love. We came here to remember how beautiful that truly is.

And a special note for all those grieving the loss of someone to this illness, I want you to know that they were surrounded and touched by immense love in your absence. That your pain in being kept from their side was reflected to all those that went before and they stood in to bring your loved one all of the love that you wished you could give in those moments.  My heart aches for the grief you have experienced in this and I send you comfort over the journey from here.

In love, in light and in the power of human connection,

Tania

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ghosts, Goats & Giggles – Making Heaven

My life takes me to some pretty interesting places. Last week it was a farm in rural PEI. As I brought loved ones through, audience members cuddled baby goats and baby rabbits on their laps. It was surreal and fascinating at the same time. Goats don’t sit still often, so to see these little creatures curled up quietly while we worked with spirit was truly quite amazing for me; in fact it confirmed for me that those gone before us have a settling effect on all living things.  How beautiful and not something I ever expected I might be involved in.

That’s my grandaughter in the picture by the way.  Her only concern that day was goats and giggles. And combined it created the perfect photo op. Goats are naturally curious and fun loving. They climb, they nudge, they head butt and they smile if you can imagine. It’s like they just intuitively know how to cheer us up.

As I watched them bounce around last week they reminded me of those that we’ve lost. Always present, peering around doorways and always trying to get our attention. Or, curled up peacefully in the arms of those seeking comfort. Not so unlike the ones we love at all.  I never thought a goat would become a metaphor for spiritual connection but there it is.

The world is a tad bit bananas of late if you hadn’t noticed. I could choose to discuss the pain of this past week, the questions of why bad things happen to good and innocent souls but I chose instead to talk about ghosts, goats and giggles. Because sometimes the weight of the world beyond that is too heavy for us to bear. It doesn’t mean that I am ignorant of the turmoil; in fact I did exact a fairly lengthy narrative on it but have decided instead that I am choosing to share some light and hoping it finds the dark corners.

When life is bananas make bread right?

We got this.

When life starts to get you down, feel the feels for the moments that you feel them and then search for a giggle. Balance is the key to existing on a planet hell bent on knocking us all off.  And it’s OK to seek the balance. It’s OK to not feel guilty for laughing, for enjoying life and for turning off the news.  It’s OK to not be informed at every waking moment.

Take moments to breath and to feel life on each inhalation. If those on the spirit side could tell us to do one thing, it’s to keep on keeping on without them. Because when we keep on, they keep on right beside us.

Those you’ve lost and love exist vicariously through how you live. We bring them to beautiful places on each laugh, on each kindess and on each breath that we take.  We create their heaven for them in each waking moment.

Why not create a heaven that includes goats n giggles?  There’s nothing wrong with that and everything right in that.

Can’t find a goat to chase around? Find a butterfly. Run with your dog. Find a splashpad and rush through the waterfall in your clothes. Dance to the elevator music. Stop and listen to the buskers and clap for them. Go to the fair. Ride something huge and terrifying and exhilerating.  Eat what you shouldn’t eat. Giggle too loud in a library and giggle harder when you are shushed.

Heaven today is heavy. It is welcoming souls who had different plans this week. It is sorting and shaping new enviornments for those that are now part of that world.  And it will need our help to make these spaces as bright and wonderous and joyful as possible.  We couldn’t help them here, but we can help them there.  So send them bubbles and sunshine and laughter to light the way forward.  Not only do we help them we help us.  We need to learn to lift the enviornment we live in. Only then can we lift the world.  And that will change it. Not today. Not tomorrow. But soon.

The goats don’t know the state of the world. They simply know that they are happy. And that somehow that happiness makes us right again.

Grieve for a moment. Pause to acknowledge those gone forward. And then give them the gift of a life well lived.

They deserve that.

Oh…by the way…if you are in the neighbourhood drop by Island Hill Farm

#cutestplaceonearth