Seven years and 364 days ago, my husband said “I love you, baby,” for the last time. Another twenty four hours and I heard the last beat of his heart. With my head on his chest that last morning, I could hear the sound of a living Mike. There, there, there.
And then not there.
The silence after was so immense, so final and devastating, I can still feel it in my bones.
Six years later, the last breath of a beloved friend taught me that there really is no there, no separation. It’s all just Here. And the ensuing years have cemented this knowledge into a life changing certainty.
We don’t die. We don’t leave. We just change. And yes, for those left behind who don’t yet know, it is an agony. I admit that, and yet I do know (KNOW!!!) that we continue, and it helps. A lot. Especially combined with that other gentle healer, time.
Knowing doesn’t entirely do away with longing and it doesn’t instantly heal a broken heart. Grief waves still lap the shore. We want our people. We want love in the flesh.
This last week leading up to the anniversary of Mike’s departure, I’m missing him pretty intensely though I can feel his presence much of the time. He’s Here — cap H Here — meaning all there is, the only place any us ever are, alive or “dead.” These meat suits are such effective insulators that we think we’re alone when we are actually immersed in a soup of loved ones, guides, and angels. The a-loneliness can be extreme.
Mike died after a long illness which left him severely debilitated. I watched Brenda suffocate as her lungs filled with fluid. And yet Mike has told me he was right behind me, hands on my shoulders, as I held him. And when Brenda took that last breath, she was instantly up and out, insisting to Suzanne “I’m right there with them” even as I told those gathered she was gone.
Both come through with great joy. Great joy. My friend Grace, who died the day of Brenda’s funeral (and didn’t really buy much of this stuff), is joyous and free. My brother in law, an atheist who laughed at the suggestion of an afterlife, turns up in mediumship development circle now and then. Another brother-in-law, a deeply despairing atheist who died by suicide, comes through with Mike, laughing and happy. My precious father, who left three months after my husband, has been coming through lately with the most astonishing messages and, just this morning, two katydids, insects being his calling card (and katydids particularly meaningful).
What if we quit fighting the truth that dead is not really dead? What if we embraced the (researched, proven) fact that consciousness survives? What if we abandoned all of the half truths and confusing dogma and really listened to the stories of those who’ve died and returned — and there are millions — who assure us that all is well, that Love is what awaits us post-breath?
I don’t know for sure what might happen, but I do know what it’s like to live with fear and now to live without it, and the difference is extraordinary. If dying truly is, as the ancients assure us, “nothing at all,” if we “wake up laughing at what we thought was our grief,” life becomes a joy right now. Right here. here becomes Here, the bliss we arise from.
If we follow the evidential proof that we don’t die with a study of who we really are absent these human suits, we can find ourselves truly free, in this moment, in the human version of Here. There’s more room for love, for kindness, and for peace when fear falls off the radar. I know this because I’ve lived the transformation since the last beat of Mike’s heart.
Fear’s poison permeates this world and it’s especially virulent right now. It’s natural to feel the energy of that (even for those who don’t believe in energy and those who don’t normally live in fear). The human experience is what we’re here for, but there’s another way when it gets to be too much. To step back, to immerse ourselves in the truth of who and what we are is like a day at the spa. The healing waters of love are curative. A reminder of Home.
Knowing the truth wipes clean the lens through which we view this life and its travails. Clarity brings understanding and comfort. This isn’t all. It’s okay, even when it doesn’t feel like it. We’ll wake up laughing at what we thought was our grief over this messy world.
For the last 3-4 days leading up to the eighth anniversary of the worst day of my life, I’ve been showered with gifts. Repetitive numbers. 1111, 444, 66666, 555, 2222, and so many 333s I can’t count. Truly, it seems that every time I look around, there’s another one. A decades-old card from Mike inexplicably turned up in the cabinet under my sink, an “I love you baby” from a dead man. Yesterday, a feather from one of my guides, two katydids from my dad, and then Brenda ratted me out to Suzanne about having had my hands in ice minutes before she texted. My friend Sandy’s daily message from spirit yesterday was like hearing directly from my angels.
We can live in a magical world that often feels like heaven, or we can live in a world that too many times feels like hell. The difference is in knowing who we are. Eight years ago I prayed to get out of this living hell so I could be with Mike again. Today, in the same Mike-free world, I’m prone to ending texts and emails with “I love this life!” We are here, our loved ones are Here, and it’s all the same. There is nothing to fear. The heartbeat of Love is eternal. We’ll wake up laughing.