Visitors

Dear friend,

A cool breeze floats in through the open door and crystal-clear sunlight paints the garden luminous. I’ve just this moment emerged from a meditation, sitting at the kitchen table, and my laptop is cold—like a mountain stream to the touch.

In my meditation I received a little furry ginger visitor from across the veil. Chester, our childhood cat, came rubbing his little head into my chest. He had a habit of sitting kind of awkwardly in your lap so his paws exerted maximum pressure—and he’s kept the habit. Though the physical sensations are memory-bound now, nevertheless in this attuned state, they feel real enough.

I go months, maybe even years, without thinking about him.

This is the only picture I have of him, looking rather concerned about something. Maybe the number of spider plant leaves he’d destroyed?

He’s sat on the staircase bannister in the front hall of our family home on Sarsfield Road. Before he came, and I was not so much bigger than him, that spot was where I rode my winged horse—flying across the globe, all the way to Russia and the ancient, jungle-claimed cities of the East.

I’ve written before about Chester’s passing.

In the vet’s office, seeing him fly around our heads as we gently lifted his still, limp body and carried him to the car. Ashamed of my tears.

Even less willing to talk about the spirit cat riding with us.

My brother Kevin, I think, was away working abroad.

I grabbed a few moments on the rug in front of the fire with Chester, his body curled as if he were sleeping, before Dad did his Dad duty and buried him in the garden, where ferns grew and claimed his soft tissue. The bones are still there, I presume. Or maybe not. Who knows, since the old place was sold.

Liminal space—moving between worlds—it takes some getting used to, especially after your grown-up conditioning kicks in and you come to believe you know something about yourself.

How can all of this be contained in the few pounds and billions of connections in the gelatinous organ encased in my skull?

Science has few answers.

Maybe our brains are more like receivers and transmitters of consciousness, rather than where consciousness lives?

I prefer the path less travelled.

I worked into the early morning yesterday. In the silence I heard Santina stir and harumph. I turned to the empty dog bed, still in the kitchen from Zara’s visit, and smiled.

Our loved ones never leave us.

But it does take time before the hurt softens and we can reconnect.

Wishing you peace.

And connection.

Till tomorrow

Love

Mikey