Early this morning, over the phone, with a less than optimal connection from overseas, I heard details (finally) of a story.
I wish I could say that it was fiction.
I wish I could say that it was a dream.
Alas, it was a true story. Involving an orange pylon, a long empty stretch of highway, a ditch, a forest and a big black car.
It’s the kind of story that movies are made of. The kind that, if you were to hear it, would make you wonder: how. was. that. even. possible.
At first, accompanied by a staggering heaviness. Disbelief.
The re-runs screened in my mind throughout the day; wherever I walked, during our group meditation (lying down & walking), during lunch, the rainstorm and my massage, my imagination was in full gear.
So hard to fathom. But so easy to remember the nature of accidents: they happen in a heartbeat.
The heaviness then gives way to breath. To thanks. To a close encounter with luck.
Do you know that, even if you didn’t see them, hear them, feel their touch, your chorus of angels (spirits? deities?) were out in full force, every step of the (high)way?
I asked what I could for you, for them. Send love.
That’s clear enough. Already been doing that. And sending out gratitude.
But more than that, I send you light – moonlight, sunlight and the light that exists in all of us – just from being alive. Amen.