Angels in many guises.

Is it possible that there are unaware angels? Angels who do not realize that they are doing God's work, acting as his messengers without knowing it themselves? Spreading goodness and provoking introspection? Saying words without knowing why? Making choices the same way? And all for the good of those they touch?

There is a series of moments that remain captured in my mind's eye and will remain so until I take my last conscious breath. I'll attempt to share some of them with you.

I have some very differing accounts of my experiences with Angels as I have known them. Some may have known what they were doing, others perhaps not. And some are no doubt metaphorical angels. It is a strange belief I have. If I cared what anyone thought, I'd stop writing now.

AWARE? UNAWARE?

One day in Lake Louise, not looking forward to anything at all, when I was walking toward another day at my very stressful job at the little banking agency that I managed, I noticed a little girl standing beside a black van in the parking lot. A man, whom I assumed was her father, was doing something under the hood of the van and the little girl was just standing stock still, beaming at me with the most incredibly beautiful smile I recall seeing on a child's face. She had very long blond hair. It seemed to be too long to have grown that much for a girl her size. And the hair was literally glowing in the sunlight just the same way she was smiling. The sun and that girl's smile seemed to be made of the same stuff. She was more than a child's smile, there was something different about her. I smiled back as I continued to walk to my work.

"Hello!" she called. There were many people in that parking lot on that busy summer day in Lake Louise. But she had not taken her eyes off me. "Are you all right?" she asked, still smiling. No one was paying her any attention.
"Well yes, thank you!" I said, pausing a little in my walk and slowing down. I didn't have a chance to say anything else before she hollered, and I do mean hollered, "I love you!!!" Well I told her I loved her too, but I didn't holler. What would her "father" have thought? And she continued to smile at me as I went in the door to the bank. What a sweet little girl, I thought.

And being the shut down light-worker that I was at that time, I hadn't seen that little girl for who she may well have represented. I didn't stick around to see if she left in that van. I didn't pay any more attention. My head at that time in my life was full of "busyness".


AWARE?

Funny how these personalities appear to me on the way to or at work!!! In Banff I worked in the most beautiful book store I have ever known (and I have known many). Anyone who remembers me from my bookstore days will know how incredibly happy that work made me. Nevertheless, it sucked to be me for quite a few years prior, and I was healing slowly. Here I go with a "one day in summer" again.... and something has only just occurred to me that I will share in a moment.

One summer day, I was at the cash register in the bookstore and a very striking looking woman came inside. She was slender and pale and graceful and had shortish black hair. She wore a sharp looking black leather coat and very dark sunglasses which she slowly removed as she approached me, walking straight toward me as soon as she came in the door. "Would you mind" she said "turning off the music while I am in here? I am epileptic and sometimes this kind of music can trigger a seizure." Well being the compassionate person I am, I assured her that I would do as she asked. People stared as they had heard her. So let them stare, I thought. I went up to the office and told my boss about the lady's request. The look on his face said "what a weirdo". Some things don't have to be said. But he turned the music off anyway.
I went back downstairs and the woman had not started to look around at all. She hadn't moved. I met her at the cash desk again, ready to ask her if I could help her.
"So where is it you want to go?" she said. "I mean, if you wanted to go somewhere, where would you go?"

I blurted out "Mesa, Arizona" and wondered why the heck I was telling her this. I could not stop talking! I told her that Mesa and the Anasazi were on my mind alot at that time in my life. Mesa Verde in Colorado hadn't really entered into it much. I knew little about any such places really... And I knew little about Arizona. But I felt very drawn to it. My head swam with thoughts of the Hopi and legends, with figures like Kokopelli, and I didn't know why. I was unquestioning with regard to my interest and had accepted it as part of what may be waking up within me. My Reiki courses were opening doors of consciousness for me.... but regardless, there I was spilling my guts about my geographical and other interests to some stranger who was apparently deeply interested in what I had to say. She agreed with me that I was correct about Mesa, AZ, and that some locations held incredibly spiritual significance. I told her about how surprised I was with myself because I was a water person through and through and that was MY element, no matter what discipline I followed when I explored the elements and myself. I would feel like a "fish out of water" in the desert, so why did I want to go there so badly? I was shocked at myself for sharing so much of my new-agey thoughts with someone I didn't even know.

She asked me if I understood the importance of following through with my desires to go to certain places which drew me in. I honestly do not recall the rest of what we talked about. It became clear to me that she had not come in the store to buy a book.
After about 15 minutes, a man walked in and he also was wearing a black leather coat and dark glasses. "And how are YOU doing?" he asked the woman. She said she was fine and followed him up the stairs. I got busy with customers who DID need my assistance and do not recall seeing the man nor the woman leave the store. But leave they must have, because I looked for her and she was gone and I went back into the office to turn the music back on. There was something very special about that woman. Every strand of my threaded intuition told me so.

And that thing that just occurred to me? The bookstore had no air conditioning. Sometimes it easily reached 90 degrees in there as it got the sun all day long. It was baking hot outside as well. So why were those two wearing black leather coats when I was almost passing out from the heat in a summer dress?

I will write about Israel in another post... you won't believe what I tell you. I hardly did believe it myself at the time. But now I know better.


TOTALLY UNAWARE

It was in the same bookstore, where I was so very happy at work, on another summer day, that someone gave me no small gift.

Having good things come my way was few and far between for many years. What occurred in the few moments I am about to relate to you, whether you find it silly or not, remained to carry me through periods of self doubt and rampant self-criticism. Particularly as time goes by, and as I age and as I doubt that vanity is even a luxury I can afford.... Non-confident, unattractive, closed up, shut off, walls built, CLOSED. They're all lies I tell myself.

My forte is customer service. I am never happier than when I have been able to help someone. Many people in a tourist town grumble about the myriad questions they get asked. I would laugh with the rest when we discussed the proverbial "silly" questions that we got asked. But with the people I assisted, I never once treated them as "stupid tourists". (Many people did..... I was never one of them.)

The "no small gift" I received on that aforementioned day?

A tall, "ordinary" and kind looking man came into the shop and made a beeline toward me. He looked a little stressed, but he still smiled nicely. At first. (I saw hundreds of people in a day at work and in and around Banff. But this man was different. Yes, that's about it. Different.)

He asked me for directions as to how to get back onto the highway heading East back toward Calgary. As I explained to him the way out of town and East, he became almost confused and restless. He asked me to repeat myself a number of times. He mumbled a thank you after I eventually drew him a map. (I was always drawing maps for tourists who seemed confused by all the regular tourist maps out there.)
The man still looked confused, asked me to tell him again, quietly thanked me again and left. He looked almost grave when he left. I was a bit worried about the guy.

Within a few minutes, he was back. He seemed to gaze at me apologetically.
"I'm sorry, I had to come back to tell you.... that you have been extremely helpful and pardon my confusion... it's just that you have the most stunning eyes of anyone I have ever met." I must have looked surprised. I laughed with relief, thanked him and told him that it was very nice of him to tell me so. With almost a little sideways nod of his head, seemingly reassured and smiling now, he headed out the door never to be seen by me again.

It was a bookstore, not a bar. He was on his way out of town, not staying. His remark was very obviously sincere and he did not need to make it. He had his directions and his map and he need not have come back to share his personal observation nor explain his confusion to me. How much courage had it taken for him to say what he had said? I sometimes wonder where that man is; how his life is going; if he is happy; if he realized the gift that he had given me that day.

Share, people. Share.

Angels in many guises, whether real or subconsciously self-feigned, are there for us for a reason.

Grieving

That hole in your solar plexus can be filled with the white light of angels but it must be topped up all the time. When you built up walls and didn't want to get involved in something that turned out to be quite wonderful... the walls were a dam that was strong and kept you safe from the floodwater of pain and hurt. Little bits at a time, erosion took place and little tiny holes appeared... first they let in alot of illumination. Mere pin pricks of light turned into glowing rays of beautiful comfort and you felt you were really going home, getting there, you'd found it at last. You had been waiting a lifetime and the light became stronger and brighter and happiness filled your heart. Then someone decided to put a wedge in the tiny holes, one at a time, getting exactly what they wanted by using another's fears against them. The rays of illumination were so far up high... they were coming from the top of the dam, where it was safe. But then the wedges got driven more strongly and someone sought out deeper cracks and crevices and all but shattered their way through. And an innocent stood alongside with no way or means to help. As scared of the hammer as you are. Within a short time, all that water floods the plain, it is a violent gushing forth experienced as pain and where once stood something so grand, lies ruins. Such is the power of the forgiven. The forgiven who has no scruples. The hole in your solar plexus can be filled with the white light of angels.... and soon the flow of light is automatic... however the pain has to be gone through so the healing can begin and the hole that moved to your heart can be overgrown with scar tissue and hardened once more.

Christmas

I really think it is sad that some places don't allow "Christmas" to be used as a word at this special time of year. Happy Holidays just doesn't cut it for me. Merry Christmas, or the English "Happy Christmas" says it all. Christmas is a time of year to be grateful AND happy. There's some special feeling in the air that has nothing to do with Santa. It's almost palpable. And non-Christians should just deal with it. We Canadians are, for the most part, entirely tolerant of others' beliefs.

From the crowded malls and harried shoppers, to the little kids I hear in my store crying because they don't know why their friend is getting that particular thing and they can't have one... and who is Santa anyways? Something is missing; particularly when I hear how most parents speak at this time of year when they are rushed and stressed and the poor kids don't know what the heck is going on nor understand why.

Why does Christmas have to mean over-eating, over-indulging, over-spending, keeping up with the neighbors? Why did the mall Santa's never impress me as a child? How many little kids really think that they're with Santa when Santas are allover? They probably don't. But give them that to hang onto.... it's a small thing that could be so much more.

Christmas shouldn't be gifts given to children because their friends are getting them. Advertising sucks all year long but at Christmas, it makes me gag. There's the guilt advertising that absolutely kills me. You know commercials that would have you believe that you will not be loved, valued nor appreciated should you neglect to provide blah blah blah as a gift to your lover, spouse, child...

Christmas should be about wood fireplaces, a tree, carols, stockings, hot chocolate, snow outside, Church, family, a good meal, a big star in the sky and Jesus. That's all Christmas should be about.

Gone Fishin' without flies

Why is it that I enjoy fishing so much? It is, after all, not a woman's "sport". My girlfriends could never see the joy it gave me and if they did, they never understood it.
Some of my guy friends would take me with them to humor me. Sometimes they would laugh at me regarding my choice of lure. But most times the last laugh was on them because I would catch fish and they many times came up empty handed.

My one time, long time, since passed, friend Mike used to get quite frustrated. When we would fish, I was often lucky. I recall his practicing his fly-fishing technique religiously. One day he just had it up to his ears. I'd caught two trout. One rainbow and one brown.
"Here I am, doing everything perfectly, and you just throw a chunk of aluminum in there and get the fish!!" It was funny.

On one particular day, out in a canoe on Wapta Lake with a couple of serious fishing men, I decided to use a "buzz bomb" lure, some wobbly thing. Both men had a chuckle. After I landed a fine sized lake trout, their laughter was replaced by their frenzied scramle to find any "buzz bomb" they might have in their tackle boxes. It was priceless. The fish always seemed to come to me.

I always preferred the river. And since those days past, I have often found great solace in waking up very early to head out alone. The joy of those days would begin the moment the smell of my morning brewing coffee hit my nose. Packing things to take with me added to the anticipation. I would sip coffee, fill a thermos, pack a lunch, check my tackle box, rod and reel....

Heading out of doors before the birds had even begun to sing, I would breathe in the mountain air deeply, almost down to my toes. It was always cool, even in summertime, at that time of day. I would drive down the highway a bit and park the truck off the road. Then I'd hike a ways, over the train tracks and way down to the Bow.

No one ever understood my true reasons for fishing. I wasn't doing it to catch fish, although they were a bonus. I was doing it for the feeling of utter calm that would come over me. It was like a kind of healing meditation. There I would stand at the river's edge, no waders to be had, but happy. The water was with me and I was lulled by the sounds it made as it flowed by, over pebbles, big rocks, half submerged tree branches. The repetitive motion of my casting and reeling would soothe me for hours. I never thought about much when I fished. I simply WAS. I was in the moment, always. I'd note the vague sensation of rocks under my feet, I'd listen to the trees, yes, and notice the air, the wind, breezes or sun as they would touch my face.

Blue jays would sometimes watch me, safe at a distance, happy to stay awhile. What did they think of this strange human who would stand for hours, casting and reeling, casting and reeling? The pull of the lure as it traveled downstream and worked gently against my effortless sensation of bringing them back was some sort of constant companion for me. The pull never slowed and it was always there.

Lake fishing was never my preference, unless I had a boat handy, which was a rare thing. Once, though, I recall I just had to get out and as it was later in the day I did not want to go too far. I headed for a lake just north of Lake Louise. When I arrived, I was surprised to find that no one but myself was there. Though I suspect it was mostly popular for hardy swimmers who braced themselves against the glacier water. The lake was shallow and I later found out from others that the fish within tasted muddy. Shallow lakes were rarely a destination for me. But I was happy that day to just go through the routine of my standing meditation. No fish came my way..... unusual. But what did come my way, as the darkness approached, were bats. They showed up and flew around me but not quite at me. It took me awhile to realize that my reel was squeaking. Was that what was attracting them? Or was it the myriad mosquitoes that had showed up? I lit a cigarette to keep the bugs away from me and packed my things away. Was it the high pitched squeaky reel that lured the bats or was it the mosquitoes? I hope the bats fed well that night. Or do bats even eat bugs? What would I know, I just fish.

I love a parade in a cowboy town.

It's weird going to a parade by yourself. Especially when the people around you are a hard crowd.... not like the people in the town where you used to live. After awhile, I didn't care. I hooted and hollered and cheered for the bands... even though everyone else on the sidewalk just watched them and listened. I could barely believe it. It didn't seem right.

I met Dexter, a tiny little froo froo kind of puppy. I knew he was Dexter because three kids were hauling him around on a leash saying "don't do that Dexter." Or "Dexter, you can't go there." Or simply "Dexter, NO". What kind of place is a parade for a little puppy whose body length is about one twentieth of that of the leash? Puppy was shaking and looking scared. At last! A rescue and the mom picked him up and popped Dexter into her jacket. He was up there for quite some time and ended up falling asleep.

The lady looked at me strangely when I would talk to her, when I would make remarks about the parade. What a world, I thought, when you can't even speak to some lady you're standing next to on a parade route. After awhile, she seemed to accept the idea that I wasn't going to shut up. I made a comment about how dangerous it was that a little girl was standing in an advertising mini van, in the parade, with the side door open as she hung outside and waved. I thought that was crazy. Maybe because the woman with Dexter in her jacket was a mom; maybe because she finally realized it isn't so bad talking to strangers at a parade; maybe because she simply forgot herself: she actually agreed with me. Verbally.

Dexter woke up due to trail riders in "olden days" dress firing blanks out of all kinds of guns, just in time to see some "past it" fat cowboys on their poor horses. After recovering from both of those traumas, the puppy was placed on the sidewalk again to stretch his little legs no doubt. Wouldn't you know it but a family walked past and a tiny little toddler was wearing squeaky running shoes. Step step. Squeak squeak. Dexter was off! After the squeaking little feet. He pulled himself up short at the end of the long leash and back he went into the mom's jacket.

The aforementioned mom's children were all complaining that they were cold. It became like a mantra. I got a little tired of listening to them because apparently, they had all refused to bring jackets. (One becomes privy to this sort of info. when standing next to folks at a parade.) Yet when one of the many fire trucks showed up with firemen brandishing soaker water guns, all those boys were yelling "GET ME!!!". It was too cold outside for soaker guns. But that's what happens at a parade... kids forget that they were whining and what they were whining about.

Dexter fell asleep again. I took photos of the British Army guys, my neighbour's pipe band, and four guys who were dressed suspiciously like The Knights Who Say "ni!". They were hanging out with the entire would-be cast of MP and the Holy Grail. I missed the opportunity to get a photo of Jack Sparrow. Partly because I was absolutely stunned at the resemblance to the REAL Jack Sparrow and partly because he was moving too fast and never did stand still for one second. Merlin had his back to me the whole time he walked down the other side of the street.

A smiling citizen rode by on a huge black bull and I had to remind myself again where I was.

The old cars made me wistful. Beautiful old boats with people who lovingly care for them, performing miracles to keep them timeless; non-stop care and attention; a luxury that humans do not really ever know.

The Rotary Club had a guy with a microphone asking for donations but no one was coming forward for the money so mine went to the food bank instead. I cheered for the shriners and for a military band. I looked at the RCMP's red serge the same way I always do year after year at parades. They GOTTA do something else besides walk or ride. Or not.

I saw the street sweeper about a block away and decided that was a good time to head back to my car.

Bye little Dexter. You were one of the best things about that parade.

Everyone deserves to be happy.

I am wearing my long green velvet dress and silver shoes. I wend my way down the stone path past all the sea reeds and make my way to the beach. At each Celtic cross I stop and touch and feel their energy pour into my heart. The air is sweet and damp as I reach the small pier and the boat where the smiling wise man waits to row me over to my island.

He is elderly and grizzled and poorly dressed. He is smiling a beatific smile and doesn't speak although I hear him and I cannot put into words what he says. When we reach my island, he ties the boat and we walk together to the remains of a castle, the solid standing parts contain all manner of my favourite things. Thick, stained glass windows mark the castle walls... they are not fully graced nor seen as the rain and mist have come to cocoon me. Inside the massive castle door I see the warming fireplace and the dogs run to me before returning to their mats near it. The wise man lets me know that all is well. He pulls on a rope with pulleys and around my island the veil comes up. All within are safe and white light floods the entire dome. With a nod to the smiling man, I turn and exit, finding my way to the cottage that I love so very much.

Many roses and many dark grey stones. No wall is needed as I know I am safe, yet there is some time I need separation total. In my cottage I see my key lying on a dark poslished table just inside the door. It's a key I have never needed from the outside. I pick it up, it is also dark grey and it is old, cold and heavy in my palm. What peace this key has given me. For even within the safety of my island, I feel the need to lock the fears outside of this special place. In goes the key. Effortlessly I turn it. The silver slippers come off my feet and I walk toward a small room to my right, breathing deeply. I want desperately to sit and listening to the tall standing clock as it ticks beautifully next to my deep red comfortable chair. But something must be done first.

I enter the small room and turn the gas lanterns so that they are brighter. I pull aside some oak paneling and sit down at a sophisticated wall of IT equipment. it is inconguous, yes, but it has always been there for me. There is one functional yet otherwise unremarkable keyboard and a very large screen in front of me. I sigh with fatigue for I cannot help it. I reach for wine and pour some and sip and then place the large glass down carefully.

"Everyone deserves to be happy". I type and the cursor brings my words, hopes and determination to life. I stroke the "enter" key and sit back knowing that this message has been sent. That is all I need to do and this I know.

The comfort of my deep red chair awaits me. So there it is that I go. I take my wine and sit and eventually close my eyes and listen to the lullaby of the clock. It isn't long before I place the wineglass to one side and pull my white thick blanket over me and rest for who knows how long. My clock I never look at. My clock I listen to as I tell myself that everyone deserves to be happy and this becomes a mantra.

The wise old man is still smiling in the castle. He's sitting on a trestle and the dogs are hearing him no matter that his lips move not.

And this too shall pass...

Everything is transitory. When the Divas look at us from wherever they are, they see our entire lives on earth as about an hour in our time. Why do we persist in living in the past or worrying about the future when all we really have is now, and now, and now? How can a person live their life with any authenticity when he or she is not truly "in the moment"?

Everything is transitory. Your possessions never belong to you, you're borrowing them until you die. Everyone that you know and love or know and dislike or know and detest, well they will be gone just as surely as you will be gone.

Everything is transitory. So why do we cling? Why do we cling to anything? What is that all about? When did it come upon us this desire to fight our lives? Who are we to question destiny... and YES there is destiny and fate. There are far too many inexplicable things which happen for destiny and fate to be discounted.

Everything is transitory. Buddhists say that the only permanent thing is impermanence. That may well be the truth, but none of us seem to realize it. Particularly when we're down at the bottom of a slippery walled well with nothing but algae around and above us.

Is there not only one way to go from that deep down place? Everything is transitory.