You know the answers, she told her best friend.
I know. I’m not ready to hear them.
Everything I need to know is right under my nose. Signs are everywhere, if I’m willing to see them.
I keep hearing the word ships in relationships. I keep hearing about anchors, sailing metaphors, take to the water, feel the wind in my hair, the sun on my shoulders. The water came into my life a year ago and it’s taking me along on its currents, the flow, the steady rush of going somewhere, never stopping. Water as the source of life, where we begin, never-ending.
Every message that comes to me is important. The only thing that works against me is me. We get in our own way.
Be more playful. Listen. Let go. God is sprinkling magic dust on your crown chakra.
In truth, there is nothing in my way. Ever. I am always in control. I can tell the spirits to speak more softly or slow down or withhold their message until I’m ready to hear it.
The pain on the left side of my throat as I channel heaven: my voice is clear, people hear me, but I am not listening.
Listen to the message. Don’t interpret. Listen to the words exactly.
Higher purpose. Look for the light. Where is the good? Because it’s always there. How does the information come to me? The opposite of fear is love, is trust. Trust trust trust.
The world is an illusion. Answers are everywhere. Self-evident. The core of the matter. Tree of life. Anchor, ships, sailing on the plentiful seas.
A boy stands at the mailbox in a striped shirt and jeans rolled up at the ankles, Converse sneakers. I think they’re red. He is shadowed by the leafy branches of the tree above him. He holds a skateboard at his feet and a Beagle – is it Clancy, my grandparents’ dog from the 1970s? When I call to him, ask his name, who are you?, he disappears into the shadows.
A kitchen bowl on the counter. Late morning sunlight. We are about to bake so the children will awake to the scent of something handmade and good.
And then I’m looking at a lake though the water is murky. I cannot see into the deep. In the center, it’s dark. The fishing line extends for a far reach.
And then the Indigo Girls are singing, “I’m trying to tell you something about your life.” The light filters through tall trees. A skyscraper apartment-building looms above me on that bend in the road from Evanston to Chicago. Everywhere I turn, voices calling to be heard.
At the end, the scent of someone familiar. Either soap or cologne or a mingling of a soft touch. I know who it is. My eyes are closed but he is there, I can smell him on my hair. I open my eyes. Just me. And it is quiet in the night.