As a life coach and energy healer I’ve come across many different situations, sometimes officially and sometimes on the path, as fingertips touch the lives of others on their own journey.
In every circumstance we live there is a transfer of energy; we may not even be aware it. I am therefore always very guarded in my own personal life, but always very aware of the huge need for healing in each one of us.
Recently I worked with a woman whose young child tried to commit suicide. Nothing can be scarier or more overwhelming than being faced with a young life that is so distraught that they feel the only escape to be death. Whilst I will never condone suicide, I have come to understand that dark place where silence screams to be heard and the voices beg to be silenced. I believe that every person has faced this void at one or other point in their life, perhaps even taken a step towards that abyss, and it isn’t always because of things that are happening now, or because of overwhelming difficulties. I’ve understood that for some people the darkness is made up of yesterdays, whether those yesterdays are chock full of unspoken or un-lived dreams, or brimming over with people that have already departed and for whom there is no return.
I want to share this with you because it may be of help to anyone dealing with past hurt and wanting to heal..
Aging isn’t always a graceful process, and for the older women I’ve spoken to the hardest bit is memories. I recall one women in particular as she lay on what would become her deathbed. I touched her hand and she woke, she had been lying in the sunroom of the old age home for a couple of hours and the warmth of the sun temporarily made her forget herself so she had drifted off. She opened her sparkling eyes and the reality of where she was dawned on her like an old, worn out sheet. She looked at me and then away, down at her missing leg. Her ability to speak was almost gone. She lifted the comforter and revealed the stub left behind from her amputation. The pain in her eyes was evident. The tears filled her eyes and I brushed aside the silver hair over her fringe and kissed her forehead. She looked down at her hands, the patchy network of blue so close to the thin skin. I understood from her that she missed her leg, felt somehow less whole. In my younger mind (this was many years ago) I had it all worked out, she was dealing with loss of her independence of mobility.
I could not have been more wrong. Her intense sadness didn’t come from the amputated leg, or even from the knowing that gangrene was spreading and she really wasn’t going to last more than a week. Her sadness came from the memories of dancing, memories that were so strong and so vivid that she yearned to reach out and touch her departed soulmate again, but he had gone ahead of her. All I could do in the absence of dancing with her was to sing with her. And somehow, in that miraculous moment that voice that was almost gone rose up and joined mine. We sang “Once I had a secret love” from an old John Wayne movie, because I felt it may have resonated with her and thankfully i was right. Before her voice went again she thanked me, saying that in that moment, with her eyes closed, she had felt him there with her. She had felt the arms and she knew, she said, he would fetch her. “Soon”. So we said goodbye. Not the kind of see you next week goodbye, but the kind of goodbye that comes when you know time’s up.
I never saw Mrs Rue again, she passed peacefully that night, the nurses say. To me, she was still beautiful. In that moment I had seen in her the beauty of her twenty year old self, the sparkle of naughtiness in her eyes. I had felt the memories flow through her hand and I was so blessed to have seen that. Mrs Rue taught me that memories can become the hardest thing in older years. She also taught me that it really is only skin deep.
Mrs Rue, this one’s for you. Wherever you are, I will remember.