Mysterious Ways

I’ve been doing a lot of naval gazing of late, it’s New Years, and sure, we have all been at it.

I’m conscious that over the last year, that I’ve made big statements about my beliefs and values and have created contradictions therein.  Many of the posts I have written lately have referenced formal religious settings, such as blessing of the graves and funerals, often written with fondness and nostalgia.  And yet I don’t believe the formal teachings I write about.  I guess for me, my religious experience is more about family, tradition and the gathering. 

I’ve heard a lot of talk about heaven since my father died.  I know that a lot of people take comfort from the idea of an eternal life beyond the pearly gates, (maybe including you dear reader) but not me.   

As I’ve gotten older, that idea of another place beyond death has become much more real to me.  That place isn’t somewhere else.  It’s here.  Around me.  I’ll try to explain with three examples of experiences I’ve had.

My paternal aunt Olive, the second youngest in a family of ten died in 1989, just 6 weeks’ shy of her 33^rd birthday.  I had been in awe of Olive since I was a child.  She had a big presence with legs that went on forever.  A funky dresser with a great singing voice, the stage was made for her.  My granny called her ‘my lovely blonde.’ 

Cancer took a terrible toll on her beautiful body and she was skin and bone by the time she died, leaving a two-year-old son and husband.  ‘It’s a sad day a girl doesn’t have anything to fill her bra with’, she said one day, half laughing, deadly serious.  I was an awkward teenager at the time and although I visited her a lot with my Mam, as part of her care-roster, I can’t say that I had profound conversations with her, beyond the ‘bra story.’  But that sense of awe, that she was someone special has always stayed with me. 

When I was pregnant with my twinnies nine years ago ago, I was 33.   It was only then that the realisation of how young she was really hit me, the unjustice of it all.  I didn’t make a conscious effort to think of Olive, but throughout my pregnancy, thoughts of her came to me, usually when I was on my own, often in the shower, of all places.  I don’t know if I shared these thoughts with anyone else at the time.

Weeks after my children were born, I was with my mother and aunt Mary.  My mother said that she could see a lot of Olive in Leon and my aunt agreed.  They both felt reluctant in saying it to me, but I could see it too.  As he grows, I can see the performer in him too, the thick head of hair with the cute little nose. 

Two years ago, my aunt Aine, my maternal aunt died after a short illness.  She was my ‘single’ auntie and lived in my Nana’s house, so I saw a lot of her.  As an adult, we had many shared interests and I enjoyed bringing herself and my Mam on trips to gardens or shopping.  I miss her a lot. 

I’m a divil for holding onto cards, letters and tickets, all stashed in bunches here and there, which I sort and move from one place to the other – Just don’t ask me where they all are.  On three occasions since Aine has died, I’ve come across a ‘Thinking of You’ card that she sent me when I was awaiting test results from a hospital a few years ago.  The card seemed to appear like a stone pops up in a newly ploughed field and you wonder where it came from.  Each time I found it, it was on a day that I really felt in despair.  She may as well have put her arms around me. 

Aine had similar hoarding tendencies to me.  After her death, my darling cousin Nicola handed me a bag of cards and letters that I had sent to Aine over the years, that she had retrieved from Aine’s house.  Most of which I had no memory of sending.  It was such a treasure to get back. 

My daughter was pooching for something in my bedroom in May last year.  She handed me a card, saying ‘look at this Mam.’  It was a handmade birthday card that I had made many years before for Aine.  I took a step back when I realised it was Aine’s birthday that day.  Coincidence ?  Maybe.

A few weeks before my father died, I contacted some friends via Facebook messenger to ask them if I minded writing about their Mum, a great friend of my mothers, who had passed away some years ago.  I didn't hear from one of them and I checked my message. I had sent it to the 'wrong' Claire Smyth.  I apologised to Claire, someone I went to school with, who had been confused by my obscure message.  After my father died, I got a message from the 'wrong' Claire to say that she was one of the paramedics who was called to the scene on the day to assist him. That funny little coincidence means so much to me.  It throws up thoughts about destiny and about what was meant to be.

In the run up to Christmas, I’ve barely had any time to myself.  One morning, having a late start at work, I hopped back into bed after the children were dispatched on the school bus, for a much treasured snooze.  The smell of a freshly lit cigarette woke me.  I jumped out of bed, looking for the source of the cigarette.  I ran around the outside of the house, but there was no one there and there was nothing burning.  Similarly, I was in the house alone having shower, with all of the usual smellies and again, I could smell the freshly lit cigarette.  I hopped out, dripping wet, but there was no one there.  

Over the years, one of the greatest causes of rows in our house between my father and I was his smoking habit.  It drove me insane that he didn’t know, or seem to care what damage he was doing.  But JR always did things his way. 

There is no doubt in my mind that the cigarette smoke is my Dad checking in on me.  He was never going to ‘send me a sign’ via a butterfly landing on a flower.  It’s kind of ironic that this source endless source of tension is the thing that now brings me comfort.  Mad, or what ?