I don’t know if I can necessarily blame hormones, but I’ve been thinking of you constantly, as if you’ve become an invisible companion who sits on my shoulder, nudging your presence to be known during the ordinary every day moments–like while carrying laundry up the steps, or in the seconds my head hits the pillow at night–there you are.
It’s hard to describe the feeling I get, when I so desperately want you here, real, and not as a thought inside my mind. It seems the answer to bringing you back is so obvious, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to figure it out…
Like if I could just project myself far enough up into the clouds, I could burst through the Universe and somehow find where you’ve been hiding all this time. Or like there was truly a way to collect your scattered pieces and place them together, so I could hug and hold and hear you once again.
But I have to shake these fantasies quickly, because they make me feel utterly unworthy, incapable of reeling you back into this realm.
In reality, I know it’s absolutely beyond my control and more importantly, there is no “you,” sitting somewhere with your leather high heels and leopard pants, waiting for me or anyone else to come find you.
And while I’ve particularly missed you during the past few weeks, I had an “encounter” that blew the emotional blues right out of my sappy bones, and replaced them with the reassuring reminder that you really are closer than I could possibly conceive.
Yesterday Everett and I were having a good morning; our breakfast was easy, my coffee was strong, the weather had a relieving chill–all the little checks were correctly crossing off, and it put me in an easy state of appreciation.
While on our routine walk, Everett looked back at me from below in his stroller, giving me this cute and contented smile. I could tell in his eyes, he was loving that beautiful morning just as much as his Mom.
There have been so many recent and similar times when I’ve looked at him and simply cannot believe this little human of mine has never met my mother. I cannot believe that he’ll grow into a young man who will never quite fully understand, just how bright and beautiful his grandmother once was.
But I could feel myself choose not to get sad and sucked through the seaward current of missing you. I instead stayed in that appreciative feeling, thankful for Everett and our moment and our morning, knowing you knew I was thinking of you, knowing you were aware of us.
The choice was simple. I didn’t want to sacrifice my energy. It felt too good to be feeling good, and bad thoughts easily bounced off the barrier I had created.
And then I looked down at my walking feet: a Blue Jay feather was sitting on the pavement so perfectly intact and bright, it honestly looked fake, like it was meant for craft store use. The little voice inside my head didn’t immediately try to discount the fact that it’s only a feather, or rationalize how I could honestly believe it was from you–I just knew it was.
I stood and stared and softly cried looking at that feather, while every answer I’ve ever had about your death was instantaneously understood–without any worded answers.
The little piece of Blue Jay is now pinned to my vision board, where I’ll see it every night before bed, alongside the outlines of another potential property and my goals for this journal. It will be my reminder, not only of you, but to continually summon my courage and go for my plans, without letting anything stop me, for that is one of the meanings of my coveted blue bird.
And speaking of these plans.
In the past few months, I’ve been editing my entries, re-arranging my proposal, searching and researching potential literary agents, creating and submitting essays for websites, and writing query letters that meet both individual and particular agency requests.
Each time I send material in, I just don’t completely feel it.
As much as I try to believe that my pitch is going to be read and loved, I more so understand that it’s going to get lost in what agents infamously call their “slosh pile,” with my words buried beneath thousands of other aspiring authors.
No longer can I wait for an agent to deem me worthy. No longer can I continue working on my book’s proposal, trying to sell myself and the words I began writing after Everett was born.
My written conversations with you have accidentally become about learning to trust and follow that flow, as I listen to the signs and my intuition, which continually guide me forward in both the creation of this book and myself. If these attempts to prove and propose both myself and my work, are no longer where the energy is taking me, I need to bravely follow a new direction.
I’ve been seeing the numbers 753, showing up not only on the clock, but in amounted totals or addresses, too. Over the course of a few days, the pattern presented itself so many times, I felt compelled to at least search online for the meaning of those numbers, if there even was one.
A woman named JoAnne Walmsley has a book and dedicated web space for the description of these numbers, where I found the following:
The combinations of 7, 5 and 3 mean now is the time to make the necessary chages that will quickly advance you along your life path and your soul mission.
Trust that the angels are supporting, encouraging and guiding you along the way.
This felt like permission to set the proposal aside, as well as the guilt for my “wasted” time and money spent, on the course I bought back in November. Because I cannot let a dead end stop me. I have to keep running this trail, even though I feel like I’m blindfolded, scared to trip and fall and remain stuck, losing the chance to create these words into all I know they can be.
So I’ve been researching the self-publishing route, something that I used to think was a cheating way to create a book, but actually, from what I’ve read, it seems both incredibly modern and smart.
I found an online course all about Amazon publishing, and now knowing how to recognize the familiar fear that arises with new opportunity, I didn’t hesitate or talk myself out of purchasing it. I deposited money taken from my stash of “yoga cash,” and bought the $97 workshop.
While I educate myself, I trust the next step will be figured out and presented within perfect timing. And in the meantime, I’m still editing and forming my journal entries into a story worth reading. Right now, that’s my goal for the next few weeks. As well as continuing to grow this lovely little baby.
Grandma told me the other night that she thinks it’s a girl. And to me, Grandma is right about everything, especially when it comes to babies.
I haven’t allowed myself to admit what I think the gender is, because I was proven entirely wrong with Everett. But I’ll follow her hunch, secretly knowing it agrees with mine.