‘Loving Ellie’ #12

10/10/09
The night after dad left I drank a whole bottle of vodka and thought about death and abandonment. I was primal in my pain.
The next day was actually a surprisingly good day. And now we’re at today. Today I went to see a spiritual healer. I haven’t seen her for ages. I went a few times after Ross and I broke up the first time, back when I was 23. I was always slightly sceptical, but I kept an open mind and she really did seem to help. I was so nervous this time though. It was intense for me before. I had very vivid visions that were often emotional and difficult to bear. I knew I would get some visions today, and that they would be full-on. But I wasn’t sure how intense they would be, or what form they would take. But because I haven’t been able to reach my mum in my dreams, I was both hoping and dreading being able to reach her somehow.
And I did.

It started out the same as it always does at first – the heavy feeling in my body, the tingling, and the ringing energy all around me. Then the visions abruptly started. I was standing on the rocks down on the breakwater in Bunbury, staring out to a stormy sea, wearing a flowing black dress. She was there, standing beside me. Immediately my anger and frustration came to the fore. I started talking to her, demanding answers; it was a verbal frenzy of desperation. Then something in me told me to be quiet – that I just needed to watch and listen, and I would get the answers that had eluded me in my nightmares. So I did. We stood there in silence for a while, just watching the tumultuous ocean having its wicked way with the rocks. There was an air of sadness that lingered hauntingly.
Then the Bunbury house came into focus. But it was different. The veranda wrapped around the side of the house, and the sun shone a new light on the dilapidated frame. I knew that it was mine and it was where I belonged. But I was not physically present there, I was watching from afar.
That vision faded and an island beach assumed its place in my mind’s eye. I have seen this beach many times before. It is my island that I often visited in visions and meditations. It looked the same at first. Then I looked to my right and saw the wastage and destruction of my island. I saw a scene of burning, fire, and chemical pollution. It was being ravaged and undone. Clad in my black dress I watched, unmoved, unable to summon the strength to do anything about the destruction.
Then a voice inside me said, ‘Show me where she is. I know where I am. I need to know where she is’.
And there she was – on the beach, donned in her most festive travelling attire. She held her shiny glittery sandals in her hand, no doubt a freshly purchased pair to add to her staggeringly growing foreign collection.
I asked her if this was her place. She laughed and said, ‘Of course not, it’s too calm and boring! My place is far more interesting’.
The beach blurred and shifted, and then it was the same place, but the beach was suddenly lined with shops, stalls, people, laughter, music and amazingly vibrant hustle and bustle.
Then there were flashes of her shopping, and chatting vivaciously with gaggles of people. Then a whirlwind of images – all of her travelling, travelling, travelling. She was exploring, adventuring, drinking, and laughing. There was the beach again, and then a city, a market stall, a desert, a ship, a mountain, and then just that beautiful beach.
I then experienced an abrupt silence and darkness. A vision of falling to the ground in the darkness came upon me. Cold tiles were beneath me. There was a heaviness in my chest. I rolled onto my back and realised that I was her. I was her in the moment she fell in the bathroom at school – the moment where her life suddenly escaped her. I am her only for a moment. Then more flashes of travels and memories thunder majestically through my mind, in between images of the bathroom ceiling. It seems unbearable. I don’t like it. This is not what I want to see – to experience.
‘Just wait,’ the little inner voice says.
And then I am not her anymore. I am not a being at all. I am now watching the scene from the ceiling. There are people crowding into the little bathroom, making a fuss and a lot of noise. I see them moving but I cannot hear them.
Then I see myself. I am lying beside her, curled up against her left side. I am wearing the beautiful gown I wrote her eulogy in, and my tiny son is clasped in my arms, nestled safely between us. It is a hauntingly beautiful image. I slip into my own body and lay there beside her, staring at her. She looks into my eyes with her blue vital ones, so like mine. I ask her not to leave. I ask her if she wants to leave, if she knows what’s happening. She cannot speak to me, yet I hear her voice crystal clear. She is ready to go. I don’t understand.
‘Let me show you,’ she says.
She clasps my hand and I slip into her mind. And the things I see are unimaginably beautiful and exquisite in their magnificence. I see her playing with her father as a child, laughing in the backyard in Bunbury. I see her flirting with boys at school, a mischievous twinkle in her young eyes. I see her roaming the streets of London in a fur coat, absorbing all around her. I see her laughing with her girlfriends. I see her glowing on her wedding day and standing under an arch at her reception. I see her in her car. I see her in America. I see her traversing the globe – eager, excited, curious, abundant with joy. I see her holding me with such crushing love in her heart. I see her ordering people around in Saudi, as she organised entertainment nights. I see her making her own alcohol there with the smug satisfaction of knowing that it would be dad and not her that would be arrested should she be caught partaking in illegal manufacturing. I see her playing badminton, but doing more talking that hitting. I see her in lover’s embraces, feeling content and safe. I see her shopping with her mother. But most of all I see her travelling and laughing. I see every surface of the globe, every journey she made. And I feel the overwhelming happiness she felt on her journey through life.
I hear her voice, as she is showing me this, saying, ‘How could I be anything other than happy, content and eager for the next step, the next adventure. It’s just another journey. And I’m first!’
I see her on the bow of a momentous ship, looking out to sea, with the wind in her hair and I feel her wonderful sense of anticipation at the next stage in her journey. That image lingers for a while and it feels divine.
Then I am back on the bathroom floor with her. I clench her hand tighter than it is possible to hold something, as tears roll down my cheeks. Her eyes tell me that she has had a wonderful life. That she loved every minute of it. And she is ready to go. She feels comforted by my presence. She knows that I am there with her. She knows that I will be alright. She loves me more than anything. She will take care of her grandson. She holds his tiny hand and she blesses him with her eternal love. Then she serenely slips away. The people are still gathering around me. Then Ross appears at the door and pushes through them. He walks up to me and I can feel his inner strength reaching out to stroke me.
He holds his hand out, as he says, ‘Come on my love, it’s time to go’. I get up take his hand and walk out.
I am in the hospital room, looking at myself, Ross and Aunty Anne, crying in shock over my mother’s lifeless body. My mother’s spirit, dressed in pink, stands behind me and Ross, with her hands on our shoulders.
I see Ross and me going down to Bunbury. I see us making arrangements for the funeral. I see me, in the beautiful pink and black dress that I wore that day. I see her standing at the back of the crematorium, clapping her hands together cheerfully at the pink glittery beauty of the joint. I see her moved and delighted by the beautiful words that are spoken. I see her overwhelmed with pride and love at my words. I see us all as a unit of solidarity, standing outside in the wind, releasing the balloons. I see her spirit release with them and soar majestically into the heavens.
Then I see my mum walking toward a scene. In the distance I see the front of my Uncle Chris’ house, down by the river. As my mum moves forward I see my Grammy fishing, her pants rolled up to her knees. My gramps is playing with the engine on the dingy. They look up and see her. They come running toward her joyously. There is so much happiness; it is contagious. They wrap her in their embrace, laughing and crying. It is the most joyous reunion in the history of mankind. They hold each-other.
Then my Grammy points into the near distance and says, ‘Look what we have for you’.
Mum looks over eagerly and sees thousands of beaming happy friends and ancestors’, all holding balloons. The place is lined with buffet tables and mountains of Asti-riccadonna. There is a massive gaudy glittery sign saying, ‘WELCOME ELLIE!’ with love hearts on it. She claps her hands together and springs off to mingle with her kinsmen.
There are flashes of her with her parents, who look so happy, young and content. They are going shopping, chatting, exchanging earthbound stories and heavenly ones. It is so undeniably beautiful.
Then, in the vision, I return to my earthly realm and see myself walking out onto the veranda in Bunbury. It is my veranda. I see myself holding my son in the light and watching him laugh. I see myself decorating contentedly. I see myself writing. I see myself holding my baby in the backyard. Ross is sitting on the back steps, reading the paper. I see my mum standing against the back fence, smiling at me. Then suddenly I see rows of people – my ancestors – standing alongside her, all holding hands. They wrap around the entire house, forming a fence around me and my little house. They are watching over me, protecting me and my family.
I see Ross, my son, and myself, laughing with people at the kitchen table. I see us dancing. I see us in England. I see my son brandishing a little toy sword as we walk Hadrian’s Wall. I see yard glasses of cocktails in Vegas, as I stumble into another casino with my hysterical girlfriends. I see Ross and I getting married, in our beautiful garden, with me in a simple white flowing dress. I see the way we look at each-other, and I feel the perfection of our union. I see us on the beach with the kids on a sunny day. My son, August, is running along the sand with Ross, who is laughing and chasing after him. I am sitting on a red towel, soaking up the sun and watching my little daughter, Ellie, as she toddles in the sand. And I am pregnant with another son. I am radiantly happy. We all are.
And it is how it’s meant to be. How it was always meant to be …
I can only pray that, somewhere in the near future, these visions will be my reality, for the one I am currently enduring in unbearable in its cruelty.

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