I don’t surround myself with enough people that speak of spiritual experiences and sometimes it means I feel incredibly alone. When I have dreams that scare me and deter me from speaking about mine, I secretly believe it’s the evil in the world attacking me while I sleep. I genuinely believe in the war between light and dark and that when people are making the most progress, getting the closest to uncovering their true light and loving nature, it’s when the darkness pushes in the hardest.
I believe that sometimes evil looks like good and from the outside looking in, maybe this looks like I’m a paranoid schizophrenic, the way I walk around talking to myself, the voices in my head, trying to reassure myself and them that we’re okay and can hold our own ground even when under attack. The attackers only have as much power as you give them. Sometimes, I might believe you if you try to say I am. On my good days though, the ones where the real me is showing, I know that the me that would believe that is being influenced by the depths of her own darkness.
But I’m still afraid to tell anyone because I know that I sound nuts. Past versions of myself, versions before this level of understanding and awareness would have said the same. But the more I keep quiet, the more I feel like I’m slipping away. If you’re here, if you know what I’m talking about, I promise you’re not alone.
Spiritual Encounters
Can we talk about how a mourning dove sat on my window sill the day I found out I was having a miscarriage?
It’s not a coincidence and I’m not crazy.
I’ve been picking up a penny a day for weeks, maybe months now – always on random spots on the ground, only ever when I need a boost of encouragement.
I look up and say thank you.
Just because coin is the first portion of coincidence doesn’t make it one and I’m not crazy.
I believe he was there with me, at the black gate when the gun went off into our chest, before we were separate people.
There are scars to prove it.
I can’t believe it could be a coincidence and I swear, I’m not crazy.
She was there too and I don’t know how to say that his aunt, my grandmother, the same, there.
I know, now I sound crazy.
Can we talk about the black figure that swept across the room as Coach gave a speech?
I nearly jumped out of my skin, wanted to watch the replay.
Can we acknowledge that it was the same figure that swept across my bedroom ceiling before the baby was gone, illuminated in a dark room?
It can’t be a coincidence and I’m done discrediting myself by saying “I’m just crazy”.
Why does no one talk about the way a person’s eyes can go black, glazed over, in the middle of an otherwise ordinary, intimate, moment?
I’m still wondering if I was the problem. Problem is the wrong word but I’ve been proceeding as if I am, cleaning up my act.
When I was pulled to go meet him, a gentle ache, whisper
there’s no way it was a coincidence, even as he asked if we were crazy.
I don’t think there’s any way to imagine, as vividly as I experienced, face down in bed as hands that weren’t mine, couldn’t be seen, touched me.
I know, honestly, I know it sounds crazy. I do. But I only feel crazy when I try to hide these things, the truth.
Can anyone tell me, someone, that I’m not alone? Do you feel them, see them too? I told him we weren’t crazy and believed it but now I need someone to reassure me too.
Much love, until next time.
Madeline May I... 