It is not sufficient any longer to listen at the end of a wire to the rustlings of galaxies; it is not enough even to examine the great coil of DNA in which is coded the very alphabet of life. These are our etended perceptions. But beyond lies the great darkness of the ultimate Dreamer, who dreamed the light and the galaxies. Before act was, or substance existed, imagination grew in the dark. -- Loren Eiseley
"Imagination grew in the dark."
The dark. The rustlings of galaxies. Is this the home of saints? The echoes of saints? When I step out on my back deck at night; when I hear the wind sighing through trees, passing me by, is imagination growing? Is that the ultimate Dreamer I hear? Or is that you, beloved sister, Karen? Or you, beloved friends, Kathy and Gwendolyn? Wait, that's you, isn't it Agnes or Genevieve? Wait, are you there, Momista?
Over the weekend, Flannista shared with Matissta and barista that lately, she spends a lot of time talking with her "communion of saints" during her daily walks. "What do you mean by that?" asked Matiss.
"What I mean is that I talk to beloveds who have died about things; for example, I find myself talking to Momista about you. I ask her stuff -- advice, etc."
"Does she answer you?" asked Matiss.
"Yes and no. I don't actually hear her voice, but when I tell her you're going through a hard time, I do feel like she's listening, but it's not like she's telling me specifically what to do or anything."
I've only had to experience six significant deaths in my six decades of life which, compared to some friends, isn't many at all. Three of those deaths were, in my opinion, premature: Karen was 46, Kathy was 50 and Gwendolyn was 55. And three of those deaths were not premature, per se, but still so sad: Agnes was 98, Genevieve was 91, Momista was 85. When I talk with these beloveds, I picture the younger beloveds/saints on one side of a large room and the older ones on the other -- like a Supreme Court in the round.
I express anger toward and solicit advice from both groups. I express anger toward the younger ones for not taking better care of their bodies; for example, for not eating better or for not seeing a doctor sooner when bewildering, and even ominous, physical symptoms first appeared. The older ones piss me off mostly because I think they died before I was able to learn everything I needed to from them.
So I walk, get out the anger, then I talk.
-- "Karen, are you still running, because every time I dream about you, you are running, but you are running past me. You peer back at me, but don't ever stop and talk to me."
-- "Kathy, you died right after your dream came true about earning an MFA in poetry. Are you pissed that six months after you got your degree, you died?"
-- "Gwendolyn, you say don't wait to write what you need to write . . . I hear you. I keep trying. How can you help me? It's a serious question. Are you watching me? What are you able to do from where you are? Breathe a little imagination my way? Or is that the role of the elders?"
-- "Genevieve, you didn't start painting until you were in your late sixties; then you also did basket weaving and knitting and read every novel by Anthony Trollope."
-- "Agnes, you danced until you died."
-- "Momista, you knew more about movies than I did."
If I asked each one of my beloveds to breathe some imagination and discipline my way, would it be like the flutter of a butterfly wing in China catching a jet stream over North America and wafting over my back deck one night when I'm peering up at the dark? I would take a small breath and inhale the creative imagination of a communion of saints?
I've heard about the thin veil that separates the sensible realms -- the physical universe; from the angelic realms -- the cosmic universe. I don't think I'm crazy when I commune with my saints or even pray for them and ask them to pray for me. I miss them and sense they miss me. So I will continue to talk to them. I will continue to wait for their soft breezes upon my cheek -- their spirits passing by; their breaths inspiring my imagination.