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Her name was Sadie—part this and part that, but mostly she was heart that she shared with her owner and my friend for sixteen years—until this morning.
Soulful brown eyes, floppy ears, smooth-haired brown and black coat, she was a companion to relatives, neighbors, kids, visitors, and other dogs. Her tendency to share her spirit so liberally was tendered by her owner, selfless and kind.
Whatever experiences Sadie had with a previous owner are unknown, but whatever their quality, she quickly bonded with her new one. Early years of romping outdoors, of sharing life’s joy and hits only deepened their relationship all the more. Daily walks among well-wishers, routine appointments kept at the vet and the groomer, care with nutrition and hydration kept Sadie fit and spirited and welcoming.
Then, signs of aging required more attention. Systems and joints slowed down, even requiring a ramp hitched to the back porch for access to their bungalow. Sensory deficit and signs of dementia appeared, necessitating nightly vigils that kept both awake. But last night’s was the worst. The decision was made.
It happened this bitterly cold morning. Close neighbors wrapped Sadie in blankets, held the tearful homebound owner, and left for the veterinarian.
Their later return completed the story, midst more tears and hugs and camaraderie.
Sadie’s spirit has completed her sojourn here, and continues on, per the research of world renowned medium spiritual James Van Praagh. His latest, Wisdom from Your Spirit Guides: A Handbook to Contact Your Greatest Teachers (2019) opens up this world to readers.
Sadie’s owner was critical to her psychic growth and I believe they will be reunited—here and in the beyond.
At 1:15 A.M., I awoke with this lovely dream:
Sunshine swelled four yellow rosebuds atop a barren hill, still captive to freezing rains. Sandaled toddlers crouched around the plants, tentatively touched the petals, and giggled.
As I recorded the dream by my nightstand, deep smiles warmed my psyche—evidence, within, that all is well, despite increasing symptoms of my terminal illness, despite deepening global confusion over vaccines, masking, spread of disease.
Sunshine, always an empowerment of Truth, makes clear the imprecise, reveals hidden shit-abysses, and warms chilled fingers and toes. Under its influence, every cell flushes with total well-being; flagging energies perk up like blustery winds snapping sails of frigates.
The yellow color of the rosebuds suggests joy, illumination, dissemination, intuition, intellect, and magnanimity and further weights the image of the rosebuds with Sacred significance.
The four rosebuds also speak of quaternity or ultimate wholeness: it establishes an indelible presence to counter our politically divided world, the barren hill in the dream, tangled within social media—as does Dante’s White Rose symbolize the concentric spheres of The Paradiso (1320), among the fractious Guelph and Ghibelline parties in Italy.
And of course, toddlers, the lowly of heart of any age, are drawn to such play. They know how to pause and wonder, having found comparable images within.
Do You Want To Get Well Again? – John 5:7
Yet another question I pose to myself as I continue reflecting upon Jesus of Nazareth this Holy Week.
Those who received his healing touch or word or presence in first century Palestine remembered, his story committed to oral tradition that fired hearts—especially true of the man, afflicted thirty-eight years with crippling pain and inability to walk as narrated in John’s Gospel. Not only did he roll up his mat and walk, he was challenged to let go of his crankiness and serve others.
So what about this centuries-old invitation to wellness still offered by Jesus? What could have been his intent? Many with chronic pain and illness plea for respite, their drugs only dulling symptoms and educing brain fog. Hopelessness besmirches attitudes and outlooks. Suicide claims lives.
Like that peasant slouching near the pool at the Sheep Gate waiting for the water to move, I had prayed for joint healing, there being no effective medical or surgical treatment by rheumatologists and surgeons—and I was seen by the best wherever I lived.
Somehow, I slogged on, until discovering AA meetings that jimmied open my psychic heart-crust, tasteless as burnt toast: within, maggots disguised as the seven deadly sins wiggled and tangled for space. Such disorder was and is amenable of removal through daily application of the Twelve Steps. Jesus says, as much, in his Sermon on the Mount. In my perception, that’s the deeper wellness Jesus intended for the cripple, and for me as I continue healing in my transition, one day at a time.
Heart Whisperings 