Doris and Eddie

The look of Cape Cod: Dennisport Village Cabins

We bought the cottage on Bayberry Lane—the one with the sparse grass and a pine branch for a swing—so that for two weeks each summer, our daughters could hunt sand crabs in tidal pools at the beach and, at sunset, wearing sweatshirts, eat hot macaroni and cheese.

Eddie and Doris lived in a weathered, gray-shingled cottage, like ours, behind us—Eddie was in his nineties and Doris, self-determined, forthright, and highly-capable, in her seventies. They had no children as she’d raised her brothers and sisters. I was impressed by her and a little scared—as with someone who is certain of how things are to be done.

One day Doris and I were out back looking at the red impatiens edging their home’s cement block foundation. The plants needed watering. It was Eddie’s job, she pointed out, so she was going to leave them—and not with any reproof of him. She respected his dignity and would not interfere.

With my husband, it was different. I supported his decisions, but there was oblivion on my part that came out when we divorced—as to who he really was, and where I didn’t respect his dignity. Doris had a grip on this—an understanding that’s taken me my years of learning.

My realization is, "We are given cameos of truth—mere moments of a few words that may, then or later, alter our course and keep us true to the highest view of one another."

Willie Nelson

Rowena Cramer and Barbara, 1944

"I like Willie Nelson!" said my mom with affection, while I wondered—who is that? But of the moments I’d had with her since leaving home—this one stuck.

Many years later, as I was closing my counseling office door this night, Jason interrupted my leaving to quietly say, "Your mother says, 'Thank you.'" Knowing that he receives messages from spirit, I said, "Thank you, Jason." The following morning I received a call that my mother had passed away. My sister guided us through a memorial service at a lovely nursing home on Narragansett Bay. When my moment to speak came, I turned on my tape recorder. My mother and I used to dance around my parents' living room on the blue, wool carpet—our feet pressing down its soft thickness in glides and turns, until the music ended with our laughter. Now, invisibly taking her into dance position, we glided around the platform to On the Sunny Side of the Street.

Three years ago, one daughter had helped me buy an iPod, downloading eleven songs—all I could think of. This year, by myself, I downloaded a list that included Willie Nelson’s recording of On the Sunny Side of the Street. As I listened to Willie’s voice, I felt an inner melting and knew what my mother had found, and that—just then—she was with me.

My realization is, "There are currents that come and go in our lives, carrying us all-knowingly, until we, for reasons beyond us, discover their guidance."

The Smallest Size Possible

Design by Stephen Michael Camp

June 1997—eight months now since my second husband, Stephen, has passed over. I am at a Conference of Coptic Priests;* Stephen was to be a presenter. Combing through his materials, I’ve found a song he wrote that refers to the Nile River that I will play; I’ve written a brief, heart-centered commentary about him to replace his words. We are in Maine. I say "we" because my dad, from Rhode Island, decided to come. I was surprised—then appreciative. Even with all of the exposure I’ve had to spiritual training, I will be amazed by what is going to happen.

Entering the room, we see chairs in rows and to the left a welcoming line that my dad approaches first. I have turned away, but looking back see his six foot four and three-quarter inches’ frame on the floor in the smallest size possible— knees bent, forehead on the wood, hands still. I cannot imagine ….

After he’s done with the greetings, I ask him why he bowed to this man. Fifteen years later, beyond his exact words, I remember they expressed his "honoring" him. I had earlier guessed my dad had felt an inexpressible "tug" from a past life at the moment he’d locked eyes with the other man.

 In my future spiritual training, I would hear a spiritual teacher refer to my dad’s view of me as "ah, favorite daughter" referring to our having been father and daughter in an Egyptian lifetime—one of his millions* of former lives.

My realization is, "Views of our parents may extend throughout our entire lifetime without our awareness of past life connections being recreated in the present."

*As I am no longer connected with the people who invited Stephen and me to this conference, nor do I remember it in detail, I am unable to offer the context of "Coptic Priest" at this convening. My search on Wikipedia didn’t prompt my memory nor did it have familiar information.

*Meher Baba says we have 8, 400,000 lifetimes.