It’s late at night. The house is quiet. The dogs are quiet. The little one who reins over my existence has long since gone to bed, and Leslie is on the couch with Jack’s head in her lap. Her eyes are closed, and so are his, as well.
Peace.
I close my eyes. Gregor and I walk the shore of Gulf Beach. It’s dark outside, and the stars twinkle above us, almost as bright as the red, multi-faceted crystal on his chest, and the shining, colored scales all over his immense body. Looking at him with my inner eye is almost too much to bear, as he seems made entirely of light. The moon is full, as it always is in this timeless place I visit from time to time. My old, white Catalina is parked above the sand, behind the retaining wall, a token of days gone by. I’ve tucked the keys atop the front left wheel as always. Dolly Parton dangles from the keychain where she has since I was old enough to drive. I’ve had a million adventures in that car, and the sight of it makes me smile.
Gregor speaks using words when we converse because I am not yet used to telepathy. In this he indulges me because we share our thoughts, as well, even though we are completely transparent to one another psychically. He is walking beside me and despite his size, his feet make no prints in the sand. My feet are in cowboy boots. That is, until I remove all my astral clothing, and sprout fins to take to the sea.
Under the water, we glide like dolphins. I am a mermaid, and Gregor is a sea serpent. We go through caves that are so tight, I outreach my hands and can feel the sides, and yet he fits as formless as ever. It is quite serendipitous, our being here together; after all, he’s been with me since birth. First, he was the heart of my grandfather. And now, that red crystal is the essence of my grandfather’s heart, watching over me.
I close my eyes. Gregor and I walk the shore of Gulf Beach. It’s dark outside, and the stars twinkle above us, almost as bright as the red, multi-faceted crystal on his chest, and the shining, colored scales all over his immense body. Looking at him with my inner eye is almost too much to bear, as he seems made entirely of light. The moon is full, as it always is in this timeless place I visit from time to time. My old, white Catalina is parked above the sand, behind the retaining wall, a token of days gone by. I’ve tucked the keys atop the front left wheel as always. Dolly Parton dangles from the keychain where she has since I was old enough to drive. I’ve had a million adventures in that car, and the sight of it makes me smile.
Gregor speaks using words when we converse because I am not yet used to telepathy. In this he indulges me because we share our thoughts, as well, even though we are completely transparent to one another psychically. He is walking beside me and despite his size, his feet make no prints in the sand. My feet are in cowboy boots. That is, until I remove all my astral clothing, and sprout fins to take to the sea.
Under the water, we glide like dolphins. I am a mermaid, and Gregor is a sea serpent. We go through caves that are so tight, I outreach my hands and can feel the sides, and yet he fits as formless as ever. It is quite serendipitous, our being here together; after all, he’s been with me since birth. First, he was the heart of my grandfather. And now, that red crystal is the essence of my grandfather’s heart, watching over me.
I couldn’t see this. I couldn’t see Gregor until I was ready.
It doesn’t matter, really, he tells me in his deep, lumbering voice. All things are as they should be. You are precisely where you should be on your path.
I am quiet.
Gregor and I visit the old temple on Charles Island. I’ve visited countless times during meditation, but not recently. I show him how lovely it is, and I walk the familiar spiral staircase slowly, running my hand along the iron railing, surrendering to it's call for psychic expansion. The temple is a glass front sanctuary, nestled in a hillside, a place I knew as a child. Where once it was only me, now it is we. I feel it all there on the staircase.
How appropriate and timely it is that Gregor joins me as my body begins it’s changes, and low grade hot flashes, of which I’ve had two already, begin. How strange it is that I get these hot flashes around the same time my daughter comes of age, that I muddle through weeks of mental mist before the mist is lifted, and I can think again.
Mist.
Gregor likes the mist.
During the rain, when we drive up the hill after dropping off Elizabeth at school, I hear his wings beating and cracking above the van. I feel the power of his flight, and it’s like standing close to a train's engine as it fires up to pull out of the station. When the van jolts to a stop, it’s his razor sharp claws resting atop the roof. Along Highway 280, he playfully pivots and races through the mountains, where the clouds and the land become one. I watch him with sleepy eyes from the passenger’s side, content that he is happy, my spirit soaring with him. Leslie is between us, and she senses him, senses the change within me, but cannot yet see him.
It doesn’t matter, really, he tells me in his deep, lumbering voice. All things are as they should be. You are precisely where you should be on your path.
I am quiet.
Gregor and I visit the old temple on Charles Island. I’ve visited countless times during meditation, but not recently. I show him how lovely it is, and I walk the familiar spiral staircase slowly, running my hand along the iron railing, surrendering to it's call for psychic expansion. The temple is a glass front sanctuary, nestled in a hillside, a place I knew as a child. Where once it was only me, now it is we. I feel it all there on the staircase.
How appropriate and timely it is that Gregor joins me as my body begins it’s changes, and low grade hot flashes, of which I’ve had two already, begin. How strange it is that I get these hot flashes around the same time my daughter comes of age, that I muddle through weeks of mental mist before the mist is lifted, and I can think again.
Mist.
Gregor likes the mist.
During the rain, when we drive up the hill after dropping off Elizabeth at school, I hear his wings beating and cracking above the van. I feel the power of his flight, and it’s like standing close to a train's engine as it fires up to pull out of the station. When the van jolts to a stop, it’s his razor sharp claws resting atop the roof. Along Highway 280, he playfully pivots and races through the mountains, where the clouds and the land become one. I watch him with sleepy eyes from the passenger’s side, content that he is happy, my spirit soaring with him. Leslie is between us, and she senses him, senses the change within me, but cannot yet see him.
It won’t be long before she does.
I ask him why he enjoys the mist so much, telepathically this time, and he answers with a chuckle. It gives him form in an otherwise veiled countenance, he says, and he longs to be seen by everyone. He longs for the sleepers to awaken.
Ah, I answer. How appropriate.
I ask him why he enjoys the mist so much, telepathically this time, and he answers with a chuckle. It gives him form in an otherwise veiled countenance, he says, and he longs to be seen by everyone. He longs for the sleepers to awaken.
Ah, I answer. How appropriate.
