Spring Always Comes

I went to a women’s luncheon last week, and the entertainment was provided by a lovely woman from England. She stood there, petite and serene, alone with her guitar, and sang a little melody called “Spring Always Comes.”  I suppose all my friends on the East Coast could use a little encouragement like that right now.

Here in the Southwest, spring is already here, although it doesn’t arrive officially until Monday. The trees are in bloom, the sun is warm, and today there was a perfect, gentle breeze that seemed to kiss the new life around it – the blooming irises, the cherry blossoms, and people like me, who felt renewed and young.

I get messages from the Universe (my readers know that), but I’m getting better at noticing them when they appear. That little song was one of them. It must be, because I can’t get it out of my head. The more I say it, the more I think about it, the more it resounds with truth: Spring Always Comes.

Seeds germinate in the harshest of conditions, in drought and in drowning water. Trees withstand unrelenting cold and wind, appearing to all but those who know better, as dead. We humans see this return to life every year and yet, so many of us still cannot believe that an all-knowing, all-loving God would grant us, His children, the same ongoing cycle of life.

As for me, I do not believe in death. I believe only in life. I believe that Spring Always Comes, and that is why I listen for the voices of the ones I love who have gone on to another spring – my son Eddie, my husband Bill, my mother, my father. And why should they not speak to me? Shall I not speak to my children when I leave this pasture? Shall I not try to let them know that I am alive and renewed in another springtime?

And why would God grant me only one spring? I believe that I have lived before, many, many times. I have evidence of at least one former life. I wrote a book about it. Haven’t we all felt that that one lifetime is not long enough? It isn’t. One lifetime is not long enough.  We have so much to learn!  Can we learn true compassion, can we learn complete and utter forgiveness in one stumbling, error-filled life? We are all capable of it, but it takes…time. Times.

If we are vigilant and willing, we accept our lessons as gifts, one gift at a time. This lifetime has been a full one for me. I have learned from death that there is no death. I have learned that whatever energy I project onto the world or onto another I project onto myself, whether it is positive or negative. I have forgiven someone in this lifetime I thought I could never forgive, and as the result of that forgiveness, a tinnitus in my ear and a pain in my head for which no doctor or expert could find a cause…went away. It went away finally when I realized I had to forgive more than the blows I had received from this person in this lifetime. I learned the meaning of the admonition in Scripture to forgive “seventy times seven.” For me, it meant forgiveness for every lifetime I suffered a blow to the head at the hands of this same person, the signal to me being the pain in the same spot in my head, the ringing in my ears that wouldn’t go away. I had to forgive the blows that even caused death. Can we learn to forgive seventy times seven in one lifetime? It took me until now, until this lifetime to do it.

And so, Ultimate Love gives us spring, after spring, after spring, to grow, to experience winter, to reawaken, to be born anew, to learn that that we can become the true, perfect beings that we are, the beings that we started out to be, before …ah, but that’s another thing altogether.

If you are still digging out of the snow, if it is still cold and damp, if it’s dark, be assured, be happy, because Spring Always Comes. Always.

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Read The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney. Find it at www.amazon.com. For a signed copy, go to www.themessenger.space.

 

 

 

 

A Vision of Forever

Last week, I traveled back East to go to a retirement party. It wasn’t just any retirement party; it was for someone I have worked with and worked for, for a long, long time. There was a ballroom full of people. I saw people there whom I’ve known most of my working life, colleagues who became old and dear friends. It was a grand goodbye, not just to my friend who was retiring, but also to the organization that had been my home and my family for the last forty-five years. For his retirement marked my own. I worked for him and him alone, and when he was finished his work, so was I.

When I was young, I didn’t know that when I watched the sun set and the sun rise, when I saw the summer end, and watched as autumn redid the colors of the forest, that I was witnessing the eternal cycle that encompassed all of life. I didn’t know yet about death and life, and life and death. I didn’t know about the cycle of letting in and letting go.

Just before my trip, I learned of the death of an old friend and a colleague. This week, I learned of the death of the nephew of a friend of mine. This morning, I spoke to a woman whose son’s best friend is dying. This afternoon I went to a memorial service for the husband of a woman I have come to know here in Sedona, and spoke to another there whose partner died two months ago. There are times when it seems as if death is everywhere. And it is. I’ve seen it come to people I know and to people I love. It is how I came to write my book; it is why I write this blog. It was death that brought me here, but it was witnessing the cycle of letting in and letting go that taught me the little I know.

And today, here I am, of a certain age, knowing that death is not followed only by the space life used to occupy. I am able to see life all around me, sure that it doesn’t go anywhere. The sun sets and the leaves fall, and life continues. It changes form, but it doesn’t go anywhere. A tree will fall and leave its seed in the ground to grow again.

But even when we know what death is—the shedding of the physical body for an ethereal body, a spirit body, a non-suffering body, the loss of that beloved physical presence is painful and heartbreaking. Even when we know that our loved one is safe and happy, it is a long while before we can feel anything but grief. But grief, too, is part of the cycle. It, like the snow and ice of winter, is followed by unforeseen and unimaginable gifts, whether we want them or not.

In the past couple of days, I’ve seen a movie or two, heard a song here and there, and read a poem, all of which had pretty much the same theme—letting in and letting go. L’Histoire de la Vie. The Circle of Life. The 1946 movie and great novel, The Yearling.  They all came to me within a few days of each other. When this happens, especially in the midst of a grand goodbye, several deaths and a memorial service, I stop and listen. Apparently, the Universe is trying to tell me something, or remind me of something.

I think It is saying, Look. Look again. See how this works. It is happening all the time and everywhere. Some of it will break your heart. But all of it is followed by something you’ve never had before—the wonder of life without end, the gift of love, and a vision of forever.

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Read The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney. Find it at www.amazon.com  For a signed copy, go to www.themessenger.space

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Mother’s Day 2016

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To the mothers who have lost children, my heart is with you today. I am one of you. I believe that upon the death of a child, our first instinct is to die immediately. It was mine. I think it is the natural response to the unthinkable, unnatural reversal of order. We want to put it right.

Nothing I could find explained the unnatural error that the death of a child presupposes. There were no answers for me in psychiatry or religion. Not even the love of my daughters could ease the pain. But I was lucky to have them. I have two friends whose only children have died. At her daughter’s funeral, one of them asked me, “Am I still a mother?” “Oh, yes,” I said, “She is just…over there.” By that time, things had happened to me.

A little book fell into my hand one day and reading it opened a door into the world of spirit. I began a long search and over the years, I found answers I couldn’t have dreamed of on my own, and they didn’t come in the way I expected. Nothing miraculous does.  I came to understand that contrary to everything I believed, the Universe, or Whatever Life Force it is that takes care of us, was kind and loving. I learned that death is temporary and that life is all there is. I was presented with evidence that my child continued beyond the event called death and that I was loved beyond my understanding, as was he.

To the mothers who have lost children, I extend my unassailable belief that there is something waiting for you, some great Love that will give you strength and courage. It may come in the form of little signs, little evidences, that your child is beside you, loving you still, loving you more. And that will change you. There may be sudden insights that will teach you how to live and be happy. Trust your intuition. Pay no attention to the naysayers. What do they know? There are things in this world and in other worlds that they cannot dream of.

And to the children whose mothers have entered into spirit, as mine has, and especially to Martha’s children, I send you the same message on this Mother’s Day, of hope, of a belief in life, and the certain knowledge that one day you will sense your mother near, if you haven’t already. When it happens, you will know it. It will feel like love, for it is love that continues after the thing called death. It will make itself known.  Love speaks to us in small ways, in light touches, in gentle messages from our loved ones in spirit, because Nobody’s Gone for Good.

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Read The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney. It may be found at www.Amazon.com and on her new website: www.themessenger.space

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Resurrection

For those friends who celebrate Easter, I wish you a happy one. And for all my friends, I wish you happy thoughts of life everlasting, of waking up from death to find that you are still…being—still alive, still in possession of consciousness, still able to dream, still able to love, free from pain, free from fear. Safe and at peace, looking back at the dream you have left and the dreams you have still to live. Full of hope. Knowing that there is no future, that there is only now. Forever.

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Read The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney. Find it at www.Amazon.com

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