Witness to a Funeral Pyre
As my friend Martha understands, because she feels the same way, I’m directed what to write. The Divine is where my source comes from. Last Friday while checking out my local news on Patch, I saw a friend of mine had transitioned.
I went to the service on Monday and while sitting in my pew, I was blasted with thoughts and images. I’m convinced these thoughts were given to me by the Divine.
So that I could write a blog today about it. This is what I was Divinely directed to write:
A young boy is sitting on a hill, surreptitiously watching a funeral pyre. Friends and family of the deceased are attending the service when one of the group gets up, with a torch in hand and slowly strolls over to a mound, the young man bows his head before the mound and his mouth moves whispering something the young boy on the hill cannot understand. Then the torch is brought to the mound and suddenly bright flames lick at the brush stacked around the corpse, the shell, the body. As the flames dance closer to the body, ash begins to float through the air and the young boy on the hill shuts his eyes tight then opens them again, not really believing what he is seeing.
The ashes are coalescing into form. As they dissipate into nothingness they are immediately taking shape. He can’t be seeing what he is seeing. The young boy shuts his eyes again and this time keeps them so tightly shut that he sees tiny pinpricks of light exploding.
He counts to ten.
He counts to fifteen.
He opens his eyes.
There, slowly strolling up the hill, is a young woman bathed in an aura of white. There are still remnants of ash following after filling in spaces of white. The young boy, not really accepting what he is seeing, but seeing it just the same, turns to the mourners below and shouts at the top of his lungs:
Why do you mourn? Do you not see?
The mourners turn their eyes to the boy on the hill. They appear agitated that their peaceful ceremony has been interrupted. One of them moves to race up the hill after the interloper. He is held back by the young boy’s echo:
There is no death! The young boy shouts down the hill. Don’t you see? and he points to the woman standing in front of him.
The woman bathed in white shakes her head at the boy.
They cannot see she says. You can see, she says before he has chance to question. because the young have not yet been filtered. The woman has a paint brush in one hand and violin in the other. She places both down and they dissipate into air just as she was formed. She sits down beside the young boy and whispers something in his ear. He tilts his head, questioning her. She nods.
The young boy stands up and addresses the mourners.
She says and he points to where the woman is standing, where only he can see her, that life is never ending, that life recycles itself, that she will be back, that each of us will be back. That we will all see each other over and over and over. The young boy glanced at the woman in white. He sees her nod. She whispers in his ear again. Okay! he says. The young boy turns back to the mourners. She says she remembers painting. She says she remembers playing the violin.
The mourners go silent. She says Don’t mourn for me. I’m home now and when each of you return here I will be waiting. Then we can go back and find each other again. Life is never ending. We will all find each other again over and over and over.
As I’ve said so many times here, I really don’t expect everyone to be on the same page with me. I don’t expect everyone to believe what I do. However, that won’t prevent me from writing what I’m directed to write. If what I have to say helps even one person then I’ve done what I’ve been sent to do. It’s like the saying and the movement:
Pay it forward.
If I help one person and that one person helps someone else the movement will grow exponentially. I hope I’ve helped one person with my thoughts today.
Be Happy! Be Well! Be Positive!
Blessings to you.