Despite having Chris Stapleton’s encouraging song as my theme for an entire year, and despite getting up, bathing, dressing, and sometimes even going out, I’ve been unable to restart my life since my husband’s death in 2021. I acknowledge that part of that inability is having had no real desire to continue. My dear family has kept me from the darkest points and they’ve inspired me in trying to recover some sense of self and maybe consider the possibility of joy again.
But nothing has sustained any momentum built, and each day has continued to be a re-grieving, as I wake up and reach for him and he’s not there. This week is always particularly difficult, as our birthdays- four days apart- were always celebrated all week, sometimes culminating in a group “Gemini Party”at our house. I’ve consequently alternated between sadness and anger, failing miserably at my attempts to distract myself and be cool.
A few weeks ago, a dear friend with whom I‘d reconnected a year or so ago, called me out of the blue to deliver a message he’d received from Spirit. The message was, “Don’t hold hands with the dead” repeated several times.
Now ordinarily, I’d have taken that as metaphor, a reminder that like it or not, I’m still on this side of the grave and that I need to somehow let go or something like that. And to some degree that is how I decided to interpret it. But in reality, his words hit me like a baseball bat, because about a month before his call, I’d held my late husband’s hand.
This came about after one particularly intense bout of tearfully crying out for him to return to me or take me to where he is. Wracking sobs and entreaties led to the sense of his presence. I often sense him to be here, but lately I’d been making a conscious effort to move away from magical thinking and to accept this as a psychological manifestation of my grief.
So on this particular night, still sobbing, I yelled out “You’re not really here, you’re dead and I have to stop this! You’re not coming back and I have to get that through my head.”
Turning away, I heard his voice: I am here, Anjana. I love you and I’m here.”
Then, “Hold out your hand, Anjana.”
Cautiously, I opened my hand, wondering what it meant. And just then, as I lay on my bed with my arm extended and palm open, I felt my husband’s hand in mine. The weight, the warmth, the texture of his hand, first simply on mine, then encircling my fingers, as he’d done ten thousand times. And I felt the most profound sense of peace and love I’d felt since his passing.
Shocked and joyous, I sat upright and said, “You’re here! You’re really here!!!”
Quietly, he responded in that sweet voice I knew so well, “I’m here, Anjana. I’m always really here.”
Happy, but confused, I asked why I couldn’t see him, why I’d never felt him so corporeally before. And he began to explain the tremendous amount of energy such manifestations require, and how it was not something he could or should do regularly.
This made sense to me and fit with things I’d been taught when young, so I accepted the gift of his presence and basked in the sense of him and the love that permeated the room.
Now this might be a good time to add a bit more about my husband. Although everyone saw me as the spiritual leader and more advanced soul, I knew that my husband had some special qualities that I’d felt only with a very few spiritual teachers and other folks. He was almost always cheerful in his quiet way, and had an amazing ability to calm my rather high strung nerves simply by entering into my presence. As he was doing that night, he would simply hold my hand and my blood pressure would drop 10-20 points to normal. I’m not talking about the grounding that comes from being with someone you love, I’m talking about what yogis would call a siddhi, and being my walking valium wasn’t his only power.
Perhaps my favorite was his ability to keep me warm. While most men tend to have warmer bodies than women, Ray could aim and project his heat. He’d ask where I was cold and without moving a muscle, I’d feel toasty radiant heat in whatever area I’d specified. I asked him once how he was able to do it, because it really was extraordinary, and he said he didn’t know. He simply thought it and it went there. In 37 years, I’d never had cold feet or hands and my first winter without him came as a complete shock, requiring socks, extra blankets, and a portable heater.
When he died, a dear friend who is a Buddhist monk, did a traditional seven day ritual for his spirit. At the end of that period, he contacted me and said “You know Raymond is a bodhisattva!” I answered that I wasn’t surprised, and he continued, “He has offered to remain in this realm in order to help others, and you can call on him whenever you need him. He’ll be here for you and for others.”
I openly wept, because being of service and helping people was what he always wanted to do. I managed to say only “I can believe that.”Going through his notebooks after his death, I found plans he had for starting a business dedicated to helping elders and invalids, providing the services that often fall between the cracks: running errands, household chores that cleaners might not do. Just generally being useful and bringing his air of patient kindness and respect to everyone he met.
So I took my friend’s message not to hold hands with the dead quite seriously, even as I mentally rejected it, because I knew in my heart that if my husband wanted to hold hands with me, we were going to hold hands. That intense act had brought me the most fulfilling sense of peace and of being loved that I’d felt in nearly four years, and with respect, I knew I’d always take his hand whenever he extended it to me, just as I had in life. It was the one gesture he would use that could cut through my anger or hurt or fear and bring me back to balance and comfort and love. If he added his exaggerated, big eyed, tilted head look, he knew I’d laugh. It was, for whatever reason, a locus of his considerable ability to divert my anger and remind me of how much I always loved him, even when he was being a complete asshole or fool. He always knew that once I took his hand, I’d be his, always. And resist as I might for a while, at some point, I was going to take the hand that waited patiently and confidently for mine.
And no, I wasn’t going to lie to myself: if he graced me with his physical presence again I was sure as hell going to hold his warm, cushy hand. But I did make a decision to practice being more present in my life and to make an effort to accept being alive and find ways to seek joy in that. Best I could offer, and still not an easy row to hoe. But I’m trying, and today was one of those remarkably sweet days, starting with listening six times to a song my friend wrote for his beautiful wife one Valentine’s Day. And as I listened, I almost heard Raymond singing it to me, exactly the kind of song he’d sing for me to make me smile or rock me to sleep.
With an energy I haven’t felt in some time, I got two loads of clothes washed and folded, completely rearranged the pantry, and most significantly, cooked in a way I haven’t since my husband died. I cooked as though he was here and I could see the complete rapture with which he ate my food, making me feel like the most revered chef in the world. I made two of his favorite dishes and a big pot of coffee, just the way he’d like. And I felt love for myself in taking care of me as he did, cooking all day for the first time in four years and taking care of things I’ve neglected or done only minimally.
Love uplifts and love sustains. Real love might make you a little crazy sometimes, but love weathers even the tsunamis of grief. True love never ends.
And that’s the thatness of that.
https://youtu.be/-Bu0vN9W_JI?si=H8lvQ83dR1AisOBe
shamamaspeaks 