Several years ago a friend, her son and daughter-in-law visited a wolf sanctuary that allowed visitors close proximity to the wolves—but only if the wolves consented. They might approach or remain warily at a distance, depending on their mood. And depending on the energy they sensed from the humans on the other side of the fence that maintained safety for both species.
My friend has long had an affinity for the wolf as a metaphor of freedom, strength, and subtle intelligence. She has a big wolf photo in her home and loves to tell the story of seeing an alpha pair leading their pack in Yellowstone. She was hopeful of another sighting, perhaps even a connection with one of these magnificent creatures, but on this particular day she was oddly detached from feeling excited. Perhaps it was in response to her daughter-in-law's exuberant desire to get up close and personal with a wolf.
"It was all she could talk about," my friend recounted later. "She kept saying, 'Oh, I hope a wolf chooses me. That would be so cool.'"
Not surprisingly, that's not how it worked out. As the three-some approached the safety fence, my friend friend took up her place on a log some distance from the other two.
"I was so happy to be there," she told me later. "Just feeling the presence of the wolves and seeing them at a distance was enough for me. My heart was full of love for them. I was in awe of their pack hierarchy. And it may sound funny, but I felt honored to be in their space."
For several minutes nothing much happened. The wolves observed the visitors at a safe distance, not showing any inclination to move closer. Until from over a small rise, the alpha female appeared. She stopped, tested the air, and then began to walk carefully toward the fence.
My friend felt her heart pounding in her chest, but she remained still, sending love to the she-wolf. Almost in slow motion, the alpha female approached, looked my friend steadily in the eye, and lay down at her feet with a sigh. The wolf had chosen to connect with the quiet one, not with the anxious humans who hungered after her presence.
This is how I think it works with the Other Side. Even as the veil between this world and the next seems to thin as someone passes over, making contact with the spirit of that person is not assured. Much seems to depend on our state of mind at the time.
Just like my friend's daughter-in-law, if we are anxiously grasping at connection, we may actually block the flow. Our desperate wanting to see an apparition, receive a visitation, or hear words of wisdom is almost guaranteed to create a barrier to that very experience.
John O'Donohue, the late Celtic sage, says the soul is shy and does not respond to direct approach. If we catch sight of our soul, it is often no more than a glimpse. A glimmer when we least expect it. A subtle twinkle of presence that surprises and comforts us at the same time.
If that is true of our own soul, picture trying to contact the one who has so recently labored to exit a dying body and enter a radically different existence. The soul finds itself in a world of light and love, but still making an adjustment that I can imagine leaves it feeling quite vulnerable—perhaps even a bit bruised. So the frantic sobs of survivors, crying for some news from the Other Side could be very disturbing to the soul newly born into the world beyond.
And yet, there seems to be a period of grace in which contact frequently happens. Since sharing my own experience in this blog and in two wonderful radio interviews last week (podcast links available at www.ABeautifulDeath.net), I have heard stories from several people that would confirm this idea.
The husband of a lady from New Mexico appeared to her friend in a dream saying, "Tell Mary I am okay." A friend, who had cared for her sick mother for three years before her death, was astonished when she awoke from a deep sleep to see her mother standing with two shadowy figures at the foot of her bed. Her mother had a simple message: "I am okay." And yet another friend from the UK, whose husband had died from a sudden, massive heart attack while away on business, reported feeling his presence surrounding her with love and the comforting message, "I am okay."
The contact is usually clear and simple—and it seems to arrive when we least expect it. Perhaps when we are not anticipating any communication at all, as was the case with me and my UK friend. Or when we are completely exhausted or in a state of
grief so deep that all we feel is pain, as with my friend who lost her mother. Or when another person is more receptive than we ourselves, as with the lady from New Mexico.
A comical awareness also came to me and a group of friends who were having dinner after the memorial service for a much-beloved colleague. He was fondly remembered as a jokester, and as dinner progressed, the stories kept coming to the point that we dissolved into tears of laughter. Suddenly, the lights started flickering. Somebody, cried, "That's Liam!" And the lights flickered again. If we waited, nothing happened. But as soon as we got lost in another funny story, the lights flickered wildly. Was it really Liam? No one can say for sure, but at the time it certainly felt as if he was right there, joking again with his friends and loved ones.
So, it seems to me that the departed can make contact only where an unsuspecting, but receptive, channel is open. Like my friend's daughter-in-law who wanted so very badly to connect with a wolf, an anxious desperation for communication appears to create static that blocks the flow. Our love, respect, and the vulnerability of deep grief are more apt to open a line where love and presence from the Other Side can get through to us.
Not always, of course, I'm sure there are many other factors that determine if we hear directly from our departed loved ones. But I think the stories of those who do can give us comfort that those who cross over are "okay" and that—at least for a while—they remain close to us as both we and they adjust to the new normal that constitutes life after death.
