In May of 1993 when I was coming to in Recovery, standing by was a female physician I recognized from OR. I am cold and I am clammy I said and through gritted teeth she said you are not the only one! And I wondered what had happened in the OR. I was to understand that no two doctors had identical memories. Directions had been given for resuscitation and all complied, but whose voice?
Unsure of what I would say to a roommate and to avoid hysterics, I was given a private room. The cardiologist’s first question was were you always spiritual or just since the cardiac arrest? I was puzzled because I had not ever even been asked if I was spiritual. I was always working I thought like everyone else. Only by quarter inches did my life begin to unfold.
In June of 1984 I was sitting and reading the paper at the dining room table and saw our house painter pull up out front in his green truck and I yelled while I put our German Shepherd in the basement. He was standing looking at the paint job done and he came in for a minute drinking his water from a peanut butter jar.
His daughter called for him to come home and he walked to the back gate. I yelled that his truck was out front and he said he knows where he parks his truck! I followed him to the back gate and his blue, blue truck, new flatbed was there.
I heard in mind the words simultaneous worlds. And knew for every aspect of my world here, there is another impinging in identity on it. Though sometimes not up to date as with Michael’s blue truck only 2 weeks old. I did see him pull up in his green truck, heard the gate slam, and talked to him. But his blue truck was out back.
Not until 2015 did I read Michael Talbot’s Holographic Universe and knew then all my life I walked with a foot in other worlds. There was always a barrage of criticism because when I tried to explain myself from the time I learned to speak, I was silenced. I was easy to dismiss. My quiet brother I remember saying so many times, Ma, she’s crying again.
( I scribed then in ’84. . . the teacher’s explanation. . . we will discuss later what transpired with the impinging world when the Michael worker arrived. It is not easy we know to live in many worlds. But to hold to the one in which the physical body finds itself is important. To be able to recognize the other worlds and still maintain a line of communication with the hereness of where you are is doubly important. We take pride in your abilities. Man blossoms under such guidance.)
Not much comfort when there is not a hand to hold who understands. Hard row to go. I am glad for over a half century of journals and all manuscripts with dates and times. Who would believe? Amen and amen.
4 responses to “To Search The Why. . . .”
email from Suzanne. . . . . .I really do wish I could sit at your knee and just listen. As long as you’ve been living and writing, I’ll bet you have a million lessons to share. What DOES break my heart is how no one listened to you as a child. The frustration must have been enormous.
Thanks for it all, Veronica.
Be well, be safe.
Love to you and to the child you were,
Sent from my iPhone
Suzanne, . . . .I was told by the Teachers that I was not fun to live with. What was unbelieving on my face as I listened to what was said, others took as accusation. It was a long time before I realized that I tried to balance what was my world in a world not ready for differences. Still?
This is from a song by Don McClean about Vincent Van Gogh called “Starry, Starry Night. It speaks to his
living in a world that didn’t understand him.
Your reply to my email brought it to mind, and I wanted to share.
“Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen, they’re not listening still
Perhaps they never will”
email from Maria. . . .This is fascinating to read Veronica. And your words to describe you walking with a foot in other worlds sounds just right. Love Maria