Ren-ais-sance: A rebirth or revival.
It was a poignant occasion for the adults. The family had gathered in Kelowna for a memorial service for Dale Chisholm, the owner and very best friend of a Pomeranian named Sonny.
Synchronicity has been somewhat absent on this trip until now. However, when it came, it was surprising and very intense. Meagan, a Vancouver friend who I am staying with in London, had forgotten her glasses, so I sat in a London black cab waiting while she retrieved them from the apartment where we have been staying.
I was thinking about 33 Belgrave Sq., which for years had been the headquarters for the Spiritualist Society of Great Britain, and which I intended to visit later in the day. Out of the blue, the cab driver began to speak.
My friend Meagan and I are behaving a little like two children with just 5 sleeps to Disneyland. Only in this case it's London.
For someone who works in the psychic field,( me, not Meagan) London is a little like Disneyland. Haunted houses, Spiritualist churches and some of the most experienced and talented mediums in the world. Not to mention the amazing occult bookstores and haunted history.
When I first discovered blogging, a few years ago, I saw a blog post everywhere I looked. I was a joyful blogging dervish, spinning stories from my life and work faster than I could record them. Enjoying the freedom blogging afforded for writing, I felt I had finally found a space, a comfortable space, and a way to write about my work, numerology, cycles, cycle guides, readings, spirit visits, dogs and dog walking, and even the trees and flowers, not to mention the people, of my life.
You never did get around to knitting that dress. Remember, we were in that shop on Rodeo Drive when we saw it. It was apple green; just a fragment of a dress really, a limp and filmy Italian knit, but you took it into the dressing room and stepped out a moment later, and we both gasped. It was perfect.
My friend Dale is the only person I know whose friends and relatives celebrate not only her birthday but also her death day. We usually celebrate by having a nice dinner at her sister Lindsay’s house, and then we bring flowers and candles and mini cauldrons—made from tuna fish cans, Epsom salts and alcohol—down to a bench dedicated to Dale’s memory on the banks of False Creek.
When I went to convent school as a child, the nuns constantly reminded us to pray to St. Joseph, the patron saint of happy deaths. I didn’t need much encouragement. I thought about death constantly, and as a result, I spent much of my free time praying to St. Joseph.
As an adult, and a lapsed Catholic turned Buddhist, from time to time I wonder what happened to all of those prayers. Do happy death prayers go into some kind of a prayer bank, to be drawn upon at the time of passing? I hope so.