Living The Dream

I filled the days of childhood with fantasies of being a famous actress, a movie star, a prima ballerina, but I would have settled for a slot in the June Taylor Dancers.  They were my favorite part of the Jackie Gleason Show.  I see myself now, lying on my belly on the rag carpet, right in front of our enormous 1957 black and white television.   I have my chin in hand, elbow on the floor, eyes wide open.  Yes I would have gladly accepted an invitation to dance with them.

I have always dreamed of being famous.  I love attention.  I want to be noticed.  Funny writing this I recall locking myself in my bathroom when, my now ex-husband brought an unexpected guest to dinner.  I did not come out until the guest left.  So maybe it is not about being seen, getting attention or even being famous.  Notorious maybe.

You see, for as long as I can remember, when I close my eyes, I have had a vision of me standing on a large stage, alone, in front of hundreds of people who have come specifically to hear and see me.  Who are these people?  Why are they here?  What do I have that they want and need?  Resilience?  Determination?  A deep, driving desire to live a rich, fulfilling life?  Persistence?  The willingness to keep trying o matter what stands in the way.  A compelling life story of abuse and transformation?  There is fire inside of me beckoning me, calling out, “You have a purpose.  A big purpose.  Do not give up.  Keep looking?” Mark Nepo wrote about feeding the transparent bird, the invisible self.   He urges us to ignore the doubting Thomas’.  They cannot see what I see.  I must keep nurturing the invisible dream that lives within me.

I am 62 years old.  When will this purpose make itself known to me?  Will I write a book?  How else can I make myself big enough to warrant a large audience of people?  Is that the goal?  “Live your dreams.”  I hear that again and again, like rolling thunder inside my head.  “Life is limitless.”  I have not yet given up and I never will.  Ellen Burstyn wrote her autobiography at age 72. I wrote her a letter and she never replied.  Oh well, next!

I sold Midtown Yoga because it felt like an albatross around my neck, an anchor dragging me down to the bottom of the ocean.  I want to fly.  Now that I have wings, I do not know where to go, which direction to take.  It is not about place.  I have been so many places, India, France, Belgium, England, Italy, Germany, Guatemala to name a few.  I have been to New Orléans, San Francisco, New York City, Tampa, Miami, Denver, Carbondale, Breckenridge, DC, Chicago, Indianapolis, Seattle…..I can live anywhere.  I choose Memphis because I love its eccentricities.  Like me, Memphis is still evolving and like me, it has had many problems to overcome.  A city, a person, a country, any and all, must be strong to thrive.  We must be healthy and have hope.

I mentioned to Jimmy earlier this morning that I dream of being famous.  He wrinkled his forehead and said, “Why? What would you possibly gain from that?”  It is not about money.  Perhaps fame would be the outgrowth of fulfilling my dream.  It would mean I had manifested a lifetime calling, an inner quest realized.  My childhood dream becoming a reality.  When I do stand up on the stage, where ever it is, whoever is in the audience, whatever I say or do, I will thank God because I will have finally fulfilled my life’s purpose.  I have done many things in my lifetime, but this vision looms on the horizon.

Near Death Experience and Beyond

Said the night wind to the little lamb
Do you see what I see
(Do you see what I see)
Way up in the sky little lamb
Do you see what I see
(Do you see what I see)
A star, a star
Dancing in the night
With a tail as big as a kite
With a tail as big as a kite

My husband teases me when I say, “Do you see what I mean?”  He laughs and asks, “Did you hear what you just said?  How can I see something you are saying?”  I respond, “How could you not?”

In school, I performed best on tests when I reread the material the night before the exam.  Then when presented with the questions, I could see in my mind’s eye the answer as it was printed in the textbook or in my notes.  People tell me, “You must have a photographic memory.”  Perhaps.  I believe I have second sight defined as ” a form of extrasensory perception, the power to perceive things that are not present to the senses, whereby a person perceives information, in the form of a vision, about future events before they happen, or about things or events at a remote location.”  This ability to “see” what is not seen comes and goes. The more I read, the more I write, the more accessible it becomes.

My grandmother was paranoid schizophrenia.  She was institutionalized, so the story goes, after she took a butcher knife out into the neighborhood and threatened to kill someone.  I knew then, what I know now, that that is not what happened.  Go back with me.  I am three years old.  My grandmother, father and I live in a tiny duplex on Miami Street in South Bend, IN.  It is early morning.  Dad has been up all night, reading and drinking.  He is belligerent, pushing grandma up against the refrigerator.  I am in my crib in a sliver of a room behind the kitchen.  I cannot see them, but I know exactly what is happening.  Grandma is wearing her half-apron.  She was cooking oatmeal when Daddy confronted her.  I see her stirring the contents of her favorite iron skillet, the one she never washed.  There are not words, only pictures.  Grandma pinned up against the refrigerator. Daddy pounding her chest with his finger, then grabbing her shoulder and shaking her until her head bounced against door.  She reaches for a butcher knife lying on the counter and points it right in his face.  Stunned, he backs off and she runs outside hoping to get help.

Grandma was never crazy.  She had second sight too.  She had visions of angels and talked to God.

When my son died, the paramedics resuscitated him on the floor of a bar in Memphis.  I was far away in Pennsylvania when I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night.  At that very moment, my cell phone began to ring, a very strange phenomenon given that there was no reception in the building where we were staying.  To use our phones, we had to walk a distance away from the building.  Never had there been reception inside.  It was Leah, my ex-husband’s wife on the other end.  “Jordan is dead. I mean, he is alive, but he died.”  She tried to explain what had happened, but I already knew.  I saw him in the ambulance.  I saw myself beside him, holding his hand.

He was in a coma in ICU when I finally took his hand in mine and calmly said, “Jordan, I don’t know if it is your time to go or not.  I know you see the light.”  ( I could see him walking toward the light.  My grandmother was there and my father with her.  They reached toward him, welcoming him into their arms)  “Honey, I want you to know if you are ready to go, do it.  I will be fine.  We will all be sad, but we will be all right.  This is your choice.  But if you want to come back, if you want to live, do not walk toward the light.  I know it is tempting.  It is beautiful.  But if you want to come back to us, listen to my voice.  I am going to keep talking.  You decide.”

The next day, Jordan opened his eyes.  Leah and I were sitting on five gallon paint buckets outside the ICU doors ( the waiting room was being re-built) when the sweet Indian doctor whose name I cannot remember appeared and offered me his hand.  ( I must explain something here. The odd thing about my second-sight is that I have a terrible memory for dates, times, names, and the details of events that actually happened.  My inner eye has 20/20 vision while my real eyes see and remember very little.)   “This is nothing less than a miracle.  We did not think your son would come out of the coma.  We rarely, if ever, see this kind of recovery.”  I threw my arms around him.  Leah cried and ran to tell the others.  The doctor stepped back. Still holding my hands, his eyes piercing mine, he repeated, “This is truly a miracle.  Now we must wait.  There may be brain damage.  Time will tell.”  I knew Jordan would make a full recovery.  He did.  He had decided to return, to come back from the dead.

I have many more stories like this one.  The time I was standing at the kitchen sink and I heard a voice, loud and clear, “It is time to have baby.”  I was never, ever going to have children.  I knew I did not have the skills to raise a child. Nine months later, my first daughter, Katie, was born.  As an aside, I was told I would never be able to bear children because I had a prolapsed uterus.

Then there was the time I walked into the building at 524 South Cooper, an old, run-down beauty school, and instantly saw what would be Midtown Yoga.  It was as if someone had snapped a photograph of the studio, what it looked like in the future, and held it in front of my eyes.  I told my husband, “I see it.  Yes, this is a yoga studio.”  And to this day it is a vibrant, thriving yoga center.

And then there was a time I was at Myrtle Beach, asleep in my bed, when finger tapped me on the shoulder and a voice said, “Wake up.”  I rolled over to see who it was.  No one was there.  The next morning, I received a message from my husband that Jimmy’s father had died.  Odd?  A coincidence?  Maybe.

Or the night I heard from my sister that my father died.  I dropped to my knees next to me bed and called out, “Daddy.”  He came to me.  He was with me in the room.  I smelled his cologne, his cigar breath.  I felt the smooth skin of his cheek next to mine.  “I love you Daddy.”   “I am with you,” he said.  “The past is behind us.  I love you.  Let me know if you ever need anything, anything at all.  I am here.”  To this day, I call on my Dad when I am confused or depressed.  I do not ask him to for miracles.  I just ask for guidance.

The psychiatrist at The Wiillows treatment center told me I was hallucinating when I responded in this way to her questions.  During my intake interview she asked, “Do you hear voices?”

Without thinking, I said, “Yes, of course.  I talk to my father and grandmother all the time.”

She responded, “You mean you call them.”

“No,” I said.  They are dead.  I talk to them when I need help.

And you know what the psychiatrist said?  “You know that is crazy.  You are delusional.  No one talks to the dead.”

I do.

Maybe my ability to “see” is simply a combination highly refined memory, visualization and intuition.  I don’t know, nor do I care.  I see what I see and I trust what I see .  When I sit down to write I wait for the word or phrase or idea to present itself to me.  I have no idea where it will take me.  I put my fingers on the key board and it begins.  I trust more will be revealed.  Thy will be done.