Author and Inspired Writer

Well, that’s what the lady said. I was a gypsy in a previous life. Now come on, didn’t we all suspect that?

Of course, I’m referring to the “energy reading” I had a while back. It was fascinating, very encouraging, and at times a little perplexing…like when she told me one of my animal spirits was a monkey. Uh huh. I see. Well as soon as I could, I looked up on the internet the implications of having a monkey as a spirit guide, and I learned that people with such a guide are playful, mischievous, social, and love playing practical jokes on their friends. OK, so-HO not me! I HATE practical jokes, I don’t think anyone would ever describe me as playful or mischievous, and as for being social, no word of a lie, I go DAYS without even leaving the house.

And I like it that way!

Danah explained that when her guides speak to her, she is occasionally unclear on what they’re trying to say, and she’ll translate it to the best of her ability. (A few times she asked me to define an unfamiliar word her guides had used.) But sometimes it’s a miss. I was all ready to deem the monkey a miss, but a few days later I came across a reference to “monkey mind”, the incessant chattering that goes on in our heads all day long, and how meditation can help quiet it. Perhaps the guides weren’t describing the monkey as a spiritual guide, but as a part of me that gets out of control and needs some reigning in. (Other sources lately have been encouraging me to meditate too.)

I also found out that the spirit guides like being around me. Well, how nice! And they view MY spirit as a flamenco dancer. Really? Yup. Vibrant, confident, I draw attention to myself not in an ego-driven way, but as a statement of personal power.

“I do?” I asked, charmed but bemused.

“Yes! Do you do anything in the line of performance?”

I thought for a second. “Well, I give readings, preach, and sing. I guess you could call all those ‘performance.’ But I wouldn’t think of myself as confident or flashy.”

She listened to the guides speak then asked, “What does ‘ostentatious’ mean?”

After I explained, she said, “Not flashy as in the sense of ostentatious, but when you perform…” she stood and did a few flamenco steps “you’re saying ‘Look at me! This is who I am! Take it or leave it.”

OK, now THAT is me!

She said that I’d been married many times in past lives, (interesting, since I came very close to not being married in this one) and that this time around I wanted marriage without children. “And,” she added, “you’re balancing it very well.”

Cool!

Among other things she gave me some dietary suggestions, encouraged self-nurturing, urged me to examine my beliefs and indulge my wonderings. And she said I should surround myself with happy people. That I can do!

I went home elated! I felt buoyed up and happy. After all, it isn’t every day you learn the spirits like you. I like them too.

Except for the monkeys.

Why, Synchroni-City of course!

Yeah yeah, I know, even I’m groaning at that one. I’ll apologize later. For now, let me bring you up to date.

About a month and a half ago, I received a notice that Sho Gallery was planning to host another Scattered Ecstasies in September. This is a very popular event, bringing together artists, poets and actors. In the past, the artists set about creating a new painting, and as they do so, the poets will visit several times to observe and then write an original poem about the work. The paintings are displayed at the Gallery and the matching poems are recited by actors. It’s a unique and quite beautiful creative event.

But when I received the notice, I chucked it. Not interested. I spoke to a poet involved in a previous exhibit and the time involved was too great. I’m beginning to wrap up The Magdalene Poems, and I didn’t need any distractions.

Then another notice arrived in my Inbox. The owner of the Gallery thought the similarity of my last name and the last name of an artist he had in mind would make for a “poetic connection,” and would we (Danah and I) be interested. Beaudoin and Beaulieu. Uh huh.

Gotta say, my first reaction was “That’s the lamest excuse for a partnering I’ve ever heard! I didn’t know this woman, and more importantly, I didn’t have the time. But since he’d asked so nicely, I decided to let him down easy.

“Barry,” I said, “can you tell me what the time factor is here?” expecting him to say a few hours observing the work in progress, and then however long it takes to write a poem about it, as long as it’s before September 1st. But he surprised me.

“It doesn’t matter which comes first, painting or poem.”

Well. That had some possibilities.

I wrote Danah and asked if I sent her some of my Magdalene poems, would she consider creating a painting to match? She said “Sure!” So I fired off three poems for her to choose from and my part in this whole affair was done. Woo-hoo!

But, as if it wasn’t enough that I was going to have my poetry miraculously transformed into an entirely different medium, Danah added, “We’ve met before, and I have your book “holy cards.” Say what? Really?! “Yes. I think our collaboration will be a wonderful expression of the Divine Feminine.” Gasp! My language! She speaks my language! “And, oh yeah, I’m Vanessa Shields’ sister.”

Knock me over with a feather time. Vanessa is a dear friend. I call her “my sister by another mother and father.” We’ve promoted each others work, organized readings and workshops together, both been published by Black Moss Press, celebrated each others successes and offered each other a shoulder to cry on when needed. And here’s her sister wanting to transform my poetry into art. Is this a sign or WHAT!!

But the story’s not over.

Danah is something called an intuitive artist. Not only does she connect with the Divine through her art, she also gives energy readings. This is something I’ve been wanting to explore for some time, but as I had no idea how to go about it, I finally left it up to the Universe to find a way. And boy howdy, did it ever! My reading was yesterday. I’ll share some of the details with you next time.

Too many funerals lately. I even have a “funeral dress,” a pretty black and white number that I never imagined would be put to such sad use, but there you go.

This past Saturday I attended the memorial of a dear friend who died much before his time. I know he and his family would not mind me using his Irish name here, so I will – Shamus, I miss you.

Shamus was quite possibly the kindest, gentlest man it has ever been my privilege to know. And he loved me – loved my singing, loved my preaching, loved my writing, and thought the sun rose and set on me. Of course it rises and sets on everyone, but no need to tell him that. He was a constant source of affirmation and encouragement. And I believe I blessed him with comfort and joy too. He came to my book launch, front row centre, and said he wouldn’t have missed it for the world. His heart was wide open and he was easily moved to tears. He read from the Passion according to St. Matthew one Good Friday, and could not keep the tremor out of his voice nor the tears from his eyes. As his love, so his wounds went deep, and one Sunday after I preached on forgiveness, he approached me afterward and managed to choke out, “What you said…it’s so hard…” And I told him if he started to cry he’d take me with him and then the whole church after that.

He suffered a stroke a few months ago at the age of 66 and The Mister and I visited him in hospital a couple of times. His right side was paralyzed and except for a few small words – yes, no, but, oh – he was non-verbal, a great trial since Shamus loved to talk. His frustration was evident, but he was so obviously glad to see us, his face lit with delight, his eyes dancing.

He was making progress and was discharged home. But within a few days, took a fatal heart attack and there we were, at another memorial service saying goodbye.

I don’t generally go to funeral luncheons as I have some dietary restrictions that make eating out quite a challenge. So The Mister brought me home and returned to the K of C Hall to look after a disabled friend who needs assistance to get around. Before I went into the house, I checked the plants in my little container garden. They needed water…badly.

“I’m so glad you guys are such a hardy lot,” I told them, “because I am the worse plant mama ever!“

I didn’t change out of my funeral dress or jewellery, just grabbed my watering cans and went back outside.

And it was so beautiful! There was a grand quiet over everything, a sacred hush some might call it, just the wind in the trees. Such deep peace entered my soul as I went from box to box, pinching off some dead leaves here, a trailing vine there. I took another minute to stand there and drink it all in, then turned, my hand on the door handle to go back inside. Before I could though, a mourning dove (ironic name) swooped in under the tree right by my shoulder and perched on a branch jutting out from the fire pit only a few feet away. I was startled and froze, staring at it. It stared right back, the usually timid bird cocking his head this way and that, taking me in from all angles. After a few moments a name came unbidden to my mind.

“Shamus?”

It continued to sit there and gaze at me for maybe a minute before taking flight once more. And I wondered if I had just had a visitation.

I’m reading a book right now by Caroline Myss called Sacred Contracts, in which she posits the idea that before we’re born, we enter into contracts with everyone we’re going to meet in our lives, and these people, the positive and negative, agree to help us achieve our ultimate goal in this life, spiritual transformation. Some contracts are painful, others joyous, all to our benefit if we choose to see it that way.

It seemed to me in those few moments in my quiet garden watching that winged spirit perhaps Shamus was delivering a message to me: “Contract fufilled, sweetheart. Just thought I’d stop by on my way home and say thanks…for everything.”

Godspeed, my friend.

Well, here I am back again, gentle readers. Been a while, I know, but that’s on account of the writing going so well. Yup, I just penned number 95 in The Magdalene Poems collection, and the spate shows no signs of drying up, so on I’ll write. This is the most productive I’ve ever been, and I’m writing some very good stuff, if I do say so myself. If I like it, and The Mister (my live-in editor and literary critic) likes it, that’s good enough for me!

Last time I said I’d tell you about “the goofy sun face and li’l Amish children. The facts are these…

Once the container garden was planted and lovely blossoms were popping up all around, I turned my attention to the shed wall behind it. As you might recall, the gardening magazines my choir director so foolishly gave me showcased some imaginatively decorated garden sheds, and although I wasn’t prepared to create anything quite so elaborate, I assured The Mister a few items scrounged from local yard and garage sales would do fine in finishing off the project.

The very next Saturday our neighbours across the street had a yard sale, and lo and behold here were little figurines made from blocks of wood in the shape of Amish boys and girls in their bonnets, overalls, and pinafores, a couple holding hands, another pair holding a heart between them, yet another twosome holding a “Welcome” sign, and three more on their little wooden bikes. I’m about to gush here, so prepare yourselves…they were absolutely darling! I couldn’t wait to get home and find the perfect places for the kids in and between the boxes. They gave my garden an engaging touch of whimsy, and I can’t help cooing over them every time I see them!

There was also a larger wooden figure of an angel ascending with two hearts on a ribbon behind her. I had The Mister fasten her to the middle of the shed wall. Then I went through my storage trunk and found some silk flowers, purple and white, which The Mister obligingly hung to the right of the angel. But the left hand panel remained empty and forlorn.

“Not to worry, Missus,” The Mister said, “I’m sure something appropriate will turn up sooner or later.”

And that’s when I remembered the sun face I had purchased at the dollar store last summer when The Mister was away out West. I had tried putting it on the shed myself, but I didn’t have the right hardware. It fell off with a mighty rattle, so I picked it up and tucked it away…and promptly forgot about it. Until then!

“It’s going to be sooner rather than later,” I rejoiced, and went to retrieve it from its hiding place. I pulled it out of the bag to give it to The Mister, and oh my! I’d forgotten how goofy it looked. A great golden face with a spaced-out expression that said, “Baby, what was in those brownies?!” I passed it to The Mister who tacked it up without judgement or comment.

Then I took a step back and surveyed our handiwork.

“Gotta say, Pa, that is one girly-lookin’ shed.”

He squinted at it and replied, “Only the outside. I still have my gas cans on the inside.”

“Ah! You’re right. Nothing says masculinity like gas.”

He turned his squint on me and I thought it best to be on my way.