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COMMUNICATING
WITH THE DEAD Communication:
A Constant Exchange When a parent passes away a child often internalizes the pain, loss, and confusion. The event can produce a lifetime of emotional reverberations if not properly integrated into the child's psyche. Juanita, a successful artist with her own graphic design company in the Southeast, experienced a spiritual awakening a few years ago that included a very dramatic and sensitive reunion with her father, who had passed away when she was a young child. Here she tells us about their meeting, and how she is now finally able to resume their relationship. _____________________________ Each year for the past twenty-seven years, I have had a secret wish for Father's Day: to talk face to face with my dad. Over the years I have thought about all the things I have wanted to say and questions I have wanted to ask but never had the chance. I have imagined him holding me and imagined feeling the coziness I used to feel between us when I was small and would sit on his lap while he drank tea, drew elaborate pictures and typographic designs directly onto our kitchen table top, or when I'd just cuddle up with him each evening in the burgundy overstuffed chair in the living room. I'd stretch my skinny arm around the back of his waste and feel like the safest and most loved little girl on the planet. The only problem with my wish is that I've always known it could never be fulfilled. My father died suddenly in January 1967, one day before my ninth birthday. He was fifty. I've never allowed anyone to know just how much I really missed him until this past year. Prior to his death, I remember us spending a lot of time together. I have a wealth of memorable stories that now live in a warm and vivid place in my heart. I felt like we shared a special closeness that didn't need many words. I was content to be near, watching him in his day-to-day life. It seemed l like he could do anything. He had plants growing in the garden, like cotton, which wasn't supposed to thrive in that part of the country, but it did. He raised bullfrogs from pollywogs and then kept them in the downstairs bathtub for two years. He studied them and even wrote an unpublished book about them. I watched him draw and knew he designed and built all the scooters, bicycles, trailers and little cars and go-carts that were part of my childhood. Each autumn, he and his older brother would get together and make red wine. I remember crate after crate of dark blue grapes being carted down our steep basement stairs. I was too small to actually witness this event, but it seemed like the makings of some sort of Italian magic potion. My dad fascinated me. He brought life in a quirky sort of way to our entire family. I never placed much importance on my father's death and its effects on my life. I tucked it away under the category of "something unfortunate that happened when I was a kid." It felt as though I put all those unexpressed feelings, words, and emotions into a little invisible jar and screwed the cap on tightly. As long as no one came along to bother the jar, it stayed tucked away and my life seemed at ease. The problem, though, is that I couldn't keep it tucked away forever because people did come along to disturb it. Finally, more than twenty-eight years after his death, my father and I did have that conversation that I'd needed for so long. During a pschyosenthesis meditation, I was guided back to the last memories I have of my father. I could see my family sitting around our kitchen table, talking. My father came home from work and went to lie down for a while. Later, he came out to the kitchen and then walked into the bathroom. Someone said he was hemorrhaging and needed to get to the hospital. During the days he spent there, I knew he was very sick and had undergone a major stomach operation. Then someone called our house from the hospital. My sister took the call and began to cry. I knew my dad had died before anyone actually told me. I had a feeling that he had left, but that it was okay now. Looking back, it always seemed more like he disappeared than died because he looked so healthy the last time I saw him. During the meditation, I saw myself as that little 8 year old girl. I knew my father had something important to tell me. This would be the good-bye that we never got to have. I found myself face-to-face with him. He looked healthy and energetic and was casually dressed in new clothes. He looked down at me with a big smile as if he had been waiting for a long time to see me. When I looked up at him I felt excited. He bent down and lifted me up into his arms. I rested my body on his hip. It felt familiar, cozy, and safe. We just looked at each other and hugged for a little while before he began to speak. "You know it's time for me to go now," he said gently but directly. "I know," I replied, looking into his eyes. I wasn't sad, and neither was he. I felt as if I understood all along where he was going. "I have to go on to do more of my work. I came to this family to show you how to live, how to love and be open to all people. Do you understand?" "Yes." He looked intently into my eyes. I could feel the connection between us that had always been there, but it became stronger. "It only took you eight short years to learn what I came here to teach you about loving people and touching their lives, " he continued. "I could not teach you by telling you. I could only teach you by showing you my example. We all have problems along the way, and some will be big, but do not have fear, do not worry about them. They are only tests and you will grow stronger because of them." He had a message about some of my other family members, about my mission in life, and then he finished by saying, "Keep your life simple. I will watch you grow. You will do well." He bent down and with one arm gently placed my feet back on the floor. I was satisfied and ready to go and so was he. He had told me all he wanted me to know and all I needed to hear. He stood up and watched me as I said good-bye and walked out of the room. I knew that meant he was gone and I understood why. I know now my father is always there for me and that I can talk to him at any time. He will listen as I take each step in life. When he left this world the day before my ninth birthday, in many ways it felt like a clock inside me had stopped. When I spoke to him during that meditation, and he spoke to me, it was as if my clock began running again. |