by Tessa Lynne
Your spirit will often lead you into difficult situations for the lessons to be learned. Some examples are: the challenge of resolving conflicts, both personal and interpersonal; realizing the negative effects of a situation and changing course; and opportunities to assist others.
A spirit, especially a young one, may get caught up in destructive pursuits. A wiser spirit will not get involved in them but will stay close, to learn from that path and to protect the human life.
Most spirits are drawn to certain aspects of the material world—nature, music, a particular field of knowledge, people, etc. It is not just your own interest that gives you that feeling of engagement, peace, or fulfillment; it may be as much theirs.
Your spirit may choose to be distant from some aspects of your life, e.g., around certain people or activities that do not appeal to them. They may also become distant if you show no recognition of them or if you are pursuing a life that does not offer fulfillment of their purpose.
Your spirit will join you in deliberate thought that leads to making decisions. Such thought is often instigated by your spirit for a particular purpose.
Those who maintain contact with their spirit through a combination of prayer, meditation, and reflection are more likely to respond to their influence.
It is a lesson of every lifetime that a spirit love the life that has been made available to them and given to their keeping.
I remember Zachary said spirits are accountable to others, and I ask Amelia to elaborate.
“There are two main categories. First, those in leadership positions who supervise a spirit’s progress. Second, what you would call a council—a group of spirits, usually twelve in number, who are brought together to decide certain matters of destiny. And, there is a third category: all spirits are accountable to the Creator. It is not a one-way street: the Creator is accountable to all spirits and is available to assist them.”
Amelia’s tone changes to one of deep reverence as she speaks of the Creator. Then she pauses and says she is being told by Sally’s spirit that our time is up.
8. Destiny
AMELIA TELLS ME THERE IS not much time today, but enough to begin a new topic.
“I want to speak to you about destiny, which provides a pathway for your life. Some elements, but not all of them, are ordained by the Creator. The spirit world is anything but whimsical, but neither is your destiny set in concrete. Your path will be swayed by your spirit and altered by the choices you make.”
I ask her if lessons and destiny are one and the same.
“Your destiny includes the lessons to be learned, and more, but not every circumstance of your life. Your life intersects with others, and the result is many more events in a life than those that are destined. Even so, it is likely that the major events of your life were meant to be a part of your destiny.”
Destiny is often spoken of in romantic terms, so I ask if marriages, or committed relationships, are always destined.
“Most people will have a destined relationship. Currently, less than half are to that intended person, but do not assume that every break up is because the relationship was not destined. It is not that simple. Relationships are destined for reasons other than a great love affair. For instance, there are usually one or more intersecting lessons to be realized.”
Is your destiny determined before your life begins?
“Only partially—many aspects will not be set until events transpire throughout your life. The Creator has an intimate knowledge of every life and holds each one to be precious and of great importance. He is vigilant to assist every spirit to learn their intended lessons, and He will open up pathways and opportunities for them.”
A Missed Opportunity
The mention of relationships reminds me that Zachary said I wasn’t destined to marry who I did. I didn’t think to ask him if I had been destined to be with someone else. When I ask Amelia, her eyes close for a minute, then open.
“You were destined to marry a man named Michael, with whom you spoke on one occasion. I saw an office at the end of a long hallway. You were sitting at a desk and he approached you. There was a calendar on the wall showing that the year was 1973.”
Given that place and time, I have immediate recall of an incident etched in my memory. I was in graduate school and worked in the university administration office. I do not share that with Amelia but ask her what more she can tell me.
“Michael was a graduate assistant who had noticed you on an earlier visit. A friend of his worked in that office and he asked her if you were involved with anyone.”
I ask Amelia if she can describe the friend. She does—age, body type, raven black hair, green eyes. Only one woman comes even close to her detailed description. When I mention Pearl by name, Amelia confirms it was she.
“Pearl replied to him that, not only were you involved, you were married. She knew both Michael and his wife, and she reminded him that he was also married. It was on his next visit to the office that you were at the front desk.”
In my three years in that office, I had thousands of encounters with students and staff. One memory stands out as singular—all others are a composite blend. A man, about my age, came to the front desk with a large envelope in his hand. I routinely asked how I could help him. Pearl was standing at the mailboxes a short distance back. Before he could answer me, she stepped forward and loudly and firmly said, “I’ll take that.” She reached out her hand for the envelope, the man turned to her, and they exchanged a few words. I watched him as he walked out the door and down the long hallway.
I retain a strong sense of that moment. I could not understand the tone Pearl used, her emphasis that she would help him, not me. It seemed that she had intervened in some way. If I said I felt a loss, it would come from what I have just learned. Then, it was … a sinking feeling. I was aware of a slight pressure from my chest to the pit of my stomach, a mix of a physical response and an emotion I could not name. Shock or dismay come close but made no sense to me then. The memory of that incident comes back to me every year or two, leaving me as puzzled the last time as the first.
I do not want to invent a memory that the man in that vivid, enduring scene was Michael, but there is a consistency between what I felt then and what Amelia now tells me of our destiny. I share my memory and my thoughts with her, and she confirms that the man I remember was Michael. What I experienced as a sinking feeling was my spirit’s reaction of dismay. She was trying to alert me that my destiny was standing there in front of me, was walking away from me.
Amelia looks kindly at me and speaks with empathy.
“Humans often do miss their destinies—even when they are staring you in the face.”
I tell her I want to know more about Michael.
“All I could glimpse of his current life is that he is divorced, is a college professor, and that he lives in this general region of the country.”
Unable to drop the subject, I ask her if it is still possible that we might meet.
“I believe there is nothing to prevent you from contacting him. I will attempt to get more specific and current information before we meet again.”
My first impulse, to wait until my health improves, quickly passes. I picture a college calendar—Thanksgiving vacation, about a month from now—enough time to exchange a letter or two. I ask Amelia why I was not as firmly guided in this choice as Zachry said I was in my career.
“Your guardian could have been more diligent in guiding you to Michael but considered your career to be paramount. It was known that you would have a positive impact on a number of people.”
Amelia goes on to tell me that the man I married was one possible choice for me. I was to have met both him and Michael and then choose between them.
“It is common in matters of destiny to have two clear options. It is the task, and the challenge, of your guardian and spirit to guide you to the right one.”
Our time is up. I put my swirling thoughts aside and speak with Sally, reli
eved that she is my last client of the day. Now that she has left, I feel a surging of strong emotion, a combination of loss and anticipation.
I can’t stop thinking about Michael. I try to picture the man I remember—fairly tall, slim, brown hair and eyes—but the image I have of him is vague. I was not looking for a man or in the habit of rating one on a scale of attractiveness. (I might have flirted a bit, if he had started it, but not with the intention of taking it further.)
In 1973, I had been married for less than two years. If asked, I would have said happily so, but our goals and interests were beginning to diverge. I can imagine being drawn to Michael, but would I have agreed for us to meet away from my work?
Further reflection gives me my answer: graduate school, a mutual attraction in a group process class … sitting together on an outdoor step … regret in the air as he tells me of a brief affair with a married woman, says he can’t do it again. We hadn’t discussed it, but the possibility must have been floating in the air between us. Two other classmates—temptations, soul-searching conversations—left me aware of needs not met. I know I would have agreed to meet Michael. In my naivety, I would have convinced myself it was an innocent coffee date, and I expect it would have been. It is the second or third meeting that I cannot vouch for.
My marriage continued for ten more years, until I lost all hope for what we had never quite had. I have a clear memory of meditating then and seeking guidance. As I contemplated staying in the marriage, an image came to me of being chained to a rock, the impossibility of any movement or growth. When I thought of leaving, that image changed to one of butterflies set free.
My reflections take me further back in time, to the night I met the man I married. It was the end of our freshman year, a blind date, and he said he would call me over the summer. I showed no enthusiasm, silently wished he would not call, and experienced a similar sinking feeling to the one I would have a few years later. He did not call, but our paths crossed again in the fall and he asked me out. I responded to his enthusiasm and said yes, but my feelings for him were initially lukewarm. I didn’t stop to question why. My spirit was urging me away from him, knew he was not the one, but I did not heed her guidance. I did not listen to my heart.
Anticipation
I decide to write a letter to Michael, hoping that Amelia can provide a clue to his address. It is true that I had been in our college town in August. I make up the part that I had lunch with a former colleague. I imagine Pearl, telling me she now regrets her intervention. I write that she had known us both, knew he was now divorced, and, when she learned I was too, said we had to meet. I go on to tell him a little about myself and end by saying I can’t pass up this opportunity.
Excited about the possibility of us meeting, I think ahead a few weeks and imagine it. Knowing we were destined to be together, will I project more intensity than he would expect? Do I tell him about Zachary and Amelia? How do I not? When do I tell him? If immediately, I might frighten him away. If I wait too long, he might think I had deceived him. But I am getting ahead of myself; he might not respond.
My letter is finished, written from my heart, and now my rational mind takes over. Were the details Amelia gave me lucky guesses? Did I tailor my memories to fit what she told me? Have I imagined the strong connection I feel? Am I capable of that degree of self-delusion? I try to sort it out. I tend to be more skeptical than credulous, more pragmatic than fanciful. If someone told me a similar story, I would be intrigued but reluctant to accept it as truth. I seldom daydream, even less often do I fantasize about men, and never about celebrities. Dream about men, I do, but only when there has been an obvious, mutual attraction.
I need a break and drive out to the island, reminded on the way of a perennial dilemma. Every year, as I enjoy the fall colors, I ask myself if it is legitimate to enhance the sight with sunglasses, if I am not thus distorting reality. I then give reality its due by observing both ways. Another example of my bent toward the rational is that I frustrate joke tellers when I fail to respond as they expect, prone to pointing out elements that are unlikely or impossible. On the other hand, I am quick to see humor in an unexpected comic twist and in real-life anecdotes that reveal our humanity and are as endearing as they are amusing.
Can I make an objective assessment of myself? I will attempt it. Relaxing with friends and colleagues, I am usually spontaneous and engaged. I am equally at ease with a room full of strangers but less so when joining an established group. I relish my time alone but thoroughly enjoy being with others, almost as much an extrovert as an introvert. I have dated frequently enough and have turned down more than one prospect for a long-term relationship. I feel no sense of desperation.
I begin a slow walk as I complete my thought process. My self-assessment is that I am a rational person, not given to fantasy, and that I am well-adjusted socially. I am not so open to suggestion that I can be persuaded a long-ago encounter was the love of my life. In fact, initially Amelia said very little. She merely mentioned a time and a place. She went on to describe specific scenes that fit my life of twenty years ago—before I gave her any details.
Despite Amelia’s unexplained knowledge, it is my own enduring memory that informs me, and my strong inner sense of what could have been, of what has been—in past lives—of what Michael has meant to me. Amelia said nothing about past lives, yet I know we have been together before this lifetime. It is this inner sense that I rely on. It joins me in a reasoned approach to life but is capable of overriding reason.
I haven’t come to the island to reflect. I want to walk fast, get in touch with my body, get out of my head. I push myself to my limits for almost an hour, do some stretches, and then sit in meditation for ten minutes before a slow walking meditation back to my car. My mind is clear now, free of excitement about unknown possibilities and of any fear that I am wrong. I am left with what I know to be true—and a peaceful anticipation of meeting Michael.
9. Destiny Undone
SALLY CATCHES ME BETWEEN MORNING clients, says she had an urge to call and confirm her appointment, but it is Amelia who wants to talk to me. I hear regret in her voice.
“I have just been informed. I thought you would want to know.”
She sounds like someone who has just received shocking news, but there is no time to consider the implications before she explains.
“You and Michael cannot meet, for two reasons. One is that your destinies were changed after several missed opportunities to meet. The other is that Michael is quite ill and is in a hospice. I do not want you to get your hopes up any further. I will tell you more later—until then, Child.”
Amelia speaks with sadness, with empathy, and with utter finality. She has quashed any hope that we might reclaim our destinies. I hang up and realize I have been holding my breath. I breathe deeply now and try—without success—to integrate this new information with the undercurrent of anticipation I’ve been feeling.
I go to the kitchen nook for a second cup of coffee. My usual black won’t do. I add a spoonful of sugar and filch some cream from the fridge, using the diversion, and the sweet brew, to push aside my feelings and erect a wall between them and my clients, the last one Sally. When Amelia comes, she tells me about Michael.
“He became ill with leukemia three years ago and had a quick remission, but the disease made an aggressive return several months ago and he has been steadily losing ground.”
Hearing details, I feel a resurgence of the feelings I have had to keep tamped down since this morning—grief, despair, incomprehension. When she asks me if I want to know more, I cannot tell her no.
“Twelve years ago, you missed a third and final opportunity to meet. Michael lived in this state and had signed up for one of the classes you taught then. It was canceled and your destiny was changed—there is to be someone else.”
I take little comfort in that thought now, but I need the distraction of a change of subject. I ask Amelia if she can tell me the name of my new destiny.
> “I have been cautioned. I am not to give you any additional information that could affect how you choose to conduct your life. I have already stepped over the line.”
Her answer does not disappoint me. What I feel for Michael leaves no room in my heart for anyone else.
At home now, I read and reread my letter to Michael. My mind, my body, my heart—none are prepared to absorb this sudden change. I feel the loss of a dear friend. No, it is much more than that. A few days ago, I coolly told Amelia I wanted to wait awhile to contact Michael. In the hours since then, I have felt a strong connection. How can I say goodbye when we have not met? Yet, we have met … somewhere. I do know him. I will have to try, in my desolation, to get some sleep.
10/17
I’ve been busy today, distracted by the routine demands of work and children. This evening I am home alone, a steady rain keeping me indoors. Michael is back on my mind, thoughts of what might have been. I read my letter to him again, then see myself endlessly reading it until the ink has faded away and the paper has disintegrated. I read it once more—then force myself to throw it in the trash. I convince myself there is little point in trying to hang on to a dream, but if I hadn’t ripped the pages into tiny pieces I would retrieve them now and read it again. I can’t make myself stop thinking about Michael, and I don’t want to, but my thoughts are interrupted by a memory from twelve years ago, 1983.
Looking through the yellow pages, a name caught my eye, and I felt compelled to make an appointment with a man whose services I didn’t need. I will call him John, a man I had never met or seen. I was baffled—it made no sense for me to contact him, but I did—and then felt the nth degree of foolish as I walked back to his office. I could hardly look him in the eye as I mentioned a minor concern, one I had already addressed. I got his take on my options and made a quick exit.