The Invisible Choir

by Tessa Lynne

  I see a similar lesson in my love for Michael, a reason to be denied any absolute proof. In our first weeks together, like Eros and Psyche, we experienced love in its purest form. It is important that I retain the certainty of what I knew then. My belief will be rewarded with the fulfillment of our next destinies together. We have been assisted by angels, not gods from Mt. Olympus, and not to the end we desired, but we were granted as much assistance as was in their power to give.

  I write of proof as if I have had none at all, and yet I have. Early on, Zachary knew of the book I was led to at the library, and he later knew what song Michael had been listening to. Amelia mentioned the tall trees before I did, described details from my life twenty years ago, and spoke to Michael in my office before I told her I could sense his presence. Michael knew I had been eating ice cream every night and which flavor. Objects appeared on my bed and a letter in my mailbox. Not one of these—or a number of others—was absolute proof. As a whole, they were convincing, but my mind was always quick to point out the most remote possibility of a lucky guess on their part, a faulty memory on mine, or the involvement of a third party. The appearance of the light sent by Alexander, that star come to earth, was of a higher magnitude—it is my touchstone. My personal experience of the Light, and of other sources of spiritual presence, has also been affirming.

  None of these proofs provided what I have wanted—tangible evidence that our lives have intersected. I have yearned for something as solid as Michael’s physical body, made known to me by my five senses, not my sixth. To persist in my desire for that absolute proof is the equivalent of Psyche taking her candle to gaze upon Eros.

  9/21

  Michael has been close some days, absent others. Amelia had mentioned that he would be given a short assignment in this realm. He and other spirits are attempting to influence the leaders of a well-known religious organization, to guide them away from a path that would distance them from the core beliefs. Amelia impressed upon me that the spirit world is always involved in our lives, as individuals and collectively.

  I must also move on. I cannot immerse myself in our brief history, make it my life. I have no physical memories of Michael’s touch, his smile, his voice. I have no photographs or shared experiences of this world. There is no living being with whom I can share memories of a man we both knew. I have only our letters and my private memories. I fight the urge to live in them. I cannot stay there.

  Zachary once said, “Your spirit will endeavor to move your life forward, using your history only to facilitate your growth and encourage your strengths. Your spirit does not choose to dwell on past incidents from your life.” Grief does not belong in the same category as dwelling on the past, and I know Mahalia has grieved with me, but she has a perspective on death that I do not, and she knows there are more lessons to be learned before we leave this life. It is time for me to move a few steps forward.

  Three months have passed since Michael’s death. I do not know what that means, if anything. It is a known quantity, a full season. In a few days I will go to where we would have met for the first time and there say another goodbye. It will not be the end of my grief, which will follow its own course through the next year, or more, of ordinary days, holidays, and the anniversaries that mark our time together. My trip may only signal a shift in its focus and intensity.

  9/24

  I walk out on the island in the late afternoon, past the shelter to the pond, where willow trees edge the path. A row of turtles sits on a half-submerged log catching the last heat of the sun. I count seven plunks as they drop, one by one, into the water. I tell them I mean them no harm; they could have stayed where they were. I pass by the inlet where a pair of Canadian geese has sheltered all summer, the female with a broken wing, the male at her side. I feel the bond of their devotion.

  I continue on, at peace, aware of my surroundings, of my feet connecting to the earth. At the far end of the island, I sit on the bank of the river and meditate. As I reach a deeper level, it comes to me to meditate on love. Time passes. I sit in silence and listen: Love comes, not from the desire to be loved, but from opening yourself to love, to that which flows from the Creator, and from extending that love to others.

  The slap of a beaver’s tail upon the water alerts me: it is growing late. I make my way slowly through the meadow as the setting sun glances off the heads of prairie grasses and the last wildflowers of the season. I pass a doe, her coat turned to bronze, and two fawns, their white spots still faintly visible. I catch sight of a bald eagle just before it flies from its perch high up in a cottonwood tree. I stop and watch it soar.

  I am past the meadow, drawing near to the pond, when I am aware of someone walking beside me—it is Michael. I stop, and feel not only his energy but his density, in the form of his physical self, along the entire length of my body. I say hello to him and then walk slowly on—he matches my every step.

  I pause to look for the turtles on their log but now see only water bugs, darting on the surface. Opposite the pond, narrow reeds, now a golden brown, ripple in the slightest movement of air, their roots supporting the oozy, mucky ecosystem of the marsh. I hear music—three yellow-headed blackbirds trill their sweet song of nostalgia from the branch tips of a leafless tree.

  Michael is still by my side. Overhead, the long, green and yellow fronds of the willow trees create a lacy canopy. The sun sinks to just below the horizon, leaving an aura of red and gold. The air is alive. The entire scene is infused with the ephemeral, mystical quality of twilight time, and then it turns to pure magic. We walk together down the aisle—through the hundreds of fireflies that dance and light our way.

  30. Coda: that which

  completes and ends

  MICHAEL’S PRESENCE IS STRONG FROM the time I leave home. The four-hour trip ends when I come to the lodge and turn in to face my first view of the lake. Seeing that it is crowded with people, I continue a few miles down the road to a cabin where I have stayed several times with Kenna and Callie. It has happy memories and a hot tub under the stars.

  In the quiet of the evening, I return to the lake. I don’t want to avoid this area, a place of spiritual renewal for me, but I need to first spend time here with Michael. This is a journey of intention and purpose before our paths diverge. I get out of my car, walk past the cabins, and am flooded with images of what Michael has described.

  In that almost version of our life together, Michael makes our reservations, for a double cabin, and arrives first. He checks us in and comes outside to find me waiting in the spot we had set, a single wooden bench in a circle of pines. We do not run into each other’s arms but slowly approach, reach out our hands and join them. We gaze at each other, speak softly, and hear the names that until now have been the whispers of our spirits.

  Ordinary conversation is not possible. We embrace, we kiss, we reluctantly draw apart and sit down, embrace again. Our decision is made without any words; we get up and walk the short distance to the cabin. At the door, Michael is a bit formal and asks if I would prefer a room to myself. Of course I say no, and I lightly tease him, that he would think that I might. As we enter the cabin, I catch his eyes in the mirror, back the few steps to where he stands, turn, and rest my head on his chest as his arms enfold me and all formality is dropped.

  Tonight, in this painfully real version of our lives, I walk alone around the lake, almost deserted now. Michael is beside me, walking with me—he is here after all.

  9/26

  I wake up early and drive to a secluded spot beside a murmuring mountain stream. A light mist imparts a mystical quality that is soon mirrored by the deep calm that descends on me as I sit in meditation on an old, weathered tree stump. With my eyes closed, I listen to the soothing water sounds and feel the first warm rays of the sun touch my face.

  I have come seeking to be replenished for this journey. I draw energy from the earth, feel it rising up through my body, and then I draw energy from the sun. As these powerful forces converge, I reach out to t
he Creator and am enveloped by a white light. I am sustained.

  This evening, as I make my way through the pines around the lake, Michael’s presence is strong. Only one of my senses is aware of him—it is not any of the five that I want to be using.

  At the far end of the lake, giant boulders frame the opening to the deep gorge below. A waterfall fills the enclosed space with the energy of millions of negative ions. I pause for a moment to breathe it in, then follow the path to where it opens out to layer upon layer of dark pine-covered slopes, lightly shrouded in an iridescent mist. A water-colorist has touched the reds and blues of the sky, washing them and inviting purple. I know that Michael is aware of the beauty before us. I talk to him. Whatever quality or vibration it is that tells us someone is near and listening, that quality is here. He shifts to the space just behind me. I lean slightly back and can feel his body supporting me, his arms around me.

  9/27

  Michael is witness to my personal triumph when I climb a mountain, a seven mile trail, more than a mile in elevation. I almost turn back when the path becomes very steep. My heart is pounding, my leg muscles are protesting, screaming at my sudden demands on them. I am afraid I can’t do it, but it is easier to go on than to admit defeat. I need to stop every half minute and lean against a tree; if I were to sit down, I would not get up.

  I rest for a minute and look with fascination at the bonsai-like junipers. Their stunted growth, gnarled branches, and wizened bark impart a look of the ancient; their roots reach through the smallest cracks in granite rock in search of sustenance. I gaze at them with respect and awe—a meditation.

  I reach the peak, elated, the only one here to see the panoramic view of mountains, lakes, plains, and the specks of small towns. The beauty is an experience of my inner self, felt as much as seen. The whistling wind is cooler here, the sun a comforting warm. I am exhilarated, feel physically and mentally strong. I flash back to when it took all my effort to walk upright without falling down—the contrast leaves me feeling I can do anything now.

  I find a spot in the sun, out of the wind, as exhilaration and joy mix with peace and contentment. From my backpack, I take some trail mix and a large orange. I share nuts and raisins with the chipmunks that scurry over the rocks, entice them to come closer. I feel the weight of the orange in my hand, its pebbled surface. I dig a finger into the soft peel and release its fragrant oils in a fine spray, apply some to my pulse points. As I savor each juicy section, my body calms and physical awareness is overtaken by spiritual. I sit in meditation, aware now that I am surrounded by gentle currents, so distinctive that I say their names—Michael is closest, then Zachary, Amelia, Jacob, and the strongest among them, Eli. They join in my celebration.

  After almost an hour, I begin to make my way down the mountain. Into the stillness of my mind, come the words of an old hymn: “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” It is the closest, in my inner musical repertoire, to a song that speaks resoundingly of belief. I reach the gentler slopes and begin a walking meditation, repeating as my mantra the words I heard almost a year ago: “I am Mahalia. I return often, for the elements to be found here and for the children … we will walk together.”

  9/28

  I hike again this morning. I am pushing my limits with a second day of climbing, but I can’t resist the pull of the mountains, the hit of adrenaline, the heady elixir of endorphins. A misty trail through ferny, shaded valleys changes to barren, rocky slopes; the last short leg to the summit is almost vertical. I make it—and discover a small pool in the embrace of pines and junipers. Michael by my side, I sit on a log to rest. Before I leave, I search for a small, smooth stone. I throw it with care, to gently land in the center of the pool. We watch as the ripples extend to the edge of the universe.

  9/29

  I will have spent five days and five nights here. Tomorrow, I will be ready to return home; any less time would not have been enough. I need to say a goodbye for every day we would have said hello, to inhabit a moment here for every one in which we would have reenacted those glorious weeks we first reached out and found each other. Tonight, my walk with Michael is longer, full of conversation.

  9/30

  On my drive home, from mountains to prairies to river breaks, I am aware of Michael’s constant presence. I listen to Wynton Marsalis’ “The London Concert,” a poignant reflection of our time together, a celebration of our love. Then I crest a hill and my peace is shattered—before me the river winds through miles of familiar landscape, ablaze with fall color. I picture us returning together, anxious to see the girls, still intoxicated with each other. Through my tears, I face reality—never will I return home with Michael.

  My corner chair is waiting for me, and a fresh notepad, but I am ready to change the focus of my life. I will now let my grief exist in moments, as it will, sometimes longer, without recording it here. Even as I write those words, I am tempted to continue, to keep our relationship alive in this way, but it is time.

  I search for some way to complete these entries, some few words to express all of the joy and sorrow of this past year, the agony and the ecstasy. It is this: for all of the pain and loss, there has been a greater joy. If I were to be told that my memories of Michael would be erased, that I could choose to live this last year over with the same outcome—I would not think twice. I would live it again.

  Now I need to put my pencil down. I hesitate … I do not want to let go … I pick it up again … and finally lay it down ….

  Conversations with Michael

  9/25

  I can sense you walking by my side. I have an urge to explain that this is the lake I wrote of months ago—but you have already visited, in your ghostly way; you have seen our life that never was.

  I can see us here, first totally absorbed in each other and then expanding our awareness to the beauty around us. I have to restrain myself as I imagine it. To picture it in too much detail would leave me curled up in a ball, still lying on my cabin bed being slowly eviscerated by the pain. I look from a distance and use a filter to mute the images.

  Do you mind my tears? To know that you are here with me does not lessen my need for you. We will have five nights. One night, or two, would do little but open the wounds that had begun to heal. I knew they would be made raw and bleeding again, but I need to be here with you.

  9/26

  Michael, it is easier tonight, just a little. It is so real—my awareness of what we would have shared here—that the pain threatens to destroy me. It was at this point on the trail that I broke down last night. I need to get some control of myself before this couple comes closer; they aren’t touching. I think we could not have stood any distance between us.

  Do you hear the waterfalls? I stand close to immerse myself in the ion-charged air, the energy similar to what I feel when you are near. That clearing in the pines—is that where our wedding would have been? We would have needed no music besides that of the water-falls—the largest one the melody, the many small ones a constantly changing harmony—a few notes in a minor key.

  Here behind the boulders, where it opens to the valley below, I feel a quiet peace with you. We would have stood in this exact spot and watched the sun setting as it is now, perhaps on this very day. Michael, you astound me with the strength of your presence. You are just behind me now, so solid that, when I lean slightly back, I can feel your support.

  It is growing dark. As I climb these steps, your weight is no longer obvious behind me. The serenity of knowing your spiritual presence is overtaken now by the pain of my physical reality. I will never walk with you here.

  9/27

  Were you with me on the mountain? I know that you were—you rejoiced with me in my triumph. You must have been aware of the others. I am blessed to have so much support from the world that is now yours.

  I look across the valley to the distant slopes and wonder if your spiritual self is like the mist that engulfs them, as I feel you engulfing me. I see an image of your spirit blending with the mist,
see it composed of the many spirits who have known this place and return to its peace and beauty, help to create it. Do you see how the setting sun tinges the mist with color and lights it from within?

  9/28

  My sweet Michael—we have tonight and then one more. Do you notice my tears? They are softer, not the deep, wrenching sobs of the last three nights. It is easier now to hold the memory of the life we shared, those eight months when you were yet in this world. In our first weeks of joyous discovery, our experience was its own proof. We did not question what it was; we were simply a part of it. Just as an infant cannot separate its sense of itself from the being of its mother, we could not identify or name all that encompassed us then.

  9/29

  Our final night here. I have come earlier to have more time with you. I feel at peace—or is it just that I am exhausted, emotionally and physically? No, it is more than that, a deep inner contentment.

  Michael, it is here that we would have first known each other, would have found delight in each other. No, the delight would have come later, after we had satisfied our wilder passion, our need to consume and to be consumed by, to merge at some primal level. Then we would have savored a more gentle lovemaking—exploring, teasing, taking sheer delight in that we could see, hear, touch, smell, taste each other. Would we have compared it to our first weeks together? Then, our bodies merged completely, no boundaries to separate us—your touch made more evident by your absence. We knew a synchrony not possible within the limits of the physical body.