My alarm wakes me. I hate alarms. I sweep my hand between the sheets searching for my cell phone. I accidentally knock it to the floor. Hanging my head over the bed’s edge, I spot the familiar glow. I want to hit snooze, but know I will pay dearly for that extra ten minutes. In an instant my phone is in my hand, inches from my face, and I am checking email, delete, delete, delete, and then an email from my sister Susy. I open it, a response to a string of emails to all the siblings started by my sister Mare two days ago. Mary asks first if any of us have been visited by mom or dad in our dreams. This is common discussion among us, we love sharing what we believe are signs from our parents.
For us, signs appear in dreams, or music, and often times in nature. Mary recalls her dream. She is having breakfast on a pier with our parents and her children, my dad makes my niece finish her breakfast, and my mom wants to gamble; all events that occurred regularly in our real lives, but not necessarily all at once. Fond memories make me smile. I had responded to Mary the day before saying I had not received any signs at all, lately. Susy tells us this morning that she hasn’t dreamed of the folksies for some time, but she is reminded of them through birds and butterflies that pass through her yard like little angels. Finally, Susy reminds us that today marks seven years since our mom has passed. I sigh and wish for a sign. . . . and now I’m running late.
My day feels hurried from the start, a 7:30 meeting, and then one minor disaster after another. No common theme except I can’t seem to do my job today. My 10:30 appointment arrives and she is angry. I greet her politely, and make every effort to address her concerns. Rude, coarse and disrespectful she demands answers I cannot give her. I politely refer her to my boss and wish her a good day. The day seems to continue in this vein, full of problems I cannot solve. I am very uncomfortable when solutions are not at my fingertips, especially where the well-being of children is concerned. I hate failing, and I feel cranky, and a little bit sorry for myself.
Late in the afternoon, I realize I never stepped foot outside. I am determined to go for a walk in the canyon and shake off the day. Within an hour I am surrounded by green hillsides. I begin my search for signs, deer, hawk, or cooing doves . . . hmmm . . . . nothing. I arrive back at my car as the sun is setting, and I am grateful for the beautiful walk, but a little disappointed. I wanted a sign from my mom.
Climbing into my car, I pick up my phone and there is a text from my girlfriend Moe, a simple reply to a text I sent her about getting together for drinks. But wait . . . there’s more. She adds some lovely compliments, reminding me of the good work I do with children, and my creative talents (something I rarely acknowledge). I read it several times. These are my mom’s words, only they are written my Moe. How did she know what I needed to hear? I am immediately teary, but in the best possible way. I could always count on my mom to know when I needed love, support, and encouragement. She was my greatest cheerleader, believing I could do anything.
Signs are funny things; an ordinary happening accompanied by an extraordinary feeling, messages from the Universe. And sometimes . . . they are delivered by people we love.