Wild Doves flew into the house yesterday afternoon, just as they had right after my father died.
My faithful canine companions, sensing the fear in which I awoke from my nap to the fluster and panic of beating wings above the duvet, snapped one of them clean in half, and pursued the other all around the room until I let it out of the window. I don’t think I did the remaining Dove any favours, given that its mate was now dead.
That is one of the facets of Life, down here. Yet I still apologised humbly to the dead bird, as well as to the mourning Dove now rattling the quarter candle holders around the outside altar.
Ah, but it’s that time between the onset of astronomical Spring and the day we feel that Winter has finally passed – dreams become strange, thoughts more probing, veils feel thinner.
Do I remember? As if it were yesterday.
But it’s more like 14 years since I was lying in that grubby hospital bed, a dead woman in the bed next to me, railings up so I couldn’t escape my own wastes, dying.
The next weeks were like a dream of living in hell.
And this topic still comes up for me at least once a year, usually around this time. But now there’s an added twist: given the illusory nature of human incarnation and the absolute dearth of real knowledge we can hold while down here, is it not possible that I never rose from that bed?
Is it a possibility that the Jacobs-Ladder-esque events which followed, and also the slow return to life, and more than life, were more illusory than most?
Did I set out to teach mySelf, through an apparent further span of years of life, what I had failed to learn in the first 40? Does my spirit now wait for my expanded, chastened and very much wiser soul to rejoin it before its final journey?
Am I still in effect lying in the Joburg Gen., bound both physically and mentally, and will I awake in this dream to finally cross the veil which obscures reality from us all?
Who can tell? Certainly not I.