Over the years, I collected mugs with roses on them. China mugs from a Collectors Series, each very delicate, one with peach roses, one with yellow roses, one with white roses and one with a full English garden scene. I collected two of each as they went on sale and enjoyed them for years. Mom visited, drank from them and told me what the roses mean. “Yellow roses are for hope,” she said.
Since Mom passed, these mugs are vanishing one by one. This morning I was making a hot drink, pouring scalding water from the kettle into a yellow rose mug and CRACK! After what sounded like a firecracker going off, brown liquid streamed out the cracks all over the counter, roaring off the edge of it, miniature Niagara Falls rushing over the edge down white cabinet doors to the floor where it puddled so fast, I just stood there, looking at the murky splotches mapped on my pink and white pyjamas.
My thoughts, my exact thoughts when I was pouring the hot water in into the cup were this:
“I think it’s time to start telling the story of my marriage. There is a healing that needs to take place and it won’t take place while I pack it all around in my head. It has to be told. Even if no one listens. I have to purge the mental and emotional haunting of my soul… “
Cup cracks open…
The reason I remember so clearly what I was thinking is because I woke this morning thinking of these things. How little people know and how much they assume. The reason I awoke this morning thinking of these things is because my sleep was so fitful. And yesterday I had a vision.
I was in London Drugs, rooting through a Christmas ornament table of “Black Friday” leftovers for 25 cents. For two dollars, I snagged $40 worth of Christmas pretties for whenever I feel like celebrating Christmas. As I was going through this bin, I had a vision that I did not like, similar to the one I had when I received messages and knew I was wrapping my mother’s Mother’s Day Gifts for the last time. We didn’t even know she was ill yet. I was to wrap gifts again for one more Mother’s Day the next year when she lay dying but the vision proved right. It was the last Mother’s Day we had mom with us as we knew her, “fully present and well.“
Yesterday’s vision unnerved me and yet I cannot share it. I know it is something I just have to know until it happens. Like all my other visions that have already happened. Only rarely do I know that I am to share as in when my sister was very upset after her long time relationship ended and she was distraught over his abuse, having to sell the house, etc. I knew I was to tell her that the house would sell the first day to the first people as soon I received the vision. I did. And it happened exactly like I saw it. If you tell people you see things, they think you are nuts anyway and telling people won’t change the outcome. I don’t know why some of us are given visions. I don’t know why I was sent this one yesterday. I don’t know why we HSP’s know certain things and yet receive no message about other matters taking place right under our noses.
It is a gift sent to us and nothing I can even begin to explain. Only that it happens when it happens and I don’t ask for it, nor can I control it. I only know that I am to walk forward knowing this, though my heart is already weeping that I must walk forward into this vision. It is not mine to change or alter and with every passing moment miracles happen so who knows what may be ahead. I only know I was thinking of Mom in London Drugs, holding Christmas ornaments in my hands when the vision grabbed me. I had to set the ornaments down and walk through the store with nothing in mind but stopping the tears behind my eyes. Either that or go out in the rainstorm and stand there sobbing with the weather. I chose to stay dry. Then returned to the bin to arrange what was left in a way I knew Mom would have done if she were there, red with red, gold with gold and silver with silver. No, I wasn’t trying for a job at London Drugs, I couldn’t be on my feet all day like that anymore but I was trying to make order of what I saw and I did. As best I could, anyway.
The yellow rose china mug I set out this morning gave me thoughts of Mom galore, her love of roses, of sending her a bouquet of 50 red and pink roses on her fiftieth, of her beloved November blossomed rose bush in Nanaimo.
And this cup of hope cracking wide open this morning is a sign to this HSP (Highly Sensitive Person) that my friends and the psychologist are right. This story must be told.
Leonard Cohen said, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
Though the cup now looks as though nothing even happened to it, a thin line of faintly noticeable fissures running the length of it, so cracks open this morning the story of my marriage in its 34th year.
At nineteen when we met, I thought it a match made in heaven. Long-haired hippie dippie denim-loving girl with dreams of writing books. Long-haired Beatle-looking guy with a thick British accent playing rock in garage bands. Mom nick-named him Ringo back when I used to sing like Janis Joplin (did I, lol…well, I tried.) Apparently, lol.
Match made in heaven, two creative souls with dreams to share, realize and foster in one another. All I can say for now is that would depend entirely upon your concept of heaven.
This beloved Carpenters song, We’ve Only Just Begun played at our reception, me in my peasant style lace gown and flowers in my hair, he gleaming with his dark hair in his blue suit and both shaking like leaves so that we took a drink to calm our nerves. Harry Chapin sang it best I think…she was going to be an actress ( a writer), he was going to learn to fly ( to play)… but the Carpenters had it right… we had only just begun…