A sHORT sTORY... about last sUNDAY night...

"... Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take,
but by the moments that take our breath away."

"A moment of Grace in the mist..."

Last Sunday night (late) a mist settled in and looked so pretty sitting around my street light throwing long streams of light like angel ladders to heaven, that instead of tucking myself up warmly in my bed, l picked up the camera to hold onto the fragile beauty of the moment... But what appeared on my camera screen quite took my breath away... For where l 'expected' to see a haze, l saw 'bubbles', where l expected to see a mist, l saw layer upon layer of dense moving transparent, translucent 'bubbles'... I was so captured that l ran out into the street and snapped away until the camera's memory was filled and l was chilled to the bone... But in my haste l had rushed into the enclosing mist, ignorant of the chill on my skin because of a serene-ness that had begun to seep deep into my bones... It was as if there was a magic in the night, a something intangible in the air and l began to feel light headed as a soft light began to flood my veins and l felt whispers in the darkness surrounding me... My son looked at me curiously with big eyes and wouldn't come out into the darkness, but stood at the veranda door and took photo's of me in my 'mist'... "You look as if you are in a daydream mum" he said and he was right, that was where l was... as l reflect now, lost l was, but not in thought, but in a place ...somewhere else...

...And that night l dreamed a dream that l held my life in my hands...

It was a small interesting looking book bursting at the seams, colourful and packed full of pages like art work with tagged edges every so often, dividing, with a title, the information held within... l pulled at the ribbon that encircled and contained the pages, to discover that inside was a richly raw and uncut 'story of me'... And not just the 'now' of me but the 'all' of me. The 'all' of me that time had constrained in all the different places that spirit can be... The 'all' of me that is fragmented throughout time and space, the all of me, the story of me... All the mysteries of my spirit contained within a book small enough to sit in the palms of my two open hands... Then the book settled open at a mist ...in a small lifetime, a sad lifetime... A small, sad lifetime that set the tears to flow from my eyes and caused me to wake with a sob caught in my throat...

...Later that following day in the orange light of the Autumn afternoon l remembered a story that was once related to me... A small and tender story of a boy who used to sit with a lady and drink tea on sunny afternoons. She was a kind woman who cared for the dying by night and on occasional afternoons shared stories of her Irish heritage with the boy... Who liked his tea weak, unlike hers... And one day she spoke to the boy of the 'spirit mists' that sometimes settled on country roads late at night when most people were tucked up in their beds, and she whispered to him of those souls who had not yet learnt to loosen their grip to this world... Spirits who had such a tight hold to some parts of themselves that they would sometimes slip into the mists of time and revisit... She spoke to the boy of whispers in the mist and the mysteries of 'other-lives' and angels... She spoke of things that she didn't share with others, for they wouldn't have understood, like the boy did...

And then one day, when the day came for her to move on from this world, to kiss the boy goodbye and leave her earthly existence and let go... She whispered to her husband of her wish to have her now weary body laid to rest, in the church yard in the town of her youth, in her home town faraway over the sea... He replied with tears in his eyes that he knew of no such plots available there, the church being so very ancient and full long ago of the old bones of her ancestors long gone... But it was her dying wish and he made her the promise as she closed her eyes and quietly left her earthly body for she knew not where, but knowing that her Beloved would stay true to his word to her... For that is what love does...

...And so the story goes that with a tired heart himself, he phoned the faraway town of his wife's youth and spoke to the priest there about checking the cemetery plot records... And with a doubtful mind the priest went about his task in honour of the Irish womans dying wish, for he had known her as a child... And as he blew the dust from the oldest of the ancient leather bound books, his surprised eyes glanced and then set upon the very last plot... Long, long ago forgotten... in the front of the church... alongside the pathway that the people of the small town walked every Sunday, and Saturday evening for mass and that the Irish lady had passed herself many times as a child... And so the story went that this was where she was laid to rest among her family, with the ancestors of her earthly life...

...And to this day from the faraway country, to the small Irish town, the man who was husband to the lady that cared for the dying at night, who spent sunny afternoons drinking tea with a boy... still sends a small bunch of fresh flowers every week to lie on his Beloveds final resting place, next to the path that leads to the church... in the town of the womans youth ...For that is... what love does...

...And so perhaps if you are lucky enough to stray into a fog on a dark cold night when everyone is sleeping, when you really should be tightly tucked up in your bed... May your memory stray back to this little tale of mine and my wish would be, that you too might experience a moment where time stands still and soft voices whisper tales of their earthly lives and loves... and that you too might experience ,as l did last Sunday night, "a moment of Grace in the mist..."