As often happens when I am in the thick of things, it's been hard to write. Part of it is that I am respecting the privacy of others involved, and part of it is I struggle to identify words that match the experience. Somehow, "I helped stop a suicide" doesn't sound right, even though that is what happened. I worry that it sounds self-important, and that somehow I did something magical. But when I try to explain that further, I sound even weirder: "All I did was listen to The Universe." Like... ok, lady. Get over yourself.
I'm not overly religious anymore, but I do believe in Something. I guess what I mean is I'm not tied to calling Him God anymore; any religious name would do, but also it's bigger than that... like, well, The Universe. There is Something out there that sees the through-line, knows the story from before I was born and where it will go long after I've exited stage left. It's comforting to me, that Entity: I'm not responsible for the whole puzzle, just my pieces. And when She (yes, I know I give God the male identity and the Universe the female-- these things don't make sense and I'm ok with that) tells me to do something, I trust her. Because she's the Universe.
When I was younger, I wanted psychic powers. My Dad tells of having a dream that his grandmother called for him in the middle of the night-- and when he went to her side, she was having a heart attack. I wanted to be able to do that for people I loved, but since it "skips a generation", I figured I was out of luck. It seemed pretty incredible, though, to know someone needed help without them needing to use words to ask.
This summer, I had some experiences that can only be described as Universe Magic. The most profound was when I told my friend that "the bridge is a portal" ...which turned out to be a very specific phrase she wrote in her suicide note to me, which I had not (consciously) known she had written that afternoon. I swear on everything good and holy, that phrase came to me in a flash. And it was enough to shock her back into her body, and agree to contract for survival. It was the second time that summer I had recognized her suicidality and helped her step away from the edge; sadly, it was not the last time I would play conduit for her. I am one, again, now.
Today is a day that has historical hurt for her. I am learning that these days are woven into her being; that even when she doesn't remember what the day is, her body does. And these days are hard--harder than anyone should have to cope with--and there are many such days. We visited her in the treatment program on one of these days, again unknowingly. It took her 3 days to recover from that memory: I hope this one is easier, but I fear it isn't.
I called her, as I've been doing, on the rough days as well as the good ones. "But how do I get over this?" she pleaded. "I don't have words to explain it, I replied.
...And then I remembered Meg and IT.
I loved A Wrinkle in Time by Madeline L'Engle. Read it, and A Wind in the Door and A Swiftly Tilting Planet over and over. Something about these books called to me. I connected with Meg as the "dumb oldest sister" in a family of brilliance: her skills as an empath and intrapersonal communicator weren't valued, but were so essential to the family's survival. My guess is it took fictional Meg many years to learn to see her value, her own brilliance... because it took me until my 30s.
That is how to fight back. Resist the rhythm the voice in her head provides about how useless she is and how she deserves this pain with Love. 'Rachel says I am worthy of love, of happiness, of lightness'. 'I am in a place that keeps me physically safe while I learn new patterns'. 'I can do this'.
And all of a sudden, I understood why I read that series so many times. I would need to be fluent in Mrs. Whatsit, Mrs. Which, and Mrs. Who, and Aunt Beast and Charles Wallace and Father and IT. I needed to understand vicerally that Love is spoken in all languages, even ones that are not spoken here on Earth. That the Universe is real, no matter what you call it, and that Magic is all around you... even when you think it's not.
She is in the clutches of her memories, of all that has happened to her. She thinks she deserved it and still does: I am here to tell you she most certainly does not. She is kind and thoughtful, so generous with her love for others and so afraid to be loved herself. And she has been so deeply hurt that I understand why her younger self could only make sense of it by thinking she deserved this pain. I cry for her; I ache with her... and all I can do is love her, and hope she makes it through.
Meg Murray got a storybook ending, and while I still associate so strongly with Meg, this is not a book written with the happy ending scripted out. I do hope, however, to find us in pig pile of love in my backyard, surrounded by cats and family and safety. Why else would the Universe have sent me to her after making sure I had this story woven into my soul? But this I know:
Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.
-Martin Luther King, JR
I will continue to send love and light to her for as long as I am able.
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