Whispers from the Spirit World

Chapter 1

The Light that Shines from Joseph’s Room

from across the veil
fleeting memories of you
light my dreams

On her way to wash her hands, my friend, Cecile, inadvertently overshot the field, walking past the bathroom, and ending up in the master bedroom.
“I guess old habits die hard,” she said.
Cecile had been Joseph’s occupational therapist for the last nine years of his life. Having treated him at home, she’d been in his room countless times.
I smiled warmly at her. “Joseph’s been gone for over five years. That habit should have died long ago.”
Although I sleep in the master bedroom now, my friend, Eva, still refers to it as Joseph’s room. And, I must confess, I do too.
Cecile’s not the only person who, en route to the bathroom, found herself in Joseph’s room. It happened to Eva, and it’s happened to me on a few occasions. Something about the room draws people in.
Before moving into the Riverdale apartment, Joseph selected the paint color for his room; teacup rose, a pastel hue blending pale pink and coral. I chose harvest beige for my bedroom, which now serves as the guest room. The kitchen and the living room were painted latte, a creamy almond with a drop of pink; the den, the palest of greens. All the ceilings in the apartment were linen white.
The paint colors brought a certain harmony to all the rooms, but something about Joseph’s room set it apart from the rest. There was an aura in the room; an energy that gave it a distinctive feel. Joseph’s spirit, positive and uplifting, filled the room when Joseph lived there; and it continues to fill the room today.
A few years after Joseph passed, I invited a neighbor in for tea, and gave her a quick tour of the apartment. Stepping foot in the master bedroom, she said, “There’s something about this room; the energy in here is different from the energy in the rest of the apartment.”
“What do you mean?” I probed.
“It’s hard to explain. As I entered the room, my body relaxed; I felt a sense of comfort. I wanted to talk, to confide secrets. It was as though there were a priest in the room.”
Joseph’s character commanded the attention of others. He was charming, and entrancing. Genuinely caring, his kindness was apparent. People sought him out; they loved being around him.
“This was Joseph’s room,” I revealed.
“It doesn’t surprise me a bit.” Joseph was a remarkable person. Such a good man. His energy is still here.”
I haven’t painted the room since Joseph passed. I dare not paint it. I shudder to think of a vibrational change or a shift of energy in the room. I use Joseph’s favorite pillows and comforters. Some of his clothing hangs in the armoire alongside mine. His photos adorn the tops of the dresser and the chest of drawers.
I spend a great deal of time in Joseph’s room. Besides sleeping there, I read, take care of correspondence, and write. I study his photographs and talk to him every day. Each time I enter the room, a ripple of love runs through me. Being close to Joseph provides warmth and support. It completes me, and it feels oh-so right.

Chapter 2

My Window to the World

a jammed window—
an overlook
to a limited world

Before leaving for a girl weekend getaway in Pennsylvania, I closed and locked all the windows, a habit I acquired in childhood from my mom. On my return, looking forward to a cool, breezy night in my own bed, I opened them. All but one, that is. The east-facing window in the master bedroom was jammed shut—it just wouldn’t budge—and there would be no cross ventilation that night.
The following morning, I enlisted the help of the building’s maintenance worker to resolve the problem. With great difficulty, and calling upon all his strength, he pried the window open and sprayed it with silicone spray. He also replaced the rods. After closing the window, neither of us could open it. He said he’d speak to the superintendent and the building manager on my behalf.
In the meantime, each morning, and each evening—although I’m not sure why—I tried to lift the window; to no avail. Until . . . in the gloaming, a mourning dove’s sorrowful song woke me from sleep.
Mourning doves had visited me before, bringing messages from the beyond. A mourning dove appeared shortly before my sister’s death. I saw it as an omen. It attended her funeral, sang at her service, and ushered her on her journey home.
Although they tend to appear during trying times, mourning doves don’t generally symbolize danger or tragedy. They’re gentle signs of providence, and are more apt to bring messages of hope, love, and peace. They’ve perched on my windowsill and my air conditioner. They’ve come in dreams. They’ve guided me to look inward and find peace within myself.
Angels, spirit guides, deceased loved ones; sometimes even God will send messages from across the veil. I sensed the mourning dove was a sign from Joseph, and I rose to look through the window. It was dark outside, and I couldn’t locate the dove.
Whoa! Thunder—so loud I jumped—followed by flashes of lightning, lit the sky. The heavens opened and waves of rain turned into pellets of hail hitting the windows hard and crashing on the air conditioner in the living room.
Within minutes the hail stopped. My practice after a rainstorm is to open the windows and let the coolness in. Without giving it any thought, I lifted the jammed window; it opened easily and freely.
Had Joseph intervened? Had he sent the mourning dove to let me know the problem was solved, and the window would open? Was he recognizing my perseverance and tenacity in seeing a problem through? Or was he helping me look at life from a new perspective? Ahh! The mysteries and the magic of the Universe.