“The miracle comes quietly into the mind that stops an instant and is still.”- T-28.I.11:1 A Course in Miracles
I am a firm believer in miracles and messages from the Beyond. Nothing the least bit cosmic foo- foo about it. I am able to accept them so readily because I have witnessed many. A Course in Miracles defines a miracle as a “shift in perception” and contends that miracles are natural and that when we don’t see them, something has gone awry. Lately I have been stilling my mind and clearing my vision to see them everywhere. On Monday, I went to Our Lady of Czestochowa which is a Polish Catholic shrine in Doylestown, Pennsylvania. My first venture there was when I was 14 years old and my best friend Barb’s mother took us to the annual Polish Festival. Rides, games and pierogies everywhere! It felt like the other end of the Earth from my home in Willingboro, New Jersey. Fast forward 4 decades and I find myself living 5 minutes from this haven in the hills.
In the past month or so, I have felt adrift on a sea of emotions of all sorts with tears creating the waves. They were a long time coming following the death of my parents; Dad in 2008 and Mom in 2010. In the service of taking care of business, I had stashed my grief away in a trunk with humungous padlocks, that was airtight and tossed to the bottom of the ocean. I put on a brave front, saying that I knew they were still with me in Spirit, they weren’t in pain anymore and they were with each other. All meant to keep me functioning. Where was the little girl who missed her Mommy and Daddy? She was well cared for in many ways by the 52 year old woman I had grown into the day I became an adult orphan and yet, she needed to be able to cry out her grief. That I allowed for in bit and pieces, at odd moments, but not with the wailing, sobbing release that I needed and that has become nearly a daily ritual in the last few weeks. Almost anything could start the waterworks and that’s a good thing.
Steering the Jeep up the long and winding driveway that led to the towering cathedral where visitors from around the world go to worship, I felt a hush fall over my racing mind. I wasn’t raised Catholic, mind you, but like Mother Mary, am a nice Jewish girl. I figured she would understand my call for guidance on many areas of my life that felt like they were in upheaval. My friend Caran and I walked toward the grotto next to a chapel and candle room where we saw hundreds of rosaries, scapulars, other religious objects, as well as flowers offered in tribute to the Black Madonna.
Stashed in the crevices of the rock walls are prayers and petitions of the visitors. Writing and then adding ours, we sat on a bench observing the people coming and going. I was talking about my parents and Caran held me as I cried once again. I told her that my mother often showed up in the symbolism of a butterfly, but I had no such messenger from my father. At that moment, a white feather drifted down and landed at my feet. There was no bird in sight. Clearly, it was meant for me to find and perhaps my dad was dropping in to remind me that he was there. It reminded me of my friend Barry Goldstein’s song called There’s An Angel Watching Y0u.
“There’s one white feather from the sky
An angel’s watching you
There’s one white feather from above
There’s an angel watching you.”
http://youtu.be/qkG7XE-uBSk There’s An Angel Watching