Remember to Remember

A note before you read:

I am a dreamer. Always have been, since I was a kid. Dreams, visits, travel—I get messages when I sleep. So to not dream for the past few weeks has been weird. The absence has been noticeable.

I know it’s an invitation. My guides and ancestors have been asking me to listen in new ways.

I’d been having trouble sleeping. Too many screens. Too many screams I can’t shake from watching the news. Lots of life happening.

So I got my shit together. Back to my early bedtime. Less screen time. I thanked my guides and ancestors to this warning.

My sleep has improved. There is ease. There is flow. My ancestors have been grateful for the offerings I’ve made but they have asked for more sweetness. So I’m adding more sweetness into my life too.

I usually keep this part of myself under wraps. The meditation, the movement, the prayer—that I share. But there’s more. There are offerings I make from my heart. There is a tree I sit with in the mornings. There are relationships I tend that don’t have human faces.

There are so many new folks here so I thought I’d take you back with me to get a sense of who I am.

I’m glad you are here.

Love you. Love me. Love us.

xO

Laying in bed I felt a strange pull to watch episodes of Taxi, a classic show from 1978. Even as a kid I knew I was watching something special. My child brain respected Alex the curmudgeon who doled out advice even though he couldn’t follow it, and Rev. Jim Ignotoski was constantly stoned but a true prophet. He was my father’s favorite. I was only eight but the theme song made me feel like I could fly. In a trance, I pulled my laptop close and cried as a flute gently crooned. Tears streamed down my face and I wafted back to my family’s old kitchen, sitting at the table eating dinner with my parents watching these cabbies confront 1970s NYC. I was safe and loved. This was life before siblings, before teaching mindfulness practices and acknowledging my belief in things unseen. Before understanding the stuff that happens in the in between. I brushed off the event as a bout of nostalgia. I’m the sensitive one in my family, given to crying jags and big displays of emotion without apology. 36 hours later, I found out my Dad died. I know now that pull was him, letting me know he was gone. Toward the end of his life he had started to meditate and embraced a spirituality that I appreciated. After what would be our last phone call I meant to call him back to ask him if he wanted to do a weekend retreat together. I never did.

My dad was a scientist and my mother is an atheist. I am a seeker. I stayed in the closet with my spiritual leanings for most of my life, save a few close friends. I believe in the power of energy. Call it vibes, juju, whatever. I believe in talking to my ancestors. I know they answer back. I have learned that I must remember to remember.

Sunrays streamed through clouds on a hazy day. I was six, walking to the car with my mother. Dede, my mom has a way about her. She is jazz. She is style personified with an elegance that makes strangers turn their heads and want to know her. And even though she doesn’t believe in it, she is magic. Excitedly, I pointed to the clouds and said, “Mom! Mom! Look! That means that people are going to heaven.” Without a lot of fanfare she said, “No. There is no heaven because there is no god.” I knew better than to argue, but never believed her. I laugh lightly at the memory. My mother’s opinion matters to me about many things, but never this. My parents raised independent thinkers. I took that teaching and ran with it. We are all connected, alive and dead. We all have a soul and it doesn’t die when our bodies do. When I started meditating, teaching yoga and studying massage I found my people. I confessed to experiences that could only be described as spiritual or supernatural — like the times I was woken out of my sleep as a child. A tug at my feet, a whisper in my ear, and one time, even a slap on my face. “Wake up!” it said. I ran to my parents’ room convinced that they or someone was the culprit but no one was there, mom and dad were snoring contentedly. And no, it wasn’t a dream or something that faded into memory. I was liberated sharing these things with folks who didn’t think I was crazy.

Over the years my worlds would blend and purposely I let my views slip. Surprisingly, my mom shared about strange events that couldn’t be explained. Like the night her sister died a red light appeared while she was in bed. She plainly stated that she knew it was the spirit of Courtney, visiting. Or the times food would disappear from the pantry of our house in Martha’s Vineyard. A ghost was to blame. My father laughed it off, but she was adamant that something took these items, still standing firm in her atheism. I have radically accepted these contradictions. Several years ago a man I loved died unexpectedly. Overcome by grief I called my parents from the car hyperventilating. My father said, “Oneik! Oneik! Listen to me, I’m a scientist, right? Listen to me. Matter can’t be created or destroyed, it just changes form, right? So he’s not in his body. He’s in the wind, in the trees. He isn’t gone.” I was able to make it home, calm and comforted. Hearing my name come from my dad’s mouth brought me back to the ground.

The morning after my father’s death I stood in the solarium of my parents’ house. My mother named it Wonderland because of the whimsical design. There’s an emerald green Eames chair, striped rugs, fur throws, yellow walls, fabric swivel chairs and a sketch of Jimi Hendrix greets you as the sun rises. Feeling lost, I stood on shaky legs holding a mug of coffee wondering how I would get through the day and the rest of my life. Behind me a voice that was clear and urgent said, “Oneik! Oneik!” My nickname. Out loud I said, “Dad?” I did a quick sanity check. This voice was inside me but not coming from me. This was my dad. “Oneik! Oneik!” I replied urgently but centered, “Dad! I can hear you.” It said, “I’m okay. I’m okay.” And it started to fade. “I’m okay.” Then it was gone. Tears covered the smile on my face. I was so grateful for my practices and the ability to listen. “I love you. We’re going to be okay,” I said. Later, I told my mother and sister what happened in Wonderland. They didn’t question it or write it off to grief. That night he visited in a dream dressed in a white sweater and jeans dancing like a badass to James Brown’s “I Got The Feelin’.”

Months later, my mother looks over the top of her computer eyeing me suspiciously but saying nothing. I’m having a coffee-fueled conversation with her friend about spirituality and the power of connecting with internal emotional resources rather than relying on the external. We’re in my mother’s new house in Madison, CT. It’s the first home she has bought on her own. She’s asked our opinion and second-guessed herself but now is thrilled with the purchase. Months ago she told me about a dream. She was taking the family to see the house. My dad was with us and told her he loved it. When it was time to leave he said he had to take a different car. “It was so real!” she said. It was probably a visit, I told her. She nodded in agreement. In her new living room flooded with sunlight my mother sits back, drinks her coffee and rubs the head of Dax, a giant Doberman who is her loyal companion. I love this home in Connecticut. I can see the water and hear the waves from the bedroom. The lawn is bright green and lush. The neighborhood is graceful and understated. The houses are perfect and their occupants, friendly. Her good friend Roz, an incredible artist who is both religious and spiritual, has declared that the house is magical. It is Wonderland. My mother sniffs with some disbelief and smiles.