I have felt her all day. She died a few years ago. Irma. I did her temple work today.
I can often feel the spirits of those who have gone before. They come to me in dreams. I am acutely aware of their presence when I meditate. Irma was here today.
I used to sleep in her adobe house as a child. I would wake to her sprinkling water on the smooth dirt floors and sweeping them clean of debris.
"Quieres algo de comer?" she always asked, warming tortillas on an old cast iron, wood-burning stove. Do you want something to eat?
Her daughters and I gobbled down scrambled eggs laid by the hen at our feet.
We proceed to run to the creek outside the house. Shrieking and screaming we stripped down to our panties and splashed in the refreshing water.
Irma enjoyed sitting on a rusty metal lawn chair to watch the spectacle. Always a baby in her arms. Irma gave birth to 13 children. Several of them died. Her smile was a sad, accepting one. Her smile accepted Poverty and Death. These things simply were.
She never aspired to More. She lived a simple life of Love and Work. A good clean life.
Irma's energy was calm and still and smiling. I felt that today. I felt her deeply. It was as if she were sitting among the Alamo trees in that rusty metal chair.
We Mormons do temple ordinances for our kindred dead in order to turn the hearts of the children to the fathers and the hearts of the fathers to the children. We believe the work we do allows the dead to further progress in the Eternities. What is sealed on Earth is sealed in Heaven. Forever families.
I love our temples. Peace abides. Peculiar rituals take place. I enjoy the peculiar. Understanding of The Unseen world is heightened. I am able to look beyond the the sorrow of a fallen world. I can see Eternity. She is glorious.
Irma was not Mormon. Who knows what she thinks of all this. (She didn't clue me in today.) I do know, however, that she felt loved. Remembered.
My work here is done.
Random, Pointless, Silly Stuff
I am in my bathroom this morning mentally preparing for a two hour drive with my mother.
I love my mother. Dearly. She is a talker. I am not. I am an "uh huh-er". It works out well. (Incidentally, my husband is a talker also.) She can go for 8 hours at a time, scarcely stopping for breath. Luckily, her stories are fraught with family gossip, excitement and old stories of Mexico. Still, I must prepare mentally for all the listening that will take place on my part.
I am late. My mother is waiting at the nearest Circle K. I am to meet her at 10:30. I'll never make it.
Years ago my mother deemed me "the late one". Crystal is always at least 10 minutes late to everything. Coral, on the other hand, is always 15 minutes early. For an entire year I made a concerted effort to be at least 5 minutes early to every family event. My mother, however, enjoyed the story and stuck to it. She tells it every chance she gets.
Crystal is always late. Why frustrate delicate expectations?
I spend more time than necessary playing dress-up.
My husband enters the room as I step into a dress I have never worn before.
"What dress is that?" he says, squinting. Squinting is never a good sign when it comes to dresses.
"It's a new old one. Vintage. Bought it in Vegas months ago for like $16."
"Is it awful?"
"No. ...I... like it...".
"Great. You think I look like a picnic blanket. For your information, all the gays at Buffalo loved it on me."
We are heading for disaster. His manly instincts tell him to act quickly. Fight or flight.
"Of course, they loved it on you! You look sexy in everything, baby."
Hmmm. Vague. I stare at him. Eyebrow raised. I'm deciding... Nope. Not good enough, pal.
"You hate this dress. Admit it!"
"I don't hate that dress! I was just confused..."
"Confused? About the dress? What's confusing? That I look like Dorothy off to see the wizard?"
"I had just never seen it before. I didn't know you owned it."
Translation: I detest that dress but I am terrified to say those words aloud for I fear your wrath even though you are never wrathful (more sarcastic than wrathful) and perhaps what I fear the most is the possibility of reduced physical attention as a result of my truthful opinion.
I don't understand why he wouldn't just SAY all that... I'm docile as a kitten. Meow. Pft!
What do YOU think of my dress?
I'll admit I started to feel like I was going crazy after a couple hours of living in it. My personality is far too loud for wild prints... Is gingham a wild print? I don't know. Be honest... Should I sell it? I'm thinking... yes.