THE POWER OF THE HEART
A True Story
Of Love & ETERNITY
Of Love & ETERNITY
One day, I received a letter from a stranger whose last name is the same as mine.
A retired schoolteacher, she wrote to me from Utah where she was researching the family tree. Consulting the Mormon Library, famous for its genealogical information, she had come across my name. In the letter, she asked if I would contribute any information about the family.
My heart beat fast. I had not seen my father in twenty years. Could this stranger help me find him?
I wrote her, immediately, explaining that my father had been adopted, so I was not a blood relation, but I included everything I could remember about my adoptive grandparents and a great-grandmother, who had all been very kind to me.
Then, I asked if she would do me a great favor: If she came across a John Harold Stigman, born in 1917, would she please send me his address, or pass mine on to him? “He’s my father,” I wrote, “and although we haven’t spoken in many years, I believe he might want to hear from me.”
A few weeks later, I was on my way to the supermarket. Before leaving my building, I checked for mail and found a return letter from the retired schoolteacher. I had yearned to make contact with my father for so long, I was afraid to open the letter. I hesitated, then tore it open, and read the entire letter standing in the foyer of my building, before sitting down on some nearby steps, to read it all over again.
A retired schoolteacher, she wrote to me from Utah where she was researching the family tree. Consulting the Mormon Library, famous for its genealogical information, she had come across my name. In the letter, she asked if I would contribute any information about the family.
My heart beat fast. I had not seen my father in twenty years. Could this stranger help me find him?
I wrote her, immediately, explaining that my father had been adopted, so I was not a blood relation, but I included everything I could remember about my adoptive grandparents and a great-grandmother, who had all been very kind to me.
Then, I asked if she would do me a great favor: If she came across a John Harold Stigman, born in 1917, would she please send me his address, or pass mine on to him? “He’s my father,” I wrote, “and although we haven’t spoken in many years, I believe he might want to hear from me.”
A few weeks later, I was on my way to the supermarket. Before leaving my building, I checked for mail and found a return letter from the retired schoolteacher. I had yearned to make contact with my father for so long, I was afraid to open the letter. I hesitated, then tore it open, and read the entire letter standing in the foyer of my building, before sitting down on some nearby steps, to read it all over again.
She found him. John Harold Stigman, born in 1917, whose social security number matched my father's. But he had died in 1985.
My eyes instantly filled with tears, but I stifled them. Like many shock victims, I felt determined to finish my errand. I would go to the store as planned, do my shopping, then return home to mourn my father. I would cry when I got home.
Instead, I wandered the supermarket aisles with an empty cart, tears streaming down my face, my shopping list a useless blur, clutched tight in my hand.
“What’s wrong?” a friend asked, taking my arm firmly.
“My father died!” I blurted out.
“When?” she asked, her face reflecting immediate sympathy and concern as she put her arm around my shoulder consolingly. When I replied, “1985,” I watched some of the confusion I felt, drift across her face.
My eyes instantly filled with tears, but I stifled them. Like many shock victims, I felt determined to finish my errand. I would go to the store as planned, do my shopping, then return home to mourn my father. I would cry when I got home.
Instead, I wandered the supermarket aisles with an empty cart, tears streaming down my face, my shopping list a useless blur, clutched tight in my hand.
“What’s wrong?” a friend asked, taking my arm firmly.
“My father died!” I blurted out.
“When?” she asked, her face reflecting immediate sympathy and concern as she put her arm around my shoulder consolingly. When I replied, “1985,” I watched some of the confusion I felt, drift across her face.
Once home, I decided to take the next day off from work, to somehow mark the day and remember my dad. I called in the following morning to explain what happened. The woman I worked for listened sympathetically, but reminded me that I was needed, and suggested that it would probably be good for me to come in to work.
If there had been a funeral to attend, I know my employer would have understood that I needed time to mourn. It seemed to be the time lag between my father’s death and my learning of it that was supposed to make his death easier to deal with. His death was already in the past, so far behind us all. My mind understood the facts, but my heart didn’t know what to do with them. So I went to work. I would mourn later.
As sympathetic as my friends were, I felt I was getting the same message from them as I had from work. Public mourning and personal grief over such a remote event were somehow extreme, even a little morbid at this late date. A certain swiftness was urged. Move on. Don’t dwell on it. Time to grieve seemed inappropriate for latecomers. It made people uneasy. Grief for a loved one, years since they passed on, made little sense to others, but it did to my heart.
I needed to grieve. Because suddenly, I was full of grief. And not only grief, but guilt and anger, too. I couldn’t move on. Not yet. Something had to be done. I just didn’t know what. So I placed my grief on a high shelf in that special inner room you may also be familiar with, where events too painful to look at are stored, until ultimately they demand their own time.
If there had been a funeral to attend, I know my employer would have understood that I needed time to mourn. It seemed to be the time lag between my father’s death and my learning of it that was supposed to make his death easier to deal with. His death was already in the past, so far behind us all. My mind understood the facts, but my heart didn’t know what to do with them. So I went to work. I would mourn later.
As sympathetic as my friends were, I felt I was getting the same message from them as I had from work. Public mourning and personal grief over such a remote event were somehow extreme, even a little morbid at this late date. A certain swiftness was urged. Move on. Don’t dwell on it. Time to grieve seemed inappropriate for latecomers. It made people uneasy. Grief for a loved one, years since they passed on, made little sense to others, but it did to my heart.
I needed to grieve. Because suddenly, I was full of grief. And not only grief, but guilt and anger, too. I couldn’t move on. Not yet. Something had to be done. I just didn’t know what. So I placed my grief on a high shelf in that special inner room you may also be familiar with, where events too painful to look at are stored, until ultimately they demand their own time.
One year later, that hour arrived when my best friend suddenly died. She was seventeen years older than me, my mentor, and best friend. My mom away from home. And now she was suddenly gone.
Stunned with grief, I stumbled blindly around my apartment sobbing over my loss. Even as I could almost hear her say, “Don’t cry, dear. I’m fine, really!” She was of that plucky, stalwart generation, who having lived through World War II seldom complained about anything.
The next day, memories of my father suddenly began surfacing. This was too much. I had enough to do mourning my friend! I tried not to think of him, but I couldn’t stop the flood of childhood memories.
Stunned with grief, I stumbled blindly around my apartment sobbing over my loss. Even as I could almost hear her say, “Don’t cry, dear. I’m fine, really!” She was of that plucky, stalwart generation, who having lived through World War II seldom complained about anything.
The next day, memories of my father suddenly began surfacing. This was too much. I had enough to do mourning my friend! I tried not to think of him, but I couldn’t stop the flood of childhood memories.
He left when I was six, so my memories of him are few – Our fishing together with bamboo poles, his teaching me how to read a compass. How patiently he taught me how to ride my first bike. My glee as he played the spoons for my delight, and the magic as he wove a truly marvelous cat’s cradle.
I still did not feel ready to mourn him but I knew, this time, I didn’t have a choice. An avalanche of unresolved grief, guilt, and anger almost buried me. No wonder I had tried so hard not to face his death.
For late one night, when I was six years old, after an argument with my mother, my father left our home and virtually never returned. Over the next few years I could count his visits on one hand. And then he just stopped coming. For years I cried myself to sleep, unable to understand his sudden abandonment and continued absence.
At nineteen, however, when I was about to marry, I wanted my father to meet my fiancé. I called him, we met, and it was very strange for me because he took my hand and called me “honey” as if he had never left. The years for adults go by so much more quickly than for children. I had already spent most of my life missing him. That night, I hoped for some explanation from him, but he offered none, and I was too shy to ask.
Throughout the evening, he must have wondered if I was going to ask him to “give me away” at the wedding. But he was not the father of the bride. He was the father of an angry six-year-old. It was not my conscious intention to hurt him; I just felt it didn’t make sense to have him give me away. After all, he had given me away years ago. No conscious intent, but hidden even from myself, a small abandoned child within was still very bitter and angry and sad.
I see now that I never considered his feelings. At the time, I didn’t stop to think how exposed to judgment he would have felt. The father attending his daughter’s wedding, not in the traditional role, yet surrounded by relatives and friends of the family for all to see. Feeling righteous and only fair, I told him I had asked my brother to do the honors.
My father did not attend the wedding, and I never saw him again.
Twenty years passed, and there were few days or weeks when I didn’t think of him. I would want to call or write, but then I would think, why isn’t he calling me? Once angry, I would lose my desire to contact him, for a few more years.
Finally, in the early 1980s, I wrote to him, but by then he was no longer at his former address. The present owners had lived there for years and they could not give me any information. This was before you could search for someone online and I didn’t have the resources for a private investigator, so I called “Information” in major cities all over the country, but without luck.
Remembering that my father had been an orphan, I often thought how ironic it was that he had orphaned his own children. completely missed the deeper irony, that just as he had abandoned me, I had abandoned him.
I still did not feel ready to mourn him but I knew, this time, I didn’t have a choice. An avalanche of unresolved grief, guilt, and anger almost buried me. No wonder I had tried so hard not to face his death.
For late one night, when I was six years old, after an argument with my mother, my father left our home and virtually never returned. Over the next few years I could count his visits on one hand. And then he just stopped coming. For years I cried myself to sleep, unable to understand his sudden abandonment and continued absence.
At nineteen, however, when I was about to marry, I wanted my father to meet my fiancé. I called him, we met, and it was very strange for me because he took my hand and called me “honey” as if he had never left. The years for adults go by so much more quickly than for children. I had already spent most of my life missing him. That night, I hoped for some explanation from him, but he offered none, and I was too shy to ask.
Throughout the evening, he must have wondered if I was going to ask him to “give me away” at the wedding. But he was not the father of the bride. He was the father of an angry six-year-old. It was not my conscious intention to hurt him; I just felt it didn’t make sense to have him give me away. After all, he had given me away years ago. No conscious intent, but hidden even from myself, a small abandoned child within was still very bitter and angry and sad.
I see now that I never considered his feelings. At the time, I didn’t stop to think how exposed to judgment he would have felt. The father attending his daughter’s wedding, not in the traditional role, yet surrounded by relatives and friends of the family for all to see. Feeling righteous and only fair, I told him I had asked my brother to do the honors.
My father did not attend the wedding, and I never saw him again.
Twenty years passed, and there were few days or weeks when I didn’t think of him. I would want to call or write, but then I would think, why isn’t he calling me? Once angry, I would lose my desire to contact him, for a few more years.
Finally, in the early 1980s, I wrote to him, but by then he was no longer at his former address. The present owners had lived there for years and they could not give me any information. This was before you could search for someone online and I didn’t have the resources for a private investigator, so I called “Information” in major cities all over the country, but without luck.
Remembering that my father had been an orphan, I often thought how ironic it was that he had orphaned his own children. completely missed the deeper irony, that just as he had abandoned me, I had abandoned him.
Opening a photo album, I began looking at black and white photographs taken of him in the 1930s and 1940s. They were so small! Some only one and a half inches square. Magnifying glass in hand, I leaned over these tiny pictures exploring every blurry detail, trying to read the way he stood, the clothes he wore, his surroundings.
Who was this man, my father. Where did he get that canvas pith helmet he wore when we went fishing? Did he ever have to use the gas mask he brought back from the war? Did he know how to fly that sporty plane? What was he like? Who was he? This man. My father. Instead, I discovered something more profound and fundamental. Here was the evidence. He was real, after all.
As a child, I had chosen a very direct method to protect myself against the sorrow of my loss. I remained loyal to the memories of my father, while he lived for thirty years after my parents divorced. I could have known him, as an adult, for twenty years! Seeing my part in our loss of each other hit me hard.
Who was this man, my father. Where did he get that canvas pith helmet he wore when we went fishing? Did he ever have to use the gas mask he brought back from the war? Did he know how to fly that sporty plane? What was he like? Who was he? This man. My father. Instead, I discovered something more profound and fundamental. Here was the evidence. He was real, after all.
As a child, I had chosen a very direct method to protect myself against the sorrow of my loss. I remained loyal to the memories of my father, while he lived for thirty years after my parents divorced. I could have known him, as an adult, for twenty years! Seeing my part in our loss of each other hit me hard.
When my best friend died and I began mourning my father, I was nearly finished writing my first novel. The story is a supernatural thriller haunted by a daughter’s need to know what happened to her father who mysteriously disappeared when she was a young child. After learning of my father’s death, I knew we would never have a chance to reconcile, or say goodbye; that some wounds would never heal.
During the week I wrote the last chapter, I cried every time I wrote. And as I wrote the last words of the book, I was sobbing, knowing I would never hear from my father again. It was too late.
My mood continued to spiral downward, tears streaming down my face, as I rocked back and forth like a lost child who has finally given up all hope of being found ― when a small bird flew in my window!
During the week I wrote the last chapter, I cried every time I wrote. And as I wrote the last words of the book, I was sobbing, knowing I would never hear from my father again. It was too late.
My mood continued to spiral downward, tears streaming down my face, as I rocked back and forth like a lost child who has finally given up all hope of being found ― when a small bird flew in my window!
You should know that I live in Manhattan and I have lived in this town for quite a while, and this never happened before to me. Furthermore, it was the middle of September, and one of the first cool days, so I had this particular window open only an inch. Outside, on the ledge, was a large terra-cotta window box still blooming with pink begonias, white petunias, and crowded with ivy. A shade pulled down to the edge of the window. Heavy drapes covering the window were still drawn.
To get into my apartment, the bird had to hop over the flowers and ivy, down over the edge of the window box, squeeze through a window barely open, and then fly through my heavy drapes!
It is a striking experience to have a wild thing suddenly enter your home. More so, I think, if it is a bird. Their entry so swift and airborne seems miraculous. Even magical.
I was astonished out of my tears.
Afraid he might injure himself flying against a wall, I quickly drew my drapes back and opened the window as high as possible. He did fly around at first but soon found a pitcher of baby’s breath and perched there, looking quite comfortable.
I tore a piece of bread into pieces and placed them near the window hoping to lure him, and then guide him, in the direction of his freedom. But he wasn’t interested in food or escape. Instead, he continued to observe my apartment from his comfortable perch.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He was a mystery and a surprise. Not frightened at all. Quite calm. I, however, felt suddenly, acutely alert.
I sat down across the room to watch him. I paint and write, so half of the room we were in stored recently completed paintings, art books, and an area where I paint. On a table were my brushes, tubes of oil paint, a jar of turpentine and a palette. After a few minutes, the bird flew down from his perch to this table and took his time examining everything – walking about, cocking his head, peering closely.
To get into my apartment, the bird had to hop over the flowers and ivy, down over the edge of the window box, squeeze through a window barely open, and then fly through my heavy drapes!
It is a striking experience to have a wild thing suddenly enter your home. More so, I think, if it is a bird. Their entry so swift and airborne seems miraculous. Even magical.
I was astonished out of my tears.
Afraid he might injure himself flying against a wall, I quickly drew my drapes back and opened the window as high as possible. He did fly around at first but soon found a pitcher of baby’s breath and perched there, looking quite comfortable.
I tore a piece of bread into pieces and placed them near the window hoping to lure him, and then guide him, in the direction of his freedom. But he wasn’t interested in food or escape. Instead, he continued to observe my apartment from his comfortable perch.
I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He was a mystery and a surprise. Not frightened at all. Quite calm. I, however, felt suddenly, acutely alert.
I sat down across the room to watch him. I paint and write, so half of the room we were in stored recently completed paintings, art books, and an area where I paint. On a table were my brushes, tubes of oil paint, a jar of turpentine and a palette. After a few minutes, the bird flew down from his perch to this table and took his time examining everything – walking about, cocking his head, peering closely.
His behavior struck me as unusual, even odd. He was so patient, so thorough. This was one very curious little being! I saw by my clock that, by then, he had been in my apartment almost half an hour.
Just when I began to wonder if he would ever lose interest in my painting materials, he flew over to my side of the room and began flying back and forth over my head. Once I began counting, I counted thirty times. This was bizarre.
Just then, he landed on the shelf of a bookcase about three feet in front of me. He stood on the narrow shelf crowded with books and looked at me. In turn, I admired him -- a gray bird, a yellow patch under his chin, another under his tail. A slim pointed beak. Large round dark observant eyes. I’d no idea what kind of bird he was. Just one I’d never seen before.
After looking at me for a few moments, he turned around and pecked, just once, at one of the books on the shelf. This bookcase functions as a room divider and the spines of the books faced away from me. So I didn’t know the name of the book he was pecking. He turned around once again and peered at me. At this point I spoke to him. Told him that if he wanted to leave he could just go out the window, which was quite near by. He looked at me one moment longer, then suddenly flew out the window.
His leaving just then felt unsettling. As if he had understood exactly what I’d just said. Left with an unaccountable feeling of loss, I felt bereft.
Just when I began to wonder if he would ever lose interest in my painting materials, he flew over to my side of the room and began flying back and forth over my head. Once I began counting, I counted thirty times. This was bizarre.
Just then, he landed on the shelf of a bookcase about three feet in front of me. He stood on the narrow shelf crowded with books and looked at me. In turn, I admired him -- a gray bird, a yellow patch under his chin, another under his tail. A slim pointed beak. Large round dark observant eyes. I’d no idea what kind of bird he was. Just one I’d never seen before.
After looking at me for a few moments, he turned around and pecked, just once, at one of the books on the shelf. This bookcase functions as a room divider and the spines of the books faced away from me. So I didn’t know the name of the book he was pecking. He turned around once again and peered at me. At this point I spoke to him. Told him that if he wanted to leave he could just go out the window, which was quite near by. He looked at me one moment longer, then suddenly flew out the window.
His leaving just then felt unsettling. As if he had understood exactly what I’d just said. Left with an unaccountable feeling of loss, I felt bereft.
I’m sure that birds must occasionally fly through open windows and into apartments even in Manhattan. But this entire experience while certainly natural enough, felt extraordinary considering the difficulty of his entry, his attention to my paintings, his intense observation and attention to me, and his sudden appearance, just as I was sobbing my heart out.
I looked to see what book he had pecked. It was the novel, MOON PALACE, by Paul Auster. A book I had not read as yet. On the cover of the book is a photo montage of New York City at night. The Empire State Building and a full moon prominent. I was struck by the coincidence that the bookcase and the spine of this book faced one of my walls hung with the first twelve paintings from my Manhattan by Moonlight series. A full moon in every painting.
I opened the book and read a few pages. The main character’s last name is Fog, from Fogelman, and the character explains that fogel means bird! The bird pecked at a book with a cover that not only mirrored my most recent paintings, but its main character is named – Birdman?
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always loved mythology and fairy tales so I have a number of books about them. I looked up the symbolism of birds and confirmed for myself that from ancient times, birds have been considered messengers of Spirit. Of Soul. In a Religion of Tribal Peoples course I attended, some years ago, I remembered a saying of Native American People: “Be Attentive.” Now, without any sense of eeriness, I felt there was a lesson here for me to learn. A message carried on the wings of this tiny messenger.
But what could it be? Be attentive to what?
When the bird flew in through my window I had been very upset about how my father and I had never reconciled, nor had a chance to say goodbye. Now, without thinking, I walked over to my file cabinet and retrieved my father’s death certificate, that I had looked at several times, but not really ‘seen.’ This time, I read it without tears and with a clearer mind than in those early weeks and months after learning of his death.
As I read, it began to dawn on me that this sheet of paper contained much information. His most recent address, the name of his doctor. I had missed knowing him but it was still possible to learn something more about him. Maybe I could contact some of those who knew him. Maybe I could find some of his friends? I reached for the phone, my voice choked with feeling. Would they talk to me?
“Sure, I remember, Jack! Fine man! Sure, I’d be happy to talk to you!” But I couldn’t talk to that man that day, not really. I could barely keep from crying. It was as if I had suddenly discovered I had really had a father, and found a piece of myself that had been missing, since the night he disappeared. In that brief conversation I learned something of how he spent his last years, of his final illness, and that he could play any popular tune on the piano, and that he still loved to fish.
I know I will never be able to answer all of the questions I would love to ask. Sometimes it is too late. It was very hard, but I had to see my part, how I, too, was responsible for our mutual loss of each other. I realized, yet again, how the present is the only time we have. How precious life is, how precious are those we love. How we must love them now. Right now. We never know how much time we will have to love them.
The day I shakily made that call, just as I hung up the phone, I glanced over at my desk and noticed the photo of my father, the one I had enlarged and framed the year before when I learned of his death. In the picture, he is a boy of eighteen standing in the garden of his parent’s home. Wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he is looking down toward his hand where a wild bird is calmly perching. It was a family story my mother told of how he rescued a young bird that had fallen out of its nest and cared for it until it could fly.
I looked to see what book he had pecked. It was the novel, MOON PALACE, by Paul Auster. A book I had not read as yet. On the cover of the book is a photo montage of New York City at night. The Empire State Building and a full moon prominent. I was struck by the coincidence that the bookcase and the spine of this book faced one of my walls hung with the first twelve paintings from my Manhattan by Moonlight series. A full moon in every painting.
I opened the book and read a few pages. The main character’s last name is Fog, from Fogelman, and the character explains that fogel means bird! The bird pecked at a book with a cover that not only mirrored my most recent paintings, but its main character is named – Birdman?
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always loved mythology and fairy tales so I have a number of books about them. I looked up the symbolism of birds and confirmed for myself that from ancient times, birds have been considered messengers of Spirit. Of Soul. In a Religion of Tribal Peoples course I attended, some years ago, I remembered a saying of Native American People: “Be Attentive.” Now, without any sense of eeriness, I felt there was a lesson here for me to learn. A message carried on the wings of this tiny messenger.
But what could it be? Be attentive to what?
When the bird flew in through my window I had been very upset about how my father and I had never reconciled, nor had a chance to say goodbye. Now, without thinking, I walked over to my file cabinet and retrieved my father’s death certificate, that I had looked at several times, but not really ‘seen.’ This time, I read it without tears and with a clearer mind than in those early weeks and months after learning of his death.
As I read, it began to dawn on me that this sheet of paper contained much information. His most recent address, the name of his doctor. I had missed knowing him but it was still possible to learn something more about him. Maybe I could contact some of those who knew him. Maybe I could find some of his friends? I reached for the phone, my voice choked with feeling. Would they talk to me?
“Sure, I remember, Jack! Fine man! Sure, I’d be happy to talk to you!” But I couldn’t talk to that man that day, not really. I could barely keep from crying. It was as if I had suddenly discovered I had really had a father, and found a piece of myself that had been missing, since the night he disappeared. In that brief conversation I learned something of how he spent his last years, of his final illness, and that he could play any popular tune on the piano, and that he still loved to fish.
I know I will never be able to answer all of the questions I would love to ask. Sometimes it is too late. It was very hard, but I had to see my part, how I, too, was responsible for our mutual loss of each other. I realized, yet again, how the present is the only time we have. How precious life is, how precious are those we love. How we must love them now. Right now. We never know how much time we will have to love them.
The day I shakily made that call, just as I hung up the phone, I glanced over at my desk and noticed the photo of my father, the one I had enlarged and framed the year before when I learned of his death. In the picture, he is a boy of eighteen standing in the garden of his parent’s home. Wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he is looking down toward his hand where a wild bird is calmly perching. It was a family story my mother told of how he rescued a young bird that had fallen out of its nest and cared for it until it could fly.
Hearing of my experience, a friend lent me her copy of BIRDS Of AMERICA, a large, wonderfully illustrated book published in 1936. I turned page after page until ― there he was! The bird that visited me!
He is, I read, uncommon in New York City, “accidental,” as the book reports. It is called an Arkansas Kingbird, and because they sometimes eat bees, it is also known as the Bee Martin.
I was born, raised, and knew my father in Chicago, only learning through the death certificate and my father’s friends, that he lived and worked his last years, and finally died - in Arkansas. His last name, before being adopted by the Stigman family - was Martin.
I was born, raised, and knew my father in Chicago, only learning through the death certificate and my father’s friends, that he lived and worked his last years, and finally died - in Arkansas. His last name, before being adopted by the Stigman family - was Martin.
.
THE NET OF JEWELS
An Afterward
A way I can imagine this happened . . .
Imagine the entire universe, all that is, as an immense net of jewels.
See before you something like a vast fisherman’s net, and at each intersection of rope see a shining jewel. Now, imagine that you are one of these jewels, and everyone on earth is one of them, too, and the sun, the moon, every star, each tree, every leaf, each wiggly tadpole, sugar cookie, and every drop of water is such a jewel. And as these shining jewels, each of us and all that is reflects the other, in this glittering net of mirroring jewels.
This is how Buddhists see the world, and the Net of Jewels is their inspired poetic phrase for their view of our relation to each other and to all that is. Contemporary scientific theory in Quantum Physics refers to the way reality appears to be interconnected, interwoven, and responsive, as the Net of Relations.
Just now, as we are seeing the world this way, too, imagine time, as one of those jewels, and eternity another, and life, and death, as well, and maybe for a few brief moments, like a joyous metaphysical juggler, we can hold this vision of the world in our minds, and embrace the mystery with our hearts, that we are all one.
There is nowhere else. We are all together, now and forever, in an eternal present.
That day, when my heart cried out, my cry was heard. And the answer flew to me from the far vast reaches of the Net of Jewels, from the jewel we call Eternity, in the form of a small wild bird. How apt. How tender.
In 1935, an 18 year old boy cares for a wounded wild bird until it heals and trusts him to perch on his hand, and someone takes a photograph. This boy later fathers a child and then disappears from that child’s life, leaving behind the photograph the child will treasure.
Many years later, the day she feels her heart will surely break for missing him, a small wild bird flies in her window, staying one hour, dropping hints, leaving clues, delivering a message as angels do. In a flurry of wings, with a piercing glance, granting her heart’s deepest desire for the reassurance of Love.
My experience that day affirmed for me the profound power of the heart, of all our hearts, of The Heart of Life ― that is Love.
My father and I did not have an opportunity to reconcile, or to say good bye. Now I know we don’t need to.
Love is for Always.
THE NET OF JEWELS
An Afterward
A way I can imagine this happened . . .
Imagine the entire universe, all that is, as an immense net of jewels.
See before you something like a vast fisherman’s net, and at each intersection of rope see a shining jewel. Now, imagine that you are one of these jewels, and everyone on earth is one of them, too, and the sun, the moon, every star, each tree, every leaf, each wiggly tadpole, sugar cookie, and every drop of water is such a jewel. And as these shining jewels, each of us and all that is reflects the other, in this glittering net of mirroring jewels.
This is how Buddhists see the world, and the Net of Jewels is their inspired poetic phrase for their view of our relation to each other and to all that is. Contemporary scientific theory in Quantum Physics refers to the way reality appears to be interconnected, interwoven, and responsive, as the Net of Relations.
Just now, as we are seeing the world this way, too, imagine time, as one of those jewels, and eternity another, and life, and death, as well, and maybe for a few brief moments, like a joyous metaphysical juggler, we can hold this vision of the world in our minds, and embrace the mystery with our hearts, that we are all one.
There is nowhere else. We are all together, now and forever, in an eternal present.
That day, when my heart cried out, my cry was heard. And the answer flew to me from the far vast reaches of the Net of Jewels, from the jewel we call Eternity, in the form of a small wild bird. How apt. How tender.
In 1935, an 18 year old boy cares for a wounded wild bird until it heals and trusts him to perch on his hand, and someone takes a photograph. This boy later fathers a child and then disappears from that child’s life, leaving behind the photograph the child will treasure.
Many years later, the day she feels her heart will surely break for missing him, a small wild bird flies in her window, staying one hour, dropping hints, leaving clues, delivering a message as angels do. In a flurry of wings, with a piercing glance, granting her heart’s deepest desire for the reassurance of Love.
My experience that day affirmed for me the profound power of the heart, of all our hearts, of The Heart of Life ― that is Love.
My father and I did not have an opportunity to reconcile, or to say good bye. Now I know we don’t need to.
Love is for Always.
THE POWER OF THE HEART - A TRUE STORY
© Jacqueline Stigman 2010-11
Illustration of the Arkansas Kingbird/Bee Martin by kind permission of the Audubon Society.
Photos of all Heart paintings, my painting table & white feather © Diane Downs.
Personal photos © Jacqueline Stigman
© Jacqueline Stigman 2010-11
Illustration of the Arkansas Kingbird/Bee Martin by kind permission of the Audubon Society.
Photos of all Heart paintings, my painting table & white feather © Diane Downs.
Personal photos © Jacqueline Stigman
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