Amor Vincit Omnia

My anger is gone. Until six days ago, I had been very angry for several weeks, and what's worse, I didn't know why. Despite my good health, recent good fortune, and a dream coming true, I was carrying a load of resentment that no amount of yoga, meditation, and visualization could expunge. But now it's gone. It disappeared quite spontaneously at a funeral for the husband of my friend, Kathryn.
Although I'd never met Andy, I went to his memorial service out of respect for Kathryn. I hadn't seen Kathryn in a long while, but I'll always cherish the many hours of song and laughter we shared when we sang in a women's choir together, where I first met her many years ago.
Anger was still sticking to me like a prickly burr when I arrived at the church for the funeral. At least I was able to put aside my dark feelings once I entered the church and met some former fellow choristers.
The minister and numerous friends and family spoke of Andy as a loving, deeply spiritual person. It was obvious he was deeply loved in return. The memorial service was very well attended, and whenever anyone spoke of him, the word love was used frequently. Tears flowed freely, of course, and laughter was shared, too.
He died after a long, terrible illness, but I learned at his funeral that he never complained, and if anyone had reason to complain, he most surely did. Since attending the funeral I think twice before I open my mouth to voice some petty concern.
Kathryn spoke as well. She's a gifted speaker, songstress, and writer. It was inspiring to listen to her speak so eloquently about her beloved husband's last months on this earth. I shall never forget her words as she described how Andy, as he drew nearer to death, was gradually and inexorably stripped away, until there was nothing left but love. As I listened to Kathryn speak I couldn't help feeling slightly envious. (If you've read the last two posts, you'll know about my recent anger, as well as my long-time issues with envy.) Anyway, there I was, listening to a lovely lady who's lost her soul mate; who's experienced a depth of loss I probably never will, and yet I felt envy. Hello? How could I possibly be envious of such sadness, such bereavement?
I quickly realised that it wasn't her pain I envied, but all the love she has given and received, and still does, in spite of her grievous loss. I could almost hear Andy whisper in my ear, bursting with pride for his gracious widow, "So you think you know envy, lady? Well, envy this!" And I yes, I felt envious, but it was okay. I was fine with it. The spirit of a man I'd never met showed me that feeling envy doesn't have to be full of bitterness and resentment. Not at all. It can also come out of genuine respect and admiration, and that is exactly what I felt for Kathryn.
The love all around me was palpable. It wasn't directed at me, because it wasn't about me. But it didn't matter. The love that swirled and vibrated all around me and through me was for Andy and Kathryn and their family, friends and loved ones. It filled the church and the hearts of everyone there. The effect was so tangible that I felt as if I was being massaged with love.
After the funeral I felt lighter, softer, and looser, as if I'd been to a spa or yoga class. I know I go on a lot about this stuff on my little web, but I still never cease to be wonder-struck when something happens that proves to me that the line between the physical and the metaphysical is such a fine one; that unseen things like thought and emotion have a reality on a quantum level. We know that every physical thing vibrates, but surely thought and emotion do, too, because the vibrations in that church penetrated me on a physical and emotional level. Something inside me had changed. The inexplicable anger I'd been feeling for weeks was completely gone, and hasn't returned since. A mother-load of free-flowing, freely-shared, tearful, joyous, sad and beautiful love has washed all my resentment away.
Even though I never met Andy, I now feel as if I had. The part of Andy I got to know, however briefly, isn't physical; it isn't matter. But while I was with his family and friends, I most definitely felt, on a deep and abiding level, his large and loving Spirit. And that does matter.
Blessed be.
- G.P.