This morning I was woken up by a dream. I was communicating with my friend from high school Marisa Covella, who passed unexpectedly days before graduation. In my dream there was a ‘medium’ who communicated what Marisa was saying to me. I began to cry so much that it woke me up from my sleep, only to realize that the ‘medium’ was now me…and that Marisa was still talking to me…and that she was sharing so much about my life and her current existence it was amazing. Serious things and silly things, telling me she still watches volleyball for the ‘six packs’ and claims she even helped me find my husband and most of my previous boyfriends. She said, “Do you even realize how hot your husband is?” It made me laugh. Her sense of humor is what validated everything for me. She always made me laugh. She told me that her feet are still beautiful and mine could use improvement, and all types of things that we would talk about when she was alive.
Her favorite color was purple, and I think that was what brought us together in a way I wouldn’t understand until recently. The purple-violet light I work with is vital in ‘shifting’ and ‘transmuting’ situations and energy. Her life was a catalyst for our small high school community and even outside of it, where compassion and love for each other was created out of such tragedy. That was one of the serious things she wanted to share…not to feel badly, that it was her purpose as a soul to come here and serve in that way in order to bring us all together and break division. She definitely did that and left us with a ‘soul scar’ that would shape many of us in ways we weren’t necessarily aware of.
Her communication brought such a feeling of peace to my heart. \When she finally decided that the communication was fairly complete, she told me to put up my arms and hug myself. That was a hug from her. This too made me cry of course, because ultimately even after so many years, I still miss her and the possibility of a friendship with her in the physical reality. When I thought about that sadness, she said, “Oh, I’m married and happy…and visit my family back there, but to be honest I hang out with artists most of the time now, because I miss not bringing things into form personally and like to inspire them. I do it through you and others.” She left it at that.
So, for those of you who knew her who may be reading this, regardless of whether you believe in the afterlife or any of the above, I know she’s around and able to communicate with any of us. Just like anyone we’ve lost in life. They are always just a breath away…all the time. You just might not know it or feel it all the time, but they are there. All you have to do is ask them to show you a sign, come in a dream or reach out to you in a way that is undeniable, and they will.
I have known Marisa has been quietly influencing my creative pursuits now for a few years, living vicariously through me, which I don’t mind at all. I’m completely grateful for today’s confirmation of that. She was an amazing painter/artist, and said, “you aren’t much of a painter, no offense, so I work with what we have and paint visually through your words when I get the chance.” The afterlife is an amazing and mysterious experience by design, and I think it’s time to do what we can to make it less frightening. One of my goals is to do that through my work, my writings and teachings. I am sure Marisa will be guiding that too.
Meanwhile, I finally published my first book “Soul Scars” this year, composed of poems I wrote over a period of twenty years; one of them dedicated to her of course. Since I did not have a chance to read it at my book’s launch party this past weekend, I am posting it here and will make sure to share it at my next reading. Marisa is of course thrilled. The second poem, “Shirley”, is an example of Marisa painting through my words a message that was close to her heart; a message that judgment can never erase the power of our gifts.
All My Love,
MY ARTIST – December 3, 1998
There were tears hidden
Behind the smile
The tears that I could only see
Having seen them many
No one knew you like me
No one saw the misery
Swimming in your eyeballs
Blinking through them
At the ugly world
Until one day it took you
Suddenly – too soon
I’ll meet you there someday
When my job here is through
And now when I look to the sky
See you painting me sunsets
Of purples and pinks
Wrapping up the sun for the night
Cozy like we were
Sitting in your living room
Munching on Red Vines
As I think of our memories
My smile is tremendous
Even if no one sees it
Hiding behind lonely tears.
SHIRLEY – April 4, 1993
When they said beauty is only skin deep, Shirley was never in mind.
Her hair – waves of yellow straw yarn
Framing blank blue orbs of
Limp gelatin and fragile glass
A large snout protruding over scaly skinBleeding red matte lipstick – dry, caked
Peeling like old tattered cellophane off
Frog lips – pursed into a dime-size circle of skin
The blotchy sandpaper complexion
Painted by childlike hands
No art involved, no style, just Shirley.
Nothing natural about her building
No inhabitants either
Just arms, legs, sagging breasts left sitting on a potbelly.
Even her ears – scarred with too many holes
“Poor girl, wonder if she’ll ever marry?”
That’s all they said, enthralled and appalled
Like scared dust running from a vacuum
But meant to enter
Then suddenly her cracked lips move
An odor of jasmine from her words, warm and sultry
The music of jazz or blues in her talk – spellbinding.
Shirley knows how to work what she’s got
A gift, though poorly wrapped, once opened it shines.
Still, those eyelashes like daggers
Eyebrows of painted arches
But she talks.
Angelic, beautiful words.
Springtime air and warm sheets
Poetry flowing from her tongue
The clothes – dull, five and dime
But those words erotic
That voice melodic
What deception to those few lonely minds
Calling her Roxanne or Lori
Listening to dripping honey over a phone
Nine-seven-six who knows her?
They only know what they hear
And assume what they want
Shirley knows how to work what she’s got
The gift of illusion
A magician of pleasure
No sight, no touch or taste
Her voice – the loneliest of them all
Home – some small plywood desk and vinyl chair
Fruit loops and the times
A cord with a one way receiver.
-Soul Scars: Rising Phoenix, Stephanie Lodge