I read somewhere that if you spot a white feather floating down you are being watched over by angels. I don’t believe it literally. Because I don’t buy into the white-feathered-wings depiction of angels. Even so, after a couple of weeks when I had been questioning things and options and my interpretations of what’s happening and whether paths should be taken or not…I found a white feather on my hall floor.
The hall floor. Precisely in the spot where Clive last held me in his arms and said “To quote your Dad, it wasn’t meant to be like this.” That was a few minutes before he walked out of his front door for the last time. Now my front door. That I walk through without a thought.
I would like to say that I never walk through that hall without thinking about that moment, but it would be a lie. I walk through the hall unnumbered times a day, it is central to the bungalow, all the other rooms open off it. I would suffer untold sadness if I walked through that particular memory, and the one he was alluding to, dozens of times a day. So I don’t.
Only sometimes…
Sometimes I remember what it looked like then, all the clutter and the dust and the curiosity cabinet and the boxes and the rugs covering weird cable runs and the picture of Queenie on the wall and the mirror and the old-person-scent of not letting go, and I remember him, bundled up against a cold that wasn’t there, his skin jaundiced and his body already shutting down, and I remember all the things we refused to say, and I remember later in the hospital him trying to say goodbye and me opting for I love you instead. I refused to say goodbye. I wonder now, if that was cruel. I have to trust he knew that I would not hold him back, but nor would I let him go willingly. Except, when it came to it, I did. Not only willingly, but positively, we’ve talked about this, we don’t drag things out unnecessarily. He was lucid in his anger in that moment. See! he quietly screamed at the doctors. He was angry, but knew he couldn’t hold on.
To quote your Dad… ah, my Dad. An imperfect specimen as all men, all fathers, all parents, all humans are. But I am a Daddy’s girl to the core. For all his faults, I believe I was raised by a strong and wise man. Wise to the end, but strength failed him when Mam passed. I can’t remember exactly where it was on the day of Mam’s funeral that he said those words. Sometimes I think it was as we were leaving the house to follow the hearse. Other times I think it was when we came out of the chapel at the crem. I only know that Clive was holding me, and my Dad smiled at both of us and said: it wasn’t meant to be like this. In the moment we felt we understood. It was only later that I started to question: if not like this, then what? What was it meant to be like? What would have been better?
You can see why I don’t want to catch that memory every time I walk through the centre of my home. It is a beautiful moment, two beautiful moments, but the beauty is steeped in sadness and that is not where I would choose to live.
I picked up the white feather, and knew that I am watched over by angels. In particular by these two particular imperfect angels. They never really knew each other, never spent much time together, and yet they knew each other well enough to share an unspoken joke flickering from eye to eye with the kind of smirking smile that is responded to before it’s even fully formed. Often at my expense. And they both loved me.
There is a photograph of Clive, in which he is not looking at the camera. It was the morning after my brother’s wedding. He is looking across the room at me. I am behind and left of my Dad who is taking the picture. Somewhere I have the picture of me that Dad took next, simply by swivelling round and shooting. I love that picture of Clive…I love it because it was a happy morning. I love it because I know he is smiling at me. I love it because it’s a reminder of my old family home. I love it because there is a copy of 2001 A Space Odyssey on the arm of the chair, the book I’d just finished reading. I love it because Clive is holding a newspaper and a pen, so must be doing the crossword. I love it because I can see the love in his face. I love it because it was Dad taking the picture. I love it because it is such a pointless moment to have been thought worthy of being caught on film.
Or maybe I just love it because it was a long time ago and we were happy, and it sits by my bed and I like waking up to a happy moment, even if it’s from a long time ago.
If I am wrong and there is some realm in which personalities survive and watch over the idiocy of the human lives that continue, then these two at least will watch over me. And probably share notes!
Which will be fine, because whatever else they wanted for me, they both wanted first and foremost that I be happy, that I find my own way in the world, that I decide what matters and work with that.
If these guys are my angels, I know the extent of their intervention would be a frowned are you sure or a smiled Yes. So many times I’d whittered on about things I thought or had seen or experienced on my travels, or at work, or just in the mundanity of life, times when the tales didn’t lead into conversations or questions, but just into that smile and Yes. They both did that sometimes. Well…Dad did it. Clive just smiled and gave me a look which said, well, obviously! Times when they saw what I didn’t, namely that I had just grasped something important. An insight, or a decision, or maybe a risk worth taking.
And what I had just grasped was something which was obvious to them. Obvious and right.
That tiny feather sat on my monitor stand for a while; it has flown away now. I didn’t notice it leaving. It was a soft down feather from whatever birds have crossed my path. But it is also a message from my angels telling me to trust my intuition, to follow this path.
One thing is: my angels don’t know the future any more than I do. They cannot tell me this is the right path, whether it will work out well or cause all hell to break loose.
Another thing is: my angels know me better than anyone else and they know how I would feel if I did not commit to this road, and they know I am strong enough to take – or at least recover from – the worst it will throw at me if it turns out not to be smooth or leads me off the edge of a cliff or into the mire.
In my head and my heart I had already committed to the next steps of my journey…but even so, it’s nice to know my angels are on my side.
~ / ~
The first draft of this post was written back in October. My path continues to become clearer, and sometimes I think my angels speak louder… sometimes things happen that make me wonder. I am thinking of one particular incident that is not purely mine to share, so I won’t.
I don’t believe in white-feathered wings and harps and haloes. I don’t believe in after-lives. I do believe that the wisdom of the people who have loved us and guided us, continues to do so even when they’re no longer here. I don’t believe in guardian angels, but I am beginning to believe in guiding ones.
And I see no harm in working out who they are, so that we can listen more closely to them if we choose to do so.
And yes, I do still look for white feathers floating down.
