The Undeniable Dream and the Question of Destiny

Bucket from 1000BC found at Museum of Scotland

He said, "I deny my actions because if I take responsibility for the things I’ve done to you, then I have to take responsibility for things I’ve done before you." 

He said, "Remember, I was Metratron. I was the mouthpiece for God and he was a vengeful God. I did some horrible things. "

The soldier leads his horse through a clearing. Fires burn at a distance. He is weary, ready to collapse. His armor, which he has worn for many years, is now too heavy to bear. His helmet, his breastplate, his shield and his sword; he wants to shed them all. He gets to lighten his load now that the war is over. 

A housemaid approaches. She is carrying a bucket, water sloshing around as she climbs the wet grassy hill to him. She scoops the water out of the bucket and extends the ladle to him. He takes her hand as he takes a sip. That’s when she looks into his face. She has seen him before. It is his eyes that she recognizes. The look in his eyes. She may never have met this soldier before, but she has known him all of her life, all of the previous lives she’s led and every life yet to come. 

It is April 13, 2019. She and that hurt, weary, scared, angry, damaged, broken soldier are together once more. “Oh god,” she said out loud last night. “Please let this be the last time. I can’t do this anymore.” She sobbed uncontrollably. The wounds from the past lives were so fresh, so painfully present. She saw the centuries-old burden she had yet to fulfill upon her again. If only he’d learn the lesson that is his duty to bear, they could then move on. But as it stood, she is 56 and he is 58 and they’d shared 32 years of good, but mostly, bad times, and she wanted it to all end. 

St. Andrews

He was a Roman soldier who had done unspeakable things in the name of God. In battle, he didn’t ask why. He didn’t ask what. He fought for his life, ruthlessly, unrelentingly, unrepentantly. He fought with abandon. He had to, to survive. 

He survived. And because he was War, God gave him Peace. 

She came to him with water, let him lay down his sword, put away his shield. There was no more war, but what is a soldier without a battle? He did not know how to yield, how to be at peace, how to love. 

And so he fought her. He protected himself from caring, because if he started to let down his guard about his feelings, then he had to face the death and destruction he had inflicted throughout all of those wars, not just the one he waged on her. If he were to love her, he had to expose himself to all emotions and that scared him. 

  

That’s what this is all about. 

He took no responsibility for even the stupidest things. He took no responsibility for the greatest of wrongs and everything in between. 

She thought it had to do with him being a white American male - the entitlement, the privilege, but no. It was greater than that. It was rooted in his previous lives as a bushman, a Roman soldier, who knows what else, and now this. 

Landing in St. Croix, living in the Caribbean, having a job that gave him authority, dignity, this was a gift. This life as a white American male was the prize for the lives of hardship and a reward for a growing understanding of life's purpose. 

In a time of racial inequality, continued oppression of women, monetary instability; he had a leg-up on all of that. We had a life that we had earned over the lifetimes. We were so close to reaching our destiny, but still we weren’t quite there. 

Story of the Unicorn at Stirling Castle

 After I found out that I was his “Gift,” I got so mad. Why did I have to endure his abuse, his control, his cruelty? I couldn’t leave. We had to work something out together, or it would start all over again. We apparently had done something right in our recent past-lives in order to be here now. The problems we have are stupid; his flirting, his wandering eye, his insecurities exhibited in these actions and his controlling behavior. While I demanded his respect, in reality, he hadn’t done so much wrong. But I wanted a better life, a different one. I thought I had free will. But I was wrong. 

So this morning, after yet another fight where he wouldn’t admit he was wrong and would divert the attention to inconsequential things and lash out cruelly. This morning, instead of being angry at him, I felt sorry for myself. This life we were living was not acceptable and yet, there was nothing I could do. I was forever linked to him. 

And that’s when he reached what I think is the core of his being, the reason we exist, the answer to The Riddle; our Fate. 

One of our favorite pastimes, grabbing
a pint. This one is at Plockton, Scotland.

He dutifully did as God told him. And because he survived, God rewarded him with love. “Lay down your sword,” God said. “She will quench your thirst. She will nourish your body and your soul. With time, she will wash away your fear, your hurt, your burden. She will wash away your sins.” 

But he didn’t believe it. He went into battle and feared nothing. But this, this scared him. He was afraid to expose himself to anyone, much less to the one that mattered most, the one who was sent to love him. Because if she saw him, saw him without his armor, saw him for who he was, he believed, she couldn’t love him and then where would he be? 

What he didn’t acknowledge was that his actions made her feel exactly the way he avoided feeling. He inflicted on her exactly what he feared would be inflicted on him. He acted as his mother had acted, shielding himself from love because he was so afraid it would be taken away. 

He was a soldier who had seen it all. She was a housemaid who had not seen a thing. 

He had seen death and destruction. She had only known the mundane, the acts of every day life.

He would show her the world. She would give him a home. 

They were both dutiful, willing to fulfill their life’s mission. 

His mission was to do as God said. Her mission was to do as her master bid. 

They had the same master. 

They had the same fate. 

And after all of those years together, this life in St. Croix is the repayment. This is the reward.   

in St. Croix

It’s not too late. 

Don’t be afraid. Take it. 

Don’t be afraid. Have it. 

Don’t be afraid. Love it. Because that is your fate. 

To love each other. That’s the answer. 

*Neither Peter nor I practice a particular religion. "God" here refers to the Universal consciousness. 

Snakes on St. Croix and the Nightmare in Paradise

I had a nightmare last night.

The actual retaining wall, minus the snakes.

In my dream, I was peering into the darkness, trying to see what was there lying in wait for me on the retaining wall in our backyard. It is very much what I write about in my blog post, "The Monster in My Garden" and here it is confronting me. I lean closer to the rocky wall, and just as I had suspected, there is a snake looking back at me. It is a brown patterned snake with large unassuming eyes. It looks back at me, but is not afraid or menacing. I back out of it's space, not wanting to confront it or make it angry when I notice the taut torso of a large silver snake hanging over me. I brushed past it when I leaned closer to the brown snake. I thought it was a tree limb. Now, it hung before me, it's face eye-level, suspended, muscles rolling ready to...

But before it could do anything, I backed away. I literally pushed myself back in my bed, my body recoiled as far as I could go before banging into Peter who was sleeping beside me and Dorothy pinning the blankets down by my feet, I didn't get far, couldn't get away. 

I was hyperventilating, even as I lie awake. I could still see the two snakes looking at me. I was awake but the feeling of danger kept coming back to me, making me breath short shallow breaths. I had to fight to keep from screaming. 

Peter and I have a history with snakes.
He actually bought the kids a snake
for Christmas and I freaked out because
I couldn't believe he never knew I did
not like them?!? In all of the years we
were together, he never noticed that
I would bypass them at zoo exhibits?!?

During the course of the remaining hours before dawn, I saw the images of the two snakes again and again and each time, I hyperventilated. It wouldn't be until I had gotten dressed and taken Dorothy outside, as I sat in front of the very retaining wall, was I able to recall the image of the snakes and not panic with fear. 

Why? What was I afraid of? 

I think the one snake, the brown snake, is my fear of abandonment. It is there, I know it's there, I recognize it, I see it. 

The silver snake, though, is a mystery. The thing about that snake in my dream is that it startled me. I didn't know it was there. I ducked under it. I brushed up against it. I was so frightened by it, could it be because I didn't know that I was in eminent danger? I just didn't know. I didn't know how close danger was and that's what scared me. 

Also, I think I hyperventilated because I tried to get away, but Peter was holding me back. He was in my way. He kept me from fleeing. And Dorothy, she pinned me down, she was weighing heavily on me, keeping me from moving. 

Did they prevent me from getting away or were they there to tell me I don't need to flee. I don't need to want to run from my problems, they have my back?

This is the rescue we had gotten for Macallan. Macallan
called her Otse (Ooh-T-see) for a small town in Botswana.
She was covered in fleas and the BSPCA didn't know if she
would make it. Born a stray, she had no idea what love was, at
first, she wouldn't let us near her, but then when she realized
we were only trying to love her, she was the best dog ever!

Or was the dream my genuine fear of living in St. Croix? I have this normal fear and then I have this very large menacing fear that I have to duck and brush past if I want to remain here. It scares me but I can't get away, get out, get going, leave because of Peter and Dorothy. What if I am not facing my intuition to leave because that would mean I can't face leaving Peter and Dorothy behind? 

Now, the emotional fear, while it's pervasive and sometimes detrimental to my mental and emotional state, it is something I can deal with. What scares me is that there's a very real danger that I know about, like the feeling I got in Africa when we left for a fundraising event we were managing and we returned home to find our neighbor had shot our dogs. I knew we shouldn't have left them. I knew we were being instructed by the universe to leave Botswana, but I didn't listen, and our dogs died as a result. Is this another one of those times when I am not heeding the call of the "gods" and then something catastrophic will happen? Is it? Well? Is it? (I ask you - the reader, or my dad and brother who have passed on or the universe in general.) 

I just don't know. 

The Monster in my Garden

My actual garden at our home in St. Croix.

Do you believe in monsters? Because lately, I've had this nagging feeling that there's something bad out there. Just out of reach. Watching. Lurking. Ready to pounce. 

I don't think it's really there...But it could be. It's like the monsters you believe are under the bed, in your closet, or in my case, an evil being standing behind me that I get a glimpse of in the bathroom mirror just as I'm stooping over to wash my face.

I am quite intuitive. I'm an empath and believe me, I know your pain. I get sympathy cramps, headaches and nausea. I can't watch particularly violent movies because I can feel each blow from the hammer or the bullet tearing through flesh and bone. I also retain sadness or confusion and pain from people I know and love.

And with that said, you should also know that I have a record of  "feeling" when something is a good idea or bad. If I'm particularly hysterical, you better listen. My feelings are never wrong. I have insisted on cancelling plans or giving my wholehearted "OK!" to random invitations based on them. My kids (and husband) think I know the future, or can predict it, but that's not really how this works.

What I get are signs that I can read efficiently. Or sometimes I get a warm feeling of love or cold feeling of evil that I respond to appropriately and adamantly. On occasion, I've had words enter my mind that give me a complete thought, lets me KNOW something without me garnering any facts. I say that words come to me because the sentence is not vocalized. I don't hear a voice, I kind of "see" the sentence. Some call it intuition, but I think it's something more tenable. I think it's being in-tune with the universe.

While living in St. Croix, I've learned to identify when a hummingbird will come by our porch. I hear the whir of its wings at a distance and as it gets louder, the sound arriving before the actual bird appears, the buzz is the "tell," like in poker.

Well, I am getting that "tell" right now. For me, it is a darkness, a hollow inside me that says to me there is something to fear. It's particularly strong lately and so I look for it to manifest in physical things.

During the day, after my husband leaves for work, I have about seven hours to myself. I can do whatever I want. Sure, sometimes I want to change the sheets, do laundry, sweep, but most days, I am free to read, write, journal, post on FB, take pictures of our garden, walk, pet and feed our dog, Dorothy, whatever.

Dorothy is our Foster Fail. We were only going to care for her for a few days but when I identified so strongly with this shy, wary, scared dog who had been abandoned twice, I couldn't let her go.

Dorothy is skittish, afraid of most men, jumps at loud noises, is tentative and ever vigilant. We don't know what she had to endure during the hurricanes of 2017, but she retains her cautiousness, insecurity, fear.

In our garden, where Dorothy and I wander during the day, I notice that she also looks for "evil". The other day, she stuck her small short snout under some plants and quickly backed away snarling, frightened. I brace myself, expecting to find a snake, one of the few hundred pets illegally brought to the island and even worse, released into the wild. But no, it was just a hermit crab. Just a cute crustacean oblivious to either Dorothy or me.

Another day, she explored a portion of the garden I couldn't reach because of the overgrown brush. I started to walk over toward her to make sure she was OK, when she came tearing up the driveway with her tail between her legs. Turned out she had gotten stung by a wasp, there were so many, it's a wonder neither of us had been stung more often. She spent the afternoon licking the spot, I of course, sympathized and could almost feel her pain.

Like Dorothy, I confront these things that could cause me harm. I peer into the dark crevices and cracks of the retaining wall that surrounds our property. I search the branches of the mango, Ginger Thomas and date palm trees in our yard. I focus on the vines wrapping their way up and around hibiscus branches. What I'm looking for, I don't know. But I expect to find an iguana, the size of King Kong, just waiting to lunge at me; a python dangling from above, ready to drop on me; a monster, never before seen or named, ready to bite, claw, and eat me whole.

But instead, I witness rainbows arching overhead. I see flowers like little paper lanterns dangling flirtatiously. I find lizards so tiny they don't make a sound or bow the leaf they have just clambered over. And lately, there are the hummingbirds, spunky speed demons that hover inches from my face questioning my existence. Some buzz past me, so close my hair flies up from the wind their whirling wings have generated.

My conscious self knows my fear is not out there, but within. I think I'm afraid of committing to this life in St. Croix. I'm afraid that this new found belief that I'll have a forever home with Peter is scary because I'm afraid I'll do something to lose it. I'm afraid I will give myself over to my writing and be disappointed with what I find. That I'll think I'll get my book published. That I'll want that and it won't happen.

But why? Why be afraid of any or all of those things? I'm enjoying the life here, the life with Peter has never been better, the writing and the idea of being read is exciting. Maybe it's time to realize the "thing that is bad" isn't really there and put the fear where it belongs, categorized as mythical, illusionary, ephemeral, unlike these hummingbirds and rainbows that I keep finding.

But then, I've lived with this monster, this evil, this fear since I was little, since I was four. And while that abandoned girl has been brought out of the crevices. She's been identified and named. She has not been banished from our garden. She lies dormant, lurking, waiting to pounce. Like the whir of the hummingbirds' wings, I must learn to see her coming before she actually appears.

At The Croix Roads

If you've read my previous blogs, you know that last January, Peter left for a job in St. Croix. It paid him well, he got to use his expertise to help in a crisis situation, he would be in new territory, but also under new supervision. He was excited about that.
     He didn't know what the living conditions would be in St. Croix. After all, he was being brought there to help with hurricane recovery after two Category 5 hurricanes hit the island in a matter of weeks.
But as it turned out, he wound up living in vacation homes that were not destroyed or damaged and lived pretty well.
    Unfortunately, many of the recovery team left loved-ones behind. We all had to adjust to newly defined lives. For Peter and I, it was a trying first few months.
     I talked about divorce - AGAIN! I felt he was abandoning me, which he literally was. After all, he would be living 30 days on-island only to return "home" for a week or so. But, he would say, "If the living conditions are good enough, you could come down to visit." What kind of marriage is that? Not one I wanted, that's for sure.
     He was to leave in January, leaving me with the house, the animals (of which we had 2 dogs, a coatimundi, a Patagonian cavy, a turtle, a lizard, some cockroaches, fish and stick bugs!), our two kids, my mom and a seemingly infinite amount of stress and responsibilities that overwhelmed me just thinking about it.
     It was daunting. There would be eight snow storms. Of course the guy he hired to plow the driveway showed up only after being called multiple times and then did only a part of the driveway saying his truck broke—not my problem! And he wanted full payment regardless!
     I had a frozen shoulder that required physical therapy and chiropractic adjustments three times a week, acupuncture once a week and a massage every other week to try to relieve the pain and gain mobility. I could not shovel that driveway. I was flabbergasted!
     As always, there were issues in the house, but nothing would be as bad as dealing with our dogs. They wouldn't stop fighting or marking their territory. They wouldn't stop peeing and pooping in our house, not even stopping after I got them fixed! And none of that was as bad as trying to get them to stop barking! Why did no one tell me that the adorable coonhound would bay, bark and howl all day every day!?!
     I was unhappy. I was lonely. I was overwhelmed. While Peter's paycheck was a plus, I, of course, thought it was just an excuse to leave me. I was sure of it.

     At my lowest, I wanted to disappear. I didn't think I could face another day. That feeling of sorrow was all consuming. No thought of what would happen to the kids, the animals, the household. There were a few nights, I really lost my mind, my heart, myself.

     And then I went to visit. The blues of the sea, the tropical breezes, the sunshine, the warmth, the beauty of the beaches. But I wasn't there to be on vacation. I was there to reconnect with my husband.
     I'm too tired and still too vulnerable to go into detail. Suffice it to say, we had intense discussions.

     Month after month would go by where he came back to NY and I went to St. Croix. Each month building a foundation for a new life together. That first visit to St. Croix, he assured me he hadn't taken the job to get away from me. "It's for us. This sucks for me too. I don't want to be without you." But I didn't totally believe him.
     As time went by and he and his job became more stable, he brought up my staying in St. Croix. How would that work? At first, I thought I could sell our house in New York, maybe find a smaller place for our grown kids to live. But there was too much to be done. Our 32 years together was stored in that house.
     I wound up in St. Croix for two weeks at a time, and then he would come up North for a week, only leaving us apart for a week each month. Then, I came down for three weeks and we flew "home" together.
     By now, I understood that he hadn't abandoned me/us. I felt he was lonely too. I believed him, for once. In our over 30 years together, I finally believed he loved me and wanted to live the rest of his life with me.
     My therapist (whom I haven't seen for 10 or 15 years now) would ask me why I thought he stayed with me. If I was so convinced he would leave me, why are we still together? My answers ranged from 'Because it's the right thing to do.' 'He hasn't found anyone else...yet.' 'He doesn't know where to go.' and on occasion, 'I just don't know.' Her point was not to confirm my fears; her point was to show me that my fears were unwarranted.
     Well, Nancy. I finally see that. I finally believe that he loves me and wants to be with me.
Finally.

     So, this St Croix life that we are living now, this "Croix" Roads where we've found ourselves, took over 30 years! Now that I believe we're truly going to stay together, I look back at the 30+ years and can't believe all the hurt we put each other through. If only, all along, we took our I love you's and I do's and were totally committed to them. Think how much happier I could have been if I lived without the fear of abandonment and instead lived with abandon.

Abandoned: The Beginning

Chapter One

     When I was three-years-old, my parents left my older brother, my younger sister and me. I have spent the greater part of my life coming to terms with that abandonment. For a year, we lived in the Philippines while our parents made a life without us in the USA. 

     We were cared for by my mother’s parents; stern, cold, grandparents who rarely showed affection. They, along with our mother’s youngest sister cared for my brother (4-years-old), me, (3-years-old) and my sister (just 1-year-old). 

     During that time, my sister would say her first word, calling our aunt, “Momma”; take her first steps, and cry, cry, cry for our parents to return. 

     My brother, a precocious oldest grandchild, often did things like play on a chair near the edge of brick steps. He was standing on the chair when he tried to get a toy car that had fallen. He ended up tumbling from the chair and cutting his cheek open on the jagged brick steps. The bandage that covered the stitches took up half of his face. How did our mother feel when she saw pictures of her son with an injury and she was halfway across the globe? 

     Even after we were reunited, that year apart scarred not only my brother’s face, but our sense of security. Therapy never quite cured my sister or I of the sense of abandonment because, you see, no one ever explained the situation to us. Our parents never tried to explain their absence.

* * *

It wouldn’t be until I was in my 30’s that my siblings and I would find out the truth. Our parents wanted us with them during that first year in the States. The pictures of them holding other children, playing in the snow, at parties with their new friends were not joyful times as the photos portrayed, but frustrating, anxious and regrettable weeks that became months and then a year with our mom begging her father to bring us to America, as agreed upon.

     When we did finally board a plane for the two-day journey from the Philippines to Japan, Japan to the USA, our grandfather, Lolo in tagalog, and our mother's youngest sister, Tita Chet, accompanied us. It was 1968, our first time to travel on an airplane. Back then, airplane travel was a big deal for everyone, not just three young Filipino kids who were going to emigrate to the United States. People dressed up to fly in planes. Think Mad Men International, that's the timing for this leg of my journey.

     On the plane, the three of us, aged 5, 4, and 2 were fussy. The food was unfamiliar. There was a big slab of meat called a ‘steak’ on our tray, something we'd never seen before, and the milk in these containers tasted funny. We cried and were irritable on the long transatlantic flight. When we disembarked in Japan, I remember a finely dressed women with a handkerchief tied around her perfectly quaffed hair having to help me up when I fell down the aluminum stairs onto the tarmack. I was groggy when the plane landed in Japan and don't remember much more than this.

     I remember spending the night in a hotel. There was a time difference or we slept on the flight and weren't sleepy so we jumped on the beds and created a ruckus. Lolo was quite annoyed and kept telling us to go to sleep. We must have but I have no recollection.   

     As I said, it was a two-day flight and when we finally landed in the States, I'm sure my grandfather and parents were relieved. Was the flight supposed to take two days? Were we supposed to stay the night in Japan? If it was an unexpected layover, would our parents have known or were they waiting at the airport only to finally give up and go home alone? Back then, remember, flights were rare and communications entailed switchboards, expensive long distance rates, unreliable service and ungodly lag-times...thinking about the whole ordeal, it must have been a nightmare, really... 

     But we would eventually land. We were going through customs at JFK when our grandfather instructed us. "When I tell you, run to your parents,” he said. As we made our way, we wound up in a long corridor where way far away people stood looking for their overseas guests. We stopped to collect ourselves. Our Lolo peered down the hallway trying to find our parents' faces. When he spotted them, he told my brother and me to "Go. Go now," our grandfather nudged us and in typical Filipino fashion, pointed with his lips and nodded his head. "Run." So my brother and I looked at each other, shrugged and ran. But, I wanted to know, "Which of those people were our parents?" We had forgotten what they looked like. But we ran, I guess, hoping someone would step forward to claim us.

     At some point, my brother stopped running. He told me years later that he had to pull up the zipper on his pants. In any case, I got out ahead. Searching the faces of the people who were standing still as I whizzed by, I was caught by a man kneeling down with his arms outstretched. I could only hope it was the right guy, because to me, he was as much a stranger as the next one. 

     He hugged me and picked me up and kissed me on the cheek. My brother made it and he was embraced by our mom. And after a few seconds, they traded us off. 

    When our aunt arrived carrying our sister, Carolina wouldn't go to our mom. She clung to our aunt, refusing to let go. These people were strangers, after all. She had been away from them for as long as she had been with them. She began to cry. Our mother began to cry. At the time I didn’t know why.

* * *

In 2003, in Cold Spring, NY,my mom was helping me with the kids, with the packing, trying to spend as much time with us before we left. My father had died several years before. She was alone, but doing well on her own. I was very proud of her.

     I didn’t think for a moment, how our move would affect her. I didn’t see how.

     Teary-eyed, she helped me seal a box that would come with us on the plane. “Why would you move your kids to a third world country,” she began tentatively, “when your father and I sacrificed so much to get you out?” I honestly never thought of it that way. I wanted to say, ‘It’s because you gave us so much, that now we can afford to give back.’ But I didn’t say anything. I glanced at her and we moved on.

Happily Ever After

In 1986, Peter and I spent our three week honeymoon traveling by rail through four countries in Europe. I was 22 and he was 24. I was just a year out of college and he was a year out of the Peace Corps.

I had never been to Europe. Peter was charged with planning our honeymoon since I planned our extravagant wedding of 400 guests, consisting mostly of my parents' friends.

We landed in England. After a few days in London, we traveled to York and stayed in a Bed and Breakfast. It would be the first B&B, I'd have stayed in and something about staying in someone else's home made me feel funny, like I was intruding. After leaving our bags, we immediately left to look around the walled ancient city. We found out there was a ghost walk and made it a point to get in line. As was the case most of the time we'd been in England, there was a heavy rain but nowhere to keep dry, except for the pub. How convenient! So we left the cue to get warm and grab a pint before the tour began.

Standing at the bar, a gentleman started talking to us. "Where are you from?" He asked. "We're from New York." I told him. "Oh! So how do you like Olde Yorke?" he asked. We had not thought of it that way. We enjoyed his company, but I didn't want to miss the ghost walk.

"Why do you keep looking outside?" He finally asked. "Oh, we are here for the walk." I said. "Well, you won't miss it. I'll be sure to tell you when it's time to go out there." he said with a twinkle in his eye. "You see, I'm the guide." And with that, we laughed some more and raised our pints to him.

I remember that night so clearly. I can tell you just about every ghost and haunting he pointed out; the house boarded shut to keep the family infected with the Black Plague inside, only to find a small child who was not infected banging on the attic window, crying to be let out. There's the castle, that was the hunting lodge of one of the Kings. Every day, a cleaning woman saw the ghost of the King walk down the stairs, and as he brushed by her, she felt the cold chill of the dead. He said, he believed this cleaning woman, because after all, everyone should believe their own mother. But the story that still sends chills up my spine is the one where a maintenance worker fixing the boiler of what today is the Mint. As he worked in the basement, all of a sudden, he heard the shuffle of feet, the whinny of horses and when he looked up, he saw a troop of soldiers clad in armor, walking in front of him. He noticed a few things that made his rendition believable. He could not see below their shins; as it turned out, the basement of the Mint was poured concrete which was why he couldn't see their feet. He also noticed the shape of their shields and how they carried them. Because he was not an educated man, he would not have known that a lost Roman Legion, one that carried the shield in their right hand had been buried in York hundreds of years before. 

As the ghost walk ended, we headed back to our B&B.

I had trouble sleeping, but no sooner had I finally dozed off, when I had a dream. I dreamt that I was standing in the kitchen of a home, my home? When soldiers, hurt, tired, dragging their armor, shield and swords, appeared in the fields. I pumped some water into a wooden bucket and grabbed a ladle. I walked up to a soldier with a horse and offered him a drink. As he took my hand, bringing the ladle to his lips, he tilted his head and I saw he was Peter.

I woke up just then and was so scared that I pushed myself away from Peter as he tried to comfort me. He questioned what was wrong. "Are you OK?" As he moved closer, I became even more frightened. I finally let him hold me and I sobbed as I told him about my dream. He stroked my hair and let me rest my head on his shoulder until I fell back to sleep.
It would only be in the morning, as we ate our breakfast that he told me he had the same dream. We had the same dream, at the same time.

At first, we chalked it up to a weird coincidence, but after 32 years of marriage and nearly 35 years together, I have to say, we know better.

That was the first of many times we would confirm that we've been together for lifetimes. He has a very old soul and I have lived multiple lives, that's for certain.

After the attachment we both felt for the San Bushman, there is no denying we must have been together way back then. After all, it resonated with us both, the San way of life and our own nomadic lifestyle.
There are undeniable traits that we possess that harken back to Bushman ways. The hunter/gatherer in us as a pair, the matriarchal system where my family has taken him in, and the fact that we follow the food source, which in this day-and-age are his jobs, most recently relocating us to St. Croix.

My theory is that people return to this world to work out some issues. A little Buddism, a little Christianity, and a whole lot of English Lit. that helps me to flesh out the meanings behind coincidences. In other words, my theorized theology goes like this...we have to accomplish something while on this planet. It's more a mission, than a purpose, although I think some people's purpose is the mission. But in my case and for most people I know, we are here to work through an issue, that when acknowledged, will help us to move on. Move to better and better lives.
I was told by a reiki master that this could quite possibly be my last incarnation. That I will reach my "goal" so to speak. Peter, who has had many more lives than me, was told and believes he's here for a long time coming. That, as an astrological ox, he's pulling that plow, unable to lessen his burden.

I don't know.

We are coming up on our 32 wedding anniversary. I insisted on a trip to Scotland. It just kept ringing true to me, that we needed to go there and it had to be this year. So, in a few days, we'll go off to Scotland. Like our honeymoon, he's mapped out our journey, made reservations, and any arrangements. This time, we'll be driving all around the country/countryside. And as before, I'm really just going along for the ride.
That's how I've seen the past 32 years we've had together. He dictates what we are doing, where we are living, how we will live. Sure, there are things I've insisted on, having children, for instance; and places we've lived, Hoboken, Manhattan, Garrison to name a few; and things we've done, gotten married, moved to Ghanzi, a remote village in Botswana, and opened a store. But for the most part, we've followed the food source/his jobs, where I set up our homestead, gather our community, and am ready to pick up and move again if we are all to thrive/survive.
And that's the question I face yet again. Just like my birthday, Peter says, I question our marriage every year around our anniversary. In my mind, I have to. Do I want another year of this? We fight about the same things, year after year. Sure, recently, we fight less, he seems to have gotten over one very crucial trait that drove me crazy. But he still needs ultimate control - if I start making plans or settling in, he rears up and puts his fist down about dumb things, nothing, unsettling everything. He still pulls away when things are too good, causing me to mistrust him, this, us. And then there are the spans of nothing, of coasting, of isolation.

Why?

We're working on that. We've come to see that the bushman wants to provide for his family, willing to relocate and driven to follow the meat/the water source. Then, there's the Roman soldier who was always embattled. When I met him in that dream, he was so tired of fighting, but all he knew was to fight. I think of our disagreements, no matter how small, they would turn into a full out war. I would see that soldier, swinging blindly, trying to stay alive, trying to make the attacks stop. Only, I wasn't the enemy. I was on his side all along. He and I are trying to grasp that for both of our sanity, for both of our piece of mind. I don't think he fully accepted what I had to offer in that dream. I was from the "other side" yet I offered him water, I gave him aid. I allowed him to finally put his sword down, let his guard down. I gave him peace.

As another year goes by, do I follow my hunter to St. Croix and set up our home there, which is what I've done for many of our lives together? And do I give him peace, a place to rest? Is my bucket half-empty or half-full? I don't think he knows. I know I do not.

The Empty Nest Syndrome: A Moving Story

With our daughter, a post-college conservation biologist, gearing up to accomplish her career goals at 23, and our son, returning home to attend community college after a fun (a little too fun) freshman year away, we hardly have an empty house. There are still animals, furniture, 30+ years of momentos, not to mention the accumulated things my mother just couldn't get rid of after downscaling from her monstrous home.

But as of this month, Peter and I aren't there, in New York. I mean, we still own it, our driver's licenses use that address, and we'll have absentee ballots come November using that address, but we spend most of our time in St. Croix.

He's been working here as a consultant since January. He's come back to NY each month for only 7-10 days and as of this month, St. Croix is where I am, with him.

It was a grueling nine months, as many of you know after reading this blog. And after much deliberation, we've decided this is the right place for us, at this time.

It's a hell of an opportunity, really, for us both. His skills as an engineer have been put to the test and he's excited and enlivened by this career change. It feels good to accomplish something and be appreciated for your efforts.

For me, I have the luxury of not having to deal with the clutter of our lives, the demands of our pets, the constant worry of things like, if the kids are fed, dogs have gone out, cars are in working order. I have a beautiful house to stay in and the mellowest dog; who doesn't bark, isn't solicitous, is house broken, and is happy to lie at my feet while I write.

But in fairness, I created the havoc that enslaved me to that house and those dogs. I was stressed and unhappy even while in that house by myself.

So, while I technically don't have an empty nest, Peter and I live as if we do. Because for now, this house in St. Croix has freed me to finally leave our accumulated nest behind.