• vicki-mcleod.com-trees

    Do you feel angels?

    People often speak of their spirit guides and the abounding loving energies that surround, nurture, and direct them.

    Hearing about them, I imagine these guides as a kind of invisible entourage – robed figures of light, whispering and nudging, prodding their charges along, gently sweeping aside obstacles and working a kind of supernatural magic-by-proxy.

    At times I have a vague sense of these energies myself, although seers and spiritual counselors claim to see them chorusing around in my personal space, active participants in bringing grace, peace, calm and protection to my choices.

    I envy these oracles their clairvoyant pipeline to my spiritual posse. I’d like open up a direct channel to the guides myself, decode their esoteric supervision, and have a straightforward conversation with them about what is what.

    I have had some intriguing experiences in this regard. For a time I was hired as a coach by a very powerful channeller, who was the conduit for seven loving beings, a constellation of sometimes intrusive guides, as apt to show up over lunch as during a formal session. It made the coaching process extremely interesting.

    A friend from long ago, Sheila Wall-Burgess, is a medium. She claimed her gift late in life, and although it came as a bit of a surprise, it wasn’t necessarily a shock. She’d always been highly intuitive, frequently offering seemingly random or unexpected tidbits of wisdom that were somehow right on the money.

    I attended one of her sessions not long after I lost a dear friend and mentor. The insights and messages she conveyed were both powerful and reassuring. The first anniversary of my friend’s death is upon me and believe me, I would give almost anything, for one more conversation with her, to hear her throaty laugh, or have her raise a knowing eyebrow in my direction. I miss her beyond words. Despite my best efforts, I can’t yet feel her gentle wings, although I believe she guards me still.

    For my own part, I dream of my dead father. I lost him when I was 25, and I spend my dreamtime finding him. These are tender hunts. When I come upon him in the dreamworld, usually in some prosaic setting – my grandfather’s garage, the edge of the lake where we spent our summers, the dusty street outside his basement apartment – our reunions are filled with joy and relief. He is brimming with love, radiant with contentment, a brighter, sparklier, more vibrant version of the self that left our world behind.

    These dreams fill me with peace, and a sense of connection to the space that was my father.

    Recently, I was invited to have a session with Laura Hoorweg. Laura offers spiritual counseling, spiritual communication and clairvoyant services worldwide. She also happens to live in my area, and we met mundanely, at a women’s networking event. I am everlastingly curious about the mysteries of being human, and I have a healthy respect for the arcane. I also hold a framework of ‘yes’, so when Laura’s invitation landed in my inbox, I accepted.

    Her opening vision was of me on a bicycle, happily riding along on a sunny day, throwing newspapers from door-to-door. There is ease here, and purpose. I am smoothly getting my message out.

    She also sensed the presence of a great grandmother I only met once as an infant, and of whom I have no real knowledge. She suggested I investigate her, a tiny but mighty matriarch who is apparently interested in seeing me empower others, something she couldn’t really do in her own life.

    vickimcleod.com-grandmothers

    Both my grandmother and my great-grandmother are long gone. I imagine them together making peace, saintly and good, released and forgiven for their earthly transgressions. Angelic? Perhaps.

    At times, when the wind is still, and the day is about to turn to evening, I hear a kind of sighing. There is a murmuring in the atmosphere and a brushing-by that is less than a whisper, lighter than a kiss, gentle as a leaf falling to ground.

    My angels are breathing, silent in the twilight. I fold them into my heart, grateful. Their wings, a question mark. Their love, a constant.