Outside of Time
I met my Dad in meditation yesterday. I met him on the hilltop above the house I rented with Matt in Kalimpong (West Bengal, India) where you could watch the sun set over the Himalayan foothills in one direction and watch the Teesta valley darken in the other.
I was there in one rush of sound and light, sitting crosslegged on the hilltop. It was beautiful and I cried. Together we watched the sunset.
For a few minutes I was six or seven, in a pale pink outfit and tucked just so under one of his arms. Then I was a little older and because I wanted to impress him and wanted to tell him what was inside my very young heart I said, This reminds me of the Grand Canyon–because we had been there together once and I knew he would remember.
After a time I sat crosslegged again (we used to say indian-style as children before we knew better, before I had ever been to India and learned how to squat) and we talked.
I told him I didn't know what to do.
He said, That's okay, sweetheart. You have all the time in the world.
We looked out over the valley.
After awhile more of talking he said, Whatever you do, let it be something that opens your heart.
We were together for thirty minutes of material time and yet the sun over the foothills kept its brilliance exactly, not setting or fading, letting us have our time in that land.
Before it was over he said, We can meet here anytime.
Could my Dad–who talked to me about remote viewing and astral travel before I was old enough to ever question their being possible–have realised he was paving the way for us to meet outside of time? When I layer these memories over one another–the family visit to the Grand Canyon, the Indian summer Matt and I lived in Kalimpong, a meeting in meditation outside of time with my Dad after his death–the past feels both unreachable and intrinsically connected to what is happening now. A thousand blessings and a thousand sorrows–a miracle that it even happened at all.