The Journey

J2012, Wednesday afternoon, April 11: Emma is gone. We rejoice that she is released from her long suffering. Today, April 11, 2015, marks the third anniversary of Emma’s passing.

She passed peacefully. Her Hospice nurse, hospice chaplain and I stood by her side at her hospital bed in our living room. Her hospice chaplain played a short, soft piece on Emma’s electronic organ; Emma stirred in recognition. Then, moments before Emma passed, our hospice chaplain touched the center of Emma’s forehead with frankincense and myrrh oil that she had brought from Israel. I touched Emma’s shoulder and laid my hand on hers. Our loving thoughts were of comfort and peace, to ease her along her way, to let her know she is OK, to offer her clear and free choice of passage through her journey and to her next lifetime.

Two days later, my spiritual teacher friend came and sat with me. He told me that Emma is aware that she is out of her body now and in a strange new place, like a dream state, the bardo, the Tibetan Buddhists call it, which may make her feel a bit uncomfortable. My friend said that when our consciousness enters this new place we are given choices as to where to go next; we tend to gravitate toward the familiar.

Emma loved to travel and during this time, she had been here with us, her family. Beginning about three weeks before Emma’s passing, I sensed her former, sunny smiling self around me when I was upstairs. Strange, I thought. She’s down in the living room in the hospital bed, yet she is here. She is beginning to leave her physical form, I reckoned. My brother later told me that during that time, he, too, down in North Carolina, had sensed her presence.

After her passing I sensed Emma’s presence again here in our house in Delaware as did my daughter, Kellie, down in North Carolina. Kellie, having fallen asleep beside my younger granddaughter, awakened around three in the morning to see a white light, an orb, dance in a partial figure eight in the room and then vanish. Then their chihuahua, in my older granddaughter’s bedroom, barked briefly. The next morning, in their car on their way to the school bus, my younger granddaughter, 8, sitting next to Kellie, looked behind her, then turning to Kellie, said, “Mom … who’s that woman sitting in the back seat?” When she turned to look back again, the woman was gone. “She looked like Grandmom,” said my granddaughter. “She was dressed in blue.”

The burial outfit I had chosen for Emma is blue. My granddaughter did not know this.

Even at Emma’s funeral, “She’s not here,” I thought. “She’s just not here.” My brother and Kellie sensed her absence, too. And, so, like a butterfly, she had flitted among each of us in her family, the flowers of her life – her children and her grandchildren – to see what we were up to and to make sure we were all right and then gone on her way, true to her character.

And, so, Emma, peaceful travels. May you, our mother in this lifetime, journey safely and with love. We miss you.

—Samantha Mozart

14 Responses to The Journey

  1. Pat Garcia says:

    My Dear,
    We have experienced many similar events. My father’s mother passed in 1981. I was in Germany, and she visited me before going on. When my mother called, I couldn’t believe she had passed because she had been sitting beside my bedside.
    Again, your sharing of Emma’s passing reminded me of that time. I believe it is a way of the person saying goodbye for now. It gives us hope that we will see them again.
    Shalom,
    Patricia

    • sammozart says:

      I really wish I knew more about how this works, Patricia. Apparently it’s quite common for part of a person’s consciousness(?) — I may be identifying this all wrong — to travel before the whole person passes on. Moreover, my mother saw many of her late relatives within the last year or two of her passing. She even asked me, “Didn’t you see Doris and Alice when they were here?” Well, no, I hadn’t. But Mother would smile and look at some entity that appeared before her as a person she knew, whom I couldn’t see them, though sometimes I sensed their presence.

      Yes, we have experienced many similar events, Patricia. So very blessed are you that your grandmother sat by your bedside before going on. I have heard from the wise that we travel in the same groups through lifetimes. Quite possibly I should say to you now, “It’s so nice to see you again!” 🙂

      Ciao, ciao
      Shalom,
      Samantha

  2. Liz Brownlee says:

    Sorry to hear about your mum. Dementia is a hard way to go. My mum didn’t have dementia but she died to early in 2005, and I miss her still so much. I’d love to know where she has gone. I talk to her often. ~Liz http://www.lizbrowneepoet.com

    • sammozart says:

      Liz, you are so fortunate to be able to communicate with your mum. I feel my mother’s presence sometimes; it is the unmistakable essence of her. Life is so short. I don’t know where those who have passed go, and maybe, if their passing was relatively recent, they don’t know where they are, either. My father said to me a few years before he died in 2004 at 90, when his aorta split, “I wonder what it’s like after you die.” “Let me know,” I told him. I don’t think he has. Or maybe he has and it’s so obvious I think I don’t see it.

      Keep on talking to your mum. She may be listening and knows how much you love and miss her.

      Nice to meet you on the A-Zs. Thanks for coming by.

  3. Samantha,
    I have not (yet) had this experience, but I know of many who have. You capture it beautifully. Lovely to discover you on the A-Z.

    http://shrinkrapped.com/

    • sammozart says:

      Thank you, Lorrie. I am so glad you came by. It has been said that if you are not yet a caregiver, chances are you will be. The really scary part, though, is who is going to care for me? Anyway, through my experience, I’m glad I always had someone to laugh with — friends and hospice team — one of the reasons I enjoy your blog.

  4. Susan Scott says:

    And I meant to say your description of being there as she died, hospice nurse, chaplain and the organ, frankincense and myrrh oil from Israel was very touching. I can sort of see this in mind’s eye.. Thank you for sharing this with us.

    • sammozart says:

      Thank you, Susan. It was one of those rare lifetime moments. I am honored to have had that opportunity.

  5. Susan Scott says:

    I acknowledge today 11th April as the 3rd anniversary of your mother’s death Samantha. How lovely to be remembered lovingly. She’ll be the butterfly in your garden or the dew on a leaf. Peaceful travels to her on her ongoing journey…

    This is lovely post; all those stories of her presence even in her absence.

    Thank you Samantha ..

    • sammozart says:

      Today I thought of you when I was wishing I had a secret garden, Susan, as I sat on my front porch in the sun, listening to the wind chimes.

      Thank you for your acknowledgement and well wishes, and for the lovely butterfly and dewdrop images. Comforting.

  6. Marsha Lackey says:

    What a beautiful, magical journey that you show us for Emma. The love she and you surround the family with is so powerful that it’s difficult for me to find words. The message is so beautifully written, I felt a communion with the family. Thank you for sharing that love.

    • sammozart says:

      Well, you ARE part of my greater family, Marsha. My mother loved Florida, too (Marco Island, Naples, where she owned homes). I know she would have welcomed visiting with you.

      You are a most loving spirit. Thank you.

  7. Gwynn Rogers says:

    This is a dear tale Samantha…so beautiful and loving. It is lovely to hear of a caring relationship between mother and daughter. Now that Emma said her “good-byes” I’m sure she is off flitting around experiencing the world.

    • sammozart says:

      Knowing Emma, she probably is out flitting around somewhere, maybe enjoying luncheon with friends in hats and gloves, enjoying the blooming daffodils and tulips, taking a road trip, or maybe she traveled through the New Jersey Pine Barrens to the beach.. (I think I’ll copy and paste this and post it on my FB page with a beach photo. I don’t know if she gets on FB much, but she’ll like the photo.)

      Of this goodbye, I was somewhat prepared for it at my father’s passing on Sept. 16, 2004, when the whole family stood around his bed in the hospital emergency ward, as he was making his exit. And, out hospice doctor, nurse, bereavement counselor and chaplain gently prepared me for this moment with Emma.

      Thank you, Gwynn.