The Alchemist

I try and stay away from labels at all cost. I understand. Our tiny, human brain capacity, or mine, at least, forces us to compartmentalize and dissect and store information based on categories of perceived commonalities. Music artists lament about this incessantly. Taylor Swift doesn’t want to be country, nor does she want her music filed away in the pop section. All artists have faced this dilemma. If I’m a brilliant sculptor (I am not, FYI), but I manage to publish some gorgeous poetry, the world won’t know quite what to do with me. See, I can’t be both. I must be one thing or the other thing, but never lots o’things. I say this so you won’t flinch when I tell you that one of my best online friends I never met, someone who passed in a tragic traffic accident last year, was a proclaimed witch per her own voice on her own YouTube channel. She was also a brilliant herbalist, and incredible motivational speaker, and an expert on both Northern Pacific and Gulf Coastal woodland species identification. She was my go-to for “what is this large weed in my backyard” and how to make a killer peppermint tincture. We never met, Delores and I. Still, I’m glad I kept an open mind. I’m glad I made the tincture and read the books she recommended. Let people give you their gifts. Take what you need. Let the rest go. That brings me to this week’s story. Gather your supplies first. You’ll need: your open mind, your lack of judgement, and coffee. Coffee never hurts.

The word occult conjures up images of Mesquite’s Holloman Rd. in the 80s. That’s where the devil worshippers lived, after all. You could only drive down that road in the dark if your headlights were off, otherwise you mightn’t survive. Yet, if you look up occult, you find the words phenomenon and alchemy. Alchemy was the forerunner of chemistry and the transformation of matter. So, while occult things, be that the industry or the practice or just the gosh darn word, have morphed into an October decoration, there were a few scraps of science in the beginning, disproven or not. Color me surprised when my stepsister called me one night, a decade ago, to tell me about her occult experience. Her late father, our beloved Uncle Buddy, had been gone for many years. She was longing for closure. Always a fan of doing the unexpected things no one else dares to do, she decided, secretly and with zero fanfare, to seek out a medium. She made an appointment under an assumed name. She dressed plainly, sans makeup and jewelry. She presented herself as a blank slate. The medium immediately picked up on a male image wishing to speak to her. He tried hard, but there was a young female presence who kept cutting in on the spiritual line. “This young girl is annoying,” said the medium. “She thinks she is funny and she’s unsettling to everyone including your father (the identified male spirit) who wants to speak to you so badly.” The medium goes on to say that the spirit of the girl is clearly dancing. She’s happy, so happy. Her names begins with a C. She says she has a dimple. She says it was her heart. The medium asks my sister if she knew any young girls with dimples who danced and died due to a complication of the heart. I still feel guilty my sister didn’t get to communicate with her father, but on the worst nights when the negative thoughts and the horrors of the world creep into my head, this recitation of Chynna and the medium allows me to drift off in a fit of giggles.

Sometimes, things are so shocking that, lest you’re in the right frame of mind to digest them, you funnel them into the “later days” folder. That is what happened to me when, in April of 2014, the same month my children’s paternal grandfather passed away, I received a private message from my 2nd cousin Michelle. I remember Michelle as a beautiful baby with jet black eyes and a head full of dark curly hair. Of course, we’ve bumped into each other at a few reunions over the years but have only met a handful of times. Her daughter, Emma, was 4 at the time I received the message. In this lengthy text, she tells me about a conversation with Emma the night before. I still have the message. Let me quote her. “It’s weighing on my heart to tell you this. Last night, as we were putting Emma to bed, she told my husband she would see her friend Chynna at nighttime. We were both in shock. I questioned her about it this morning. She said, ‘Chynna has brown hair just like me and you, Mommy.’ She started talking about Chynna’s grandpa. Emma started acting silly, too. She said Chynna sits with her at night sometimes and that she’s very funny. So, I pulled up your Facebook photos and Emma immediately pointed to a picture of Chynna. ‘That’s her, Mommy!’ My heart sunk for a moment, but I told Emma she was very lucky to be able to see and talk to her. I told her that Chynna was a sweet girl. Emma said she knew that, and that she was also very funny. Chynna is with my baby girl. I thought you should know.”

Accept the gifts. Take what you need. Let the rest go.