We All Get A Welcome Home Death Party

We are not alone when we die; we are greeted and enveloped by the unconditional love of our soul group and guides.

Photo by Val Vesa on Unsplash

January 2020; around two weeks before the first anniversary of John’s death, I visited Moira; the medium who had last read for me when I visited her in 2018, 7 months prior to his death. As I state in a previous post, I was seeking assistance from guides, for his peaceful death at home.

I had first met Moira nearly 3 years before, in March 2017, when I attended a Mediumship Demonstration and full day workshop she facilitated with an interstate colleague. In a quaint country town awarded status as the first inland town in Victoria. This proclamation making her a necessary tourist stop when following the historic gold-fields trail.

It was a Friday night demonstration followed by a full day Saturday workshop where we were led through the clair senses. We rotated with other participants; working in pairs, learning to trust our inner voice, our intuition ... to listen.­­

My mad-mate Bronwyn had invited me along. She and Harry lived in another small country town approximately 100km from ours, close enough to the event. Bronwyn had been attending Moira’s local Women’s Circle for some months. You would — looo-ve it, this pitch-perfect music teacher would trill over the phone. I wish — yoo-ou — lived closer — so yoo-ou could come, the chorus. Me too — ooo, my failed wail of a harmony. We would click-off laughing.

John eagerly tagged along for the weekend ride. Not for the, woo- woo, away - with - the - fairies, event, but primarily to catch up with Harry while Bronwyn and I played. Fed-up with our icy Winters, they were soon to flee Victoria, relocating to subtropical southern Queensland. This was our opportunity with Trolla and H; the first of two weekends of celebratory goodbyes.  A good excuse to get on the turps and outta this dank hole, John smiled as we swung out of the fractured concrete driveway.

That bloody rental. Still 3 months shy of moving into our new tree-change build, we hadn’t even tried to give it any semblance of home. Boxes stacked in every room except for the lounge – kitchen area where the nicotine glazed wood panel walls breathed a stench of the pubs of our youth. We couldn’t get rid that acrid pungent taste in the air. It permeated the paint. As ex-smokers, we were all too familiar ... you know, how certain smells conjure certain memories ... some best left alone. Felt like we were living inside the mouth of a two day hangover.

Nor did it  help that in the rush to rent the joint out, the owner had callously slapped a faint lemony shade of yellow on the skirts and window frames; a festering sallow skin that had rendered the windows permanently shut. Thank fuck there’s no carpet, I sighed at forgotten memories. The house stunk like the small, windowless rectangle of a lounge dedicated to students in what was deemed the Teacher’s College pub.

Those walls released wafts of  ... like an invisible mist ... akin to what was emitting from the weave of the crumpled, unwashed and ill-fitting navy tweed suits which flanked the backs of the resident barflies.

Misconstrued and misconceived; these gentle souls were marked by most, as vacant statues at the bar. Solitary, silent — and forgotten, their nicotine stained nails and finger tips had surprisingly kept their nimbleness; rolling a succession of grey-hounds. The brown plastic bar-ashtrays were not fit for purpose. Moist, yellowish-orange stained dregs of fags spilled over the edges of these ash-laden piles, flowing onto the washed out bar mats and thread-bare carpet.

Sleeve cuffs and suit lining tinged with a brownish-grey grime, reflected a relentless foray of life’s misfortune and misery. As flat as their beer; the greasy amber pond gave them licence to sit there ... all day. The early openers; these old boys offered us young women a glancing safe smile.

The inner city working-class pubs of my youth, my early adulthood. My people — still my people — our people.

While on topic, it was pubs where my mad-mate Bron and I were our maddest. We met on the first day of Teacher’s College. Unwilling to endure 4 straight hours of ‘Psychology’ on a Tuesday, we escaped to our Teacher’s College pub early after the first hour and roll-call. We soon became accomplices; encouraged by our mothers who ...  thankfully ... drew delight and amusement when listening to, a choice … some, of our antics.

First-wave feminist non-fiction had featured in my senior high school English and Literature classes; reflecting the influence of our mother’s generation. College introduced us to second-wave feminism; particularly the work of Germaine Greer. Didn’t bother us that our local Aussie had seen the need to defect to England. She etched us on the map and we carried her banner, for our mothers ... for us. We still love cousin Germaine, who has returned home for her twilight.

It was the mid 80s. We were newly independent young women; smart-arsed and foul-mouthed. We practiced our new rhetoric; at our boy-men peers and their mates, in the inner-city pubs surrounding our College. Fuelled with matters of social justice and left wing ideations, we raged and raved about what we had yet to fully understand or live.

You get the picture; thought we had freedom, power and knowledge. We were as conditioned as the rest of them, like all of us. We survived some serious shit for our collaborative efforts. We have since learned to hold affection for that madness; our mutual term of endearment for us, the child-adults. Probably much like our mothers did at the time.

The catalyst for Bronwyn and my dive into the depths of spirituality has run along parallel time lines. John died on February 5^th and William; eldest of her three beautiful sons, died on February 24^th, 15 days after his 25^th birthday, as a result of road trauma. Bron had come down from Queensland to spend a few days with me after John died. I remember her talking to Will on the phone the day of his 25^th birthday. He relayed his sadness about John, old-mate, dying. Then, the shit-show of 2019 went down, as John would have attested. As Bron often mentions, John’s energy was with her during the week she kept vigil over Will in hospital.

We have since had simultaneous connection with John and Will. They come through, with synchronous sets of thought messages and physical phenomena. Always gratefully received. Always makes us laugh. We accept that at a soul level, these agreements about entries and exits traverse many life times, in multiple dimensions. We have supported each other through the unpredictable swells of grief. With love and acceptance. We sensed 40 years ago, not long after we met, a connection we didn’t quite fathom. A soul group connection.

Back to March, 2017. The Friday night mediumship demonstration was as one would expect. Both women taking the opportunity to showcase their capacity to connect with souls across the veil; deceased relatives of loved-ones in the audience. The Saturday workshop was a more intimate group; not everyone who wants to be connected with their deceased loved ones wants to practice utilising their intuition to do the same. Part disinterest, part conditioned fear, part small town gossip.

Most of the women knew each other from Circle, so there was a familiar bubble of banter as Moira and Rechelle finished organising materials. I took pause to notice the details of the building. The Italianate design 1886 Buninyong Town Hall & Court House transported me to the Queen Anne style 1888 Building; prized architectural feature of our Teacher’s College.  Such buildings remind me of old books. While I can’t lift the building to my face and spread its pages to get a whiff of its essence, sitting in its essence, I feel like a word or a phrase, a punctuation mark ... inked on a page. I smell a library in Victorian red brick buildings.

During the mid-morning coffee break, Moira and Rechelle went outside to collect nature’s artefacts from the street; leaves, feathers, twigs, flowers, etc. With each new activity we paired with a new partner. Bron was the only participant I knew and Moira was astute enough to keep us separated.

For the nature round, I paired with Carol. Moira circulated, presenting a tray of said offerings and we had to promptly and instinctively take an item. The drill was to take turns; swapping items and whilst holding them, speak to what we were intuitively feeling, sensing. No questions, no conversation. After a few minutes, the person listening then responds to what the speaker’s feelings and thoughts might be alluding to. In other words, the listener interprets any apparent message, the speaker is receiving energy from the listener’s chosen item.

Carol had picked up two small flowers like paper daisies. Their stems were intertwined, one flower was withered and the other was healthy. As I held the flowers, I felt an overwhelming sadness weigh in my chest. I rattled on about what would be deemed a simple and obvious summary, noting the oneness of intertwinement, that one was healthy while the other withering, and so forth.

I didn’t speak for long; what I said was punctuated with long pauses, trying to find words because it was the feeling in my body that remained vivid, indescribable.

I don’t even remember what I had picked up off the tray that day. Nor do I remember any other of the day’s workshop activities. I certainly remember Carol reflecting that the first year anniversary of her husband’s death was approaching. She was grieving deeply and trying to find the courage to use the motorhome they had purchased not long before he fell ill. She wanted to honour their shared dream of prolonged camping adventures.

If you have read any of my previous posts, the similarity is obvious; in me losing John to illness and the lost dream of a retirement circumnavigating Australia with our campertrailer. What wasn’t known to me at the time was that John was 6 months from being diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease. The workshop was in the space of time where John’s difficulty in speech and swallowing was noticeable. In writing this post Bron did remind me that Harry was hassling John to drink plenty of water that weekend; following the, gratuitous advice of the doctor — thanks John.

Of course, it now makes sense as to why I was consumed with such dread. Not that my soul was trying to tell me directly that John was terminally ill. With good intent, we only ever receive what is in our best human interest. Nevertheless, it was not a random event being paired with Carol that day. I have no doubt my soul was preparing my human aspect; for my body to carry the load, the emotional weight of what was about to transpire. Our bodies receive and hold the vibrations of our human experiences. They carry past life and current memories; frequencies of Universal Truths felt through our intuition.

So, I meander back to where this post began, January 2020. I went to Moira for a reading; primarily to seek confirmation re signs I had received from John over the near year since he had died. On the drive over I could feel John’s energy and asked him to give a specific personal detail, confirmation that the signs I had received were from him, that I wasn’t imagining it. Then forgot about it.  

John has come in behind you, Moira mentioned, motioning me inside as she explained that without the confines of time and space, our soul can be and is, everywhere it chooses, all at once. She had spoken with John earlier that morning and knew he was travelling in the car with me.  He often communicates with you through music, Moira said as she sung a line from a song, a message from John. I had been playing our music on the drive over.

I still have the recording of that reading. The shrill of laughter from us both; when Moira reveals the exact message as I had asked John to relay — her because of the nature of the message, me because I had forgotten I had asked him!

Moira invited me to join Circle, where there was typically 8-12 women attendees. I wasn’t working at the time and given she was offering a morning tutelage I accepted. I enjoyed the 2½ return drive on roads mainly used by local farmers and a short stint on a secondary highway weaving through picturesque towns. My intention at Circle was to hone ways to heighten how to listen more attentively, as with the workshop sessions 3 years prior.

Three weeks later I attended my first Circle where I again met Carol. I briefly recounted what had gone on with John and I. She too remembered our pairing that day and was since undertaking shamanic training to be an energy healer. It was comforting to see her. Moira didn’t plan for Circle; her Guides would inform her that morning, directing her in how to support what they knew would benefit us.

March 11 was our 3^rd Circle for 2020. That date being the 54^th death anniversary of my maternal grandmother, Betty Rita, Covid-19 had started its global rampage and we were only 11 days off lockdown and my mother Sandy was only 12 days short of her own death. Mum had been in hospital for 2 weeks and it would take another 8 days for the hospital to release her so that she could come home to die. Unbeknown to us it was also our last Circle for a while, but I guess Moira’s Guides knew otherwise.

On this morning Moira stated that her main Guide had suggested that we all needed some extra love and care, so she lead us through a meditation of Our Going Home Party; us imagining the experience as we were immersed into the unconditional love of the eternal — upon our own deaths. The energy that Moira is able to summons is quite palpable. We were soon taken to a space of access. All the while remaining grounded, remaining fully aware that we were in guided meditation. Feeling totally safe and protected.

My Going Home party was at dusk. I approached from an open field, towards a rectangle of land bordered by a tall thick hedge. There was a break in continuity which I assumed was the entrance. From a distance, the height and density of the hedge prevented me from viewing a full breadth of the inside area.  Drawing closer, I noticed and was taken with the cute front facing view of a small white retro-style caravan, complete with horizontal blue stripe and strung with full-size light globes illuminating rainbow colours. It rested against the inner far side of the hedge. Sporting a large rectangular open cafe-style window and a wooden serving sill, the beer taps drew my attention and with relief I thought, Beauty, a bar. 

To the right I could make out the edge of a transportable stage and with that realisation an audible blue-grass banjo picking resonated. Beauty, live music, I thought. Though, the stage was empty and I figured it was perhaps between sets? I could see shadows, huddles of people standing around the bar and stage, none of them identifiable. I couldn’t see the open fire pit to the left of the entrance, only the sporadic flicker of light.

That’s when I recognised my maternal grandparents; Betty Rita and Delden, standing side-by-side with my parents, Sandy and Ivan. (None of whom were ever together as a foursome in the one space in this incarnation, and my mother was still alive. Nor had I met Betty Rita in this life). They had appeared at the break in the hedge, standing in the entrance. They were just looking at me; still, silent and smiling. A slight discomfort entered my thought, Shit, what’s Pop doing here? My grandfather was fervent in his dislike of alcohol, ...  the curse of our family, ... he would often remind my mother. So, we never drank or smoked in his presence, such was our love and respect for him. I was probably 2-3 steps from them when they parted; two each way, side by side.

Out walked John; smile sprawled across his handsome face. Cradling a stubby of beer in his left hand, he reached out his right and handed me a beer. As I took it, he drew me into an embrace. He was in a faded pair of jeans, t-shirt and an untucked and unbuttoned black and brown checked flannelette shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows.

I felt his strong forearms tighten around me. I could feel his body’s warmth and the flap of his open shirt against my arms as my hands snuck under and around his torso.

I could also feel a sob of relief building momentum in my chest; relief to be home. I didn’t want to leave this energy, though, I shut the vision down. Being fully aware of where I was, I didn’t want to be howling in front of the other women.

What Universal Truth was confirmed with that experience?

Visions and visitations experienced in meditation provide comfort in offering confirmation and affirmation, through an exchange of energy that is felt. The visualisation of my Going Home party was instantaneous, as with sleep state dreams. My subconscious created what is familiar in my human aspect, (e.g., John handing me a beer when I got home from work), enabling my Soul and her team to convey what is a common process for all of us, when we die.

However, contextualising visualisation aside, the experience of my team’s presence and John embracing me did happen; an energetic soul connection of unconditional love.

This experience taught me we are truly never alone; we are welcomed home by members of our soul-group; our team. And that in the meantime, the essence of who and what we are — unconditional love — strengthens and serves to assist us as we continue to play out our life, this human experience. There is no fear or judgement at home; just unconditional love. Our challenge as a humanity is to realise and enact this truth here, on Earth. We can manifest unconditional love as a collective humanity; that is what is deemed the New Earth.

As often happens, John’s energy is with me when I write, given that these musings are a collaboration with him. And as I finish this post I notice the gentle swing of the bedroom blind when I get up from my desk for a stretch.

I am poked to finish with a snippet of Rumi’s wisdom:

Beyond all ideas of right and wrong — there is a field — I will meet you there.

With love and gratitude, my learning continues. John and team, thank you for the guidance. I love you. And to my mad-mate, Bron – Trolla; I looo -ve you-ooo soo-ooo.

And so it is.