A Message From The Dead

About My Mom, And When Strangers Feel Safer

Last night I got a message from my mom’s old best friend. The Swedish girl. They were both foreigners in this country, my mom from Iceland, she from Sweden.

When mom died, I hung out with her sometimes at her boat, where she lived with her two kids and her man. They were hippies. Like pretty much everyone in Oslo in the eighties and nineties. It was just an easygoing lifestyle. Before the world got fast, complicated and smart. Too smart for its own good, if you ask me.

I haven’t seen or spoken to mom’s best friend in almost 20 years. It’s been a time and a world long gone. That time is no longer, it died. With mom.

But yesterday I got a message. From the dead. From my mom. I mean... from my mom’s best friend.

Hi everyone <3 On Friday it’s been 20 years since our dear Sóley passed away. Let’s meet at 7 pm at the graveyard and have a little gathering, catch up and go down memory lane together. Afterwards, those of us that are up for it can go have a beer and something to eat at the local restaurant. Hugs, C.

My system got all fluttery, shaky, like some portal had suddenly opened, a portal that let me travel in time and through densities. It felt like now the time has finally come to be reunited. I felt like I was going to see my mom again. And my thoughts immediately started to spin and design in my head what the gathering would be like. Everyone should be there, of course. My daughter, for sure. Finally she will meet and get to know her grandmother. And I forwarded the message to my brothers, my boyfriend, my stepdad (he who had lost his wife, the father of my brothers), my friend and all of the family in Iceland. Finally we were going to summon all the scattered pieces, and come together again.

Finally I can get some answers, I thought. Because here’s the thing. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why I was so upset when I was a kid. Before she died. Why I haven’t missed her, but more what I wanted her to be, why she was that kind of mother that she was, and why our bond was not so strong.

I am afraid to share this with the people that knew her. I feel ashamed and embarrassed to feel this way. I’m afraid they’re going to say that I am wrong, that I don’t remember correctly, that I have no right to say these things about Sóley, that I make things worse than it is, that I should have moved past these things and let go of any insecurities or confusions or sorrows a long time ago, I mean, it’s been 20 years... And I’m afraid they’re going to judge me and think that there is something wrong with me.

Strangers are safer. You guys here, my friends on Substack, I rely on you in this.

You don’t get triggered by this, because you don’t have your own picture of how my mom Sóley was. You don’t have your own grief over her to worry about. You are neutral in this concern, and that’s why it feels safer for me to share this with you.

I got the message late last night. First thing I did when I woke up was turn the computer on and start to write this. My arms leaning over the table to the keyboard, fingers typing, I’m still a little shaky.

Please do leave me a comment, it means a lot to me. Sometimes I really need it. Now is one of those times.

I really wish we could meet up as well, and gather for real, and hug and look into each other’s eyes. Some day. It’s so sad I only have you in my black strange box on my desk. You’re kind of like on the other side too, with my mom, out of reach. Even though I trust you so dearly, I feel so held and seen by you guys in here, and I love you so much.

I know that I also have a tendency to fix everything when the feeling of sorrow is present. That has been my pattern. That’s why I burned out. Before, I wasn’t able to identify what the feeling was. It was just a buzz, some kind of fizzy restlessness that drove me to action. Action action action.

What I’ve learned recently is to keep it simple. To see the feeling for what it is: sorrow. It’s better to just let that feeling be and fill and move through my body, with me present, resting, quietly (or loudly) crying, holding myself close and dear, and let the peace tuck me in.

Love,

Eya🌹🕊️🤍