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Karl’s egg 19 April 2014 – Photo: L. Weikel

Best Easter Egg EVER

I’ve always loved Easter.

The memories I have of Easters growing up are not whizz bang affairs. In fact, it’s funny – when I think back, as I sit here, trying to decide what memories I might share that could convey why my heart always seems to lift when I think about Easter, I realize how magical my thinking was…even back then. It wasn’t necessarily the literal stuff of Easter that I loved, it was what lived in my imagination.

I loved hunting for Easter eggs. Oh my goodness. Not the public hunts, put on by schools or churches. The hunts I cherish are the ones that took place in the living room of the farmhouse I grew up in.

My brother Henry is 16 years older than I. My mother would let him go out to see his girlfriend (and eventual wife), Diane, on the night before Easter only if he promised to come home and ‘help the Easter Bunny’ hide the hard boiled eggs I’d dyed that night.

The Hunt for the Eggs

I swear that was the best part about Easter. Finding the eggs that The Rabbit hid (as she came to be known in our household – Karl’s and mine – as our guys were growing up) was a challenge that had the potential to occupy me the whole day. Inevitably, there would be one or two eggs that were so well hidden that it would literally take me hours to find them. Sometimes my brother (if he could remember) would have to play that game of “warmer” to help me.

Truth be told, I think he probably had no recollection of where he’d hidden them and was only sending me on a wild goose chase anyway. At least a couple eggs over the years weren’t discovered until months (or perhaps years) later. They were completely desiccated by the time they were accidentally found, so who knows how long they’d excitedly waited to fulfill the dream of all true Easter eggs, of being reunited with their colorful siblings, only to wither away, forgotten and alone? Yeah. Sad.

The magical thinking that really made Easter special for me, though, is the image I’ve always carried in my head of the true Easter Rabbit. For the life of me, I don’t know why the thought of this creature didn’t scare me, especially since I cannot stand people in costumes or masks. I think it may be because I had such a sense that “she” was in fact a real Rabbit – just larger than normal – not a person dressed up as a bunny. But…wow.

The Reason for My Connection to ‘The Rabbit’

You’ll never believe it, but I just realized that on some level, my sense of and connection to the Easter Bunny was a precursor to the literal experiences with power animals that I would start having some 25 years later. (I’ve honestly never thought about it in this context before this moment. Wow.)

Another reason Easter is a favorite holiday is because I was born on Easter Sunday. So periodically, over the years, my birthday would again fall on Easter. But it always felt special, somehow, that I’d managed to arrive on that day (even if the day was nearly literally over by the time I arrived).

And I’ve always been partial to all the other babies (bunnies, chicks, lambs, pansies, robins, ducklings, piglets, daffodils) that abound in the springtime (hence, Easter-time), too. Indeed, even at church (raised Catholic), the concepts of death, rebirth and ascension appealed to me.

Anyway, it’s always felt like Easter was ‘my’ day – no matter when it fell on the calendar.

The Tradition – and Magic – Continued

Growing up, my kids knew my delight in Easter, and hopefully shared it, too. I’d even commandeered my eldest son, Karl, to help ‘The Rabbit’ hide the eggs for his younger brothers a couple of years, just like my mom had recruited my brother.

So imagine this: On April 19, 2014, my two adult sons (and Tiffany – who was meeting us for the first time!) were indulging me by coloring eggs on ‘Easter eve.’ I’d placed a pristine white egg in a cup of boiling water with red and blue food coloring and a dash of white vinegar (purple being my favorite color) and just let it sit. I wanted to see just how deep a hue of purple I could make this egg.

After it sat in the dye for quite a while, I dipped my tablespoon into the cup and raised it to the surface. The egg was covered with random bubbles, but it looked like it had ripened to a really deep and satisfying purple. I placed it carefully in the cardboard egg carton with all the rest.

We Could Feel His Presence

Mind you, this was two and a half years after Karl had died. He was, as he still is, thought about and talked about frequently. But we were especially reminiscing about prior Easters with him as we introduced Tiffany to our traditions. We could feel not only how much we missed Karl but how much Karl was missing us.

Imagine, then, our goosebumps and stunned expressions when I picked up my purple egg and looked at it carefully. Not only was his name clearly written on the egg, but it also looked like it was written on a background of stars. And even more amazing, the letters of his name actually look like his style of printing. Random bubbles?

As we’re fond of saying: YCMTSU.

Happy Easter, Happy Passover, Happy Springtime, Happy Rebirth and Renewal.

Believe.

(T-951)

P.S.: We love you, Karl. And again, a hearty well done on that manifestation!

A “Nothing” – (c) Karl D. Weikel

A Cosmic Reminder

Life is weird.

It’s just strange how you can be going along, living your life, basically minding your own business and doing your best to be as conscious as possible, when – thwack!– you get hit upside the head and challenged to hold your center.

That happened to me today.

And it wasn’t until I got home this evening that I felt the repercussions and even fully realized I’d received a spiritual thwack! upside the head – a cosmic reminder of why I engage in the discipline and commitment of my 1111 Devotion.

An Unexpected Flood of Sadness

Come to think of it, I was hit with the overwhelming wave of emptiness as I was driving home from my session. I told myself it was because I hadn’t eaten all day, but I knew that didn’t ring true. It’s not an unusual occurrence for me not to eat on days I see clients, and it doesn’t bother me at all. The truth was, I was missing Karl. And it was creating a pit-in-the-center-of-my-chest kind of sadness.

The short explanation is that my client had a connection to my son Karl that they didn’t even realize. When the appointment was initially set up, I’d had this vague tickle at the back of my mind. In the minutes before they arrived for their appointment, I literally wrote in my journal, “Why does that name sound familiar to me?”

I whipped out my phone and searched the name in my email, just to see if perhaps I’d seen this person a long, long time ago, perhaps in another context, unrelated to my shamanic practice. Maybe as their lawyer?

Nope. No record.

Realizing the Connection

There was no recognition on either of our parts when they arrived. They didn’t even mention that my name sounded familiar, so I shushed myself, opened Sacred Space, and began the session.

It didn’t take long before I realized that their son and Karl had had a strong bond back in high school. Indeed, so strong that, the last time Karl was home, the final Christmas and New Year’s holidays he spent in Pennsylvania, indeed, on Earth, he’d made a point of getting together with this friend specifically to give him permission to imitate Karl’s artwork – a unique art form he’d developed and honed since elementary school and eventually won awards for in high school, as well as in independent juried art shows.

An Uncommon Generosity of Spirit

I’d always wondered why Karl went out of his way to give this friend his ‘blessing,’ so to speak. I’d been shocked when he told me he intended to do it; and was even more shocked when he followed through with it. Perhaps on some deep level, both of us knew his time was growing short. Did he know? Did I know? It’s impossible for me to answer.

It was such a profoundly magnanimous gesture – loving and kind and generous. Made even more so because he’d only discovered through others that his art was being copied by this friend; his friend hadn’t disclosed it himself.

So why would he do that, I wondered. Why would he make it OK to be copied, imitated?

I remember standing in the kitchen and asking Karl, “Why?”

And I distinctly remember him shrugging and saying, “It doesn’t really matter in the end, Mom.” I just looked at him, struggling to keep myself from saying all the things that shrieked in my mind. Of course it mattered, I wanted to say.

Non-attachment and Serenity

“He knows,” Karl continued. “And I want him to know I know. But I also want him to know I give him permission.”

How could I argue with that? Karl’s attitude was intensely serene and – there are those words again – generous; magnanimous.

It was not unlike how I’d felt in Ann Arbor the year before, when I watched him give away to a homeless person the food we’d wrapped for him to take on the long bus ride back to California.

His non-attachment and serenity were profound. And I have to admit, I struggled to find them in my own heart. I wanted to feel ok about it; it was his art, after all. His talent and imagination. His vision.

In the End…

I was sad to notice that very same friend failed to come to Karl’s Gathering, held only two weeks after his death. Their meeting had occurred only ten months earlier. Surely it gave him pause?

And I was sad to realize my client didn’t even recognize his name. It was as if they’d never been friends.

I miss Karl. I miss his spirit. And most of all, I don’t want him to disappear.

Which reminds me of the entire point behind my 1111 Devotion.

(T-1022)