Hummingbird vision

Reading the letterRick Beerhorst, painter. 
8 x 10 inches. Oil painting on wood panel. 


I was at school sitting on the floor of a big room cleaning out a closet when it happened.  A hummingbird flew in through a door I'd propped open and landed at my feet. 

I picked it up!

Bird stood in my palm seemingly not tired, nor injured. It looked at me, blinked, and moved its head side-to-side. When I saw a rogue feather sticking up on the top of its head in a spike hairdo, I thought of my son (who died unexpectedly). Life-loving mischievousness.

I expected the bird to dart off, but it stayed on my hand blinking while looking at me. I waited and watched. When it didn't leave, I began talking and if you were nearby you might have thought I'd lost my senses. I began proclaiming love for this tiny, gorgeous bird saying things like “I've been waiting for you” and “How can this be?” I spontaneously cried.

After about five minutes, I decided to go outdoors thinking it would certainly fly off. I waited. Bird moved its stance from foot to foot. Its iridescent red and green feathers sparkled in the sunlight. Another ten minutes passed. 

I decided to call to my friend and school director. “Mrs. Roshon come here, you won’t believe this!”

When she saw the hummingbird, she fell to her knees and exclaimed, “This is a miracle!” 

That might sound dramatic, but in the months after Michael passed, awakened, she and I noticed, connected, and claimed events as divine. Like the triple rainbow in bold, clear view the first morning after the funeral.

Eventually this precious bird flew off.

That hummingbird woke me up. Woke me up as in shifted my thinking, cleaned out my old belief and thought closet.

I began to wonder about the energetic presence of all beings. You see, this visit was the first time I truly believed, thought, and felt that my son was not gone. He is here. Now.

My relationship with him continues to grow whether he is walking on earth or not. 
Death is not an ending; it’s a new beginning and continuation. 

With the help of family and friends, support groups, and grief workshops, I am able to carry with me those not in my physical presence. And here is an awareness: if I can carry Michael in my heart and see him in nature, or experiences, or you, then I do not need things to invoke memory or prove he is here or that he is real. 

That was then. This is now. This week. 

Yes, this week I opened the cabinet holding letters, photographs, objects, and other memorabilia from my son's past. Twenty-eight years of his life experiences. I held each thing, read and looked, and sat holding the object. It took days.

Then I let everything go, except for a few pieces.

I was ready and I wasn't. 

Someone wise told me to ride the river of feelings. She said, Keep crossing that swamp, and don't get stuck in the middle. Feelings pass. Through the process, I felt peace. 

I’ve read a lot about letting go. I remember Pema Chödrön telling a story of how she let go of her deceased mother's necklace by trading it from hand-to-hand, aware that each passing was practice for feeling, letting go, and making space for the present. Eventually the object is passed from one hand out in a final letting go. 


Like the hummingbird visit here and then gone. 

What remains is an understanding and feeling of connection. And that lives on.