And I May Never Know

Copyrighted by Lorna Tedder. Originally published in Third Degree of Separation.

Almost two weeks ago, and I am deep in meditation.

The Long-Awaited Honest-to-God Secret to Being Happy

I’m weary from deadlines and needing to sleep, but meditation has  become a great comforter to me. If I’m flat of my back in a yoga pose, I’ll often fall asleep, but not if I’m sitting upright. Twenty minutes in  meditation is often worth a two- hour nap, and leaves me more refreshed than sleep. I remember a time when I listened to people talk about their meditations and the images they saw, and I felt deficient because I couldn’t get to that special place. Maybe I’ve finally learned to relax and let go because now the images come and the thoughts flow.

And so I’ve pushed aside my deadlines for this night and taken myself into a midnight meditation. I am not asleep. I am watching colors and scenes and soothing my jagged edges. I’m not sure how long I’ve been meditating but later I will learn that the time is near one o’clock central when I hear the voice that says, “Get up. Now.”

It’s not a voice like anything spoken. It’s more like a fully-articulated thought. “Get up. Now. Do this.”

And then I know what I must do. I don’t have to think about it. I don’t know what it means. All I know is that I have to do this and do this now. It’s as urgent as life or death.

I’d rather go to sleep now. Or back to work. It’s cold outside. I’m tired. But I have no choice. I have to do this.

I’m to say a prayer for someone—and give it a little extra boost and in a way I’ve never considered before.

Earlier in  the  day,  I’d  gone  by  The  Rock  Shop  and bought  presents—crystal  obelisks,  ammonite  pyramids,  rose quartz, a fluorite crystal for Vicki. I’m told to include the crystal obelisks, even the ones that are already wrapped. They’re still in the car, it’s 35 degrees outside, and when I take them inside the house, they feel like chunks of ice.

I know exactly what to do. I place the obelisks in a circle on my Light Altar, as I call it. I pull the Jesus/God/Sinanda/ Lugh statue into the circle, because tonight this statue represents someone else, someone in  trouble who doesn’t know he’s in trouble. The obelisks feel like boosters to a signal. I light a tea light candle and place it within the ceramic  pyramid with its holes of stars and crescent moons and then center it in the circle. The candle has things written on the bottom. A name. Symbols.

Out of breath, I sit and watch the candle burn. I’ve rarely  seen  a steadier flame. Normally, a tea light within this pyramid  candleholder would flicker and shine prettily on the ceiling when the house is dark. Tonight it shines like a beacon and does not, for the whole  of its burning, waver once. Not once.

I can feel the power rise off of it and I send up my prayer.

The next evening, I recreate the scene. I don’t feel compelled to. I just do it. It’s like an echo of the previous night. Not anything that’s necessary. Just…an echo. The flame flickers as it usually does.

The third night, I set up the obelisks again as I begin my meditation  after midnight. I set a timer in case I should fall asleep. I still have work to do, but I need the break.

I close my eyes and relax but something jars me out of my meditation. A voice.

I open my eyes and everything around me is dark. How did it get so dark? My first thought is that I’ve fallen asleep and that it’s near morning and the timer didn’t wake me. I fumble for the lights.

It’s 12:23 in the morning. My timer hasn’t gone off yet. The  candle has burned out…or rather, went out. The candle burned for only about ten minutes. The wax at the wick has not yet cooled. It will not re-light.

The words that startled me out of my meditation were clear, as clear as any angel standing behind me might have spoken.

“It’s done.”

Whatever happened in the course of those three days, I may  never know. But I know that something changed. Some- thing important.