I am reluctant to talk much about mediumship and readings.  There is so much taboo that surrounds the practice, and there are those people who are not ethically-minded and should be barred altogether from any mention of the practice.  There also exist a few well-receptive folk who do not claim any mystical power, but who read into our sub-conscience and connect with that part of us universally affiliated with all things; all atoms, quarks, sparks that unite us.  

Dianna is one such person who uses horses to reflect back our emotional incongruence to get at the heart of what ails us.  On the morning before Bill’s burial, I asked her to meet me at the barn for a reading and what occurred over the course of that morning, left me feeling whole again for the first time in months.

Russek, Dianna’s arabian gelding, walked with me through the pasture, then turned me back and we walked again, along the length of the pasture.  He took me over to the mares and I stood face to face with Hoartie.  Then he lead me back down the line of the fence.  Four times we traversed the pasture until at last, I saw Bill walking beside me instead of the patient gelding.  And not as I knew Bill in life ten years earlier, but as he appeared before he died.  The sun shown off his head – he wore a white t-shirt and blue jean shorts.  He was taller than me (I had forgotten how much taller he was).  

Russek stopped and I stood facing out toward the gate trying to hear the message.  It came riding in on a flood of emotion, “We are equal.”  Dianna walked up behind us and said it aloud, “He knows who you really are.”  It was a subtle message, but I got it and it released the long-dormant residual self-inflicted, masculine-inspired sadness I had carried over the years.  When we broke up, Bill called me “Whore,” and I held onto this word, internalized it, beat myself up with it, and yet, it struck with such force, the fragments of it still clung to my sub-conscience.  He knows it wasn’t true.  And now, more importantly, I know.

It was what Bill showed me next that really hit home.  After he died, I sought comfort in “Song of Myself,” the poem by Walt Whitman in which he broadly declares, “[Death] ceased the moment life appeared.”  There really is no death.  And as I returned to the center of the pasture, I saw an image of a opossum’s face peaking out from beneath a blanket.  It didn’t make sense and I was hesitant to mention it to Dianna, “I see a opossum; what does that mean?”

“The fake death!” she yelled out as if just hit with some cosmic shock-wave.  I was less inclined to celebrate, and questioned her further.  “A opossum, when threatened fakes its death,” Dianna began, but the opossum also represents the notion that there really is no death in the traditional, permanent sense of the word.”  At that moment, Russek hid himself from view behind the run-in and a small pony approached.  

In a flash, I saw the childhood version of Billy, a boy I had grown to love, approaching as this pony walked up to me.  The pony was familiar, sweet, but I wasn’t sure what he had to do with my reading.  Yet, something told me, his approach meant something.

Up at the barn, Liz was unsaddling Leonard and greeted us with a smile.  Dianna asked, “Who is the new pony in with the geldings.”  Liz looked out, “Oh, that’s Billy,” she said.  And I knew then, Whitman was right.  

 

“And what do you think has become of [the dead]?

They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceased the moment life appeared.”

-Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

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