Life as it Exists…
When manifesting a thought, most tend to shy away from such ideas because they either think it is an insane premise or it is terrifying to believe there are more significant things at work in our world. I once was this person. Never in my life was I interested in immersing myself in spiritualism. If you are reading this word for the first time, spiritualism is the belief that spirits of the dead can communicate with the living. Before you think I am out of my mind, let me remind you that I was not a believer in any of this.
One day after therapy a couple of years ago, my therapist told me to find a place where I could relax, communicate with a purpose, and ask for a sign. Unsure what this meant, she directed me to try and reach out to a deceased friend or loved one; a sign could be anything personal. She gave examples of asking for colors, numbers, or animals. It sounded deranged at the moment, but I was learning to follow my intuition more. It guided me to a Sycamore tree I would generally rest my head against to drown in my thoughts. I sat there for about thirty minutes, worried about what might happen if I followed my therapist’s instructions. Finally, I thought, “What do I have to lose?” Once my curiosity took over, I put my intentions into the universe to communicate with my grandfather. My favorite color is orange, which, in hindsight, is probably not an astute request since nature duplicates this color often, but I asked for this sign anyway. About ten minutes passed, and I began feeling embarrassed and frustrated. So I decided to get up when I suddenly felt a thud on the stomach area of my shirt. I panicked as to what I was seeing and flung the bug from me. It was a Sycamore Tussock Caterpillar. They are meaty, long, white caterpillars with orange horns.
When I reached my car, I tried to reduce everything and not think of it. “Caterpillars nest in trees, not a big deal. It could have happened anywhere.” It was profound. I felt connected, yet still very much one foot out of that entire experience. I was not sure what to make of it, but it would change my relativity in life from then on.
Sycamore Tussock Caterpillar, picture not of my own, only used for a reference point.
Life over the next two years began to make more sense. Around the time of the caterpillar incident, I decided to take on a life of sobriety. The clarity and the grounded feeling I have had since I quit drinking alcohol made this journey much more intense but worthwhile. Along the way, I have assembled a wellness team consisting of an acupuncturist, therapist, life coach, personal trainer, reiki instructor, and a medical massage therapist. It has allowed me to understand better the synchronicities in life that occur daily and made me more aware of my surroundings. It has made me more present, giving me a different world overview. It has allowed me to see many parts of our macrocosm and interact with people I would have never thought to communicate with.
Fast forward to Sunday, July 7, 2024. I was standing in Little Lameshur Bay in St. John, USVI, with my friend, Serena. We had just had an overwhelming conversation about family life and trauma, as one would in a serene place like St. John. If you had to understand our friendship, we typically begin our conversations with thought-provoking questions, and the topics always continue down a wormhole of stimulating ideas that develop into epiphanies—a very philosophical approach for two individuals who consider themselves to be complete morons. After our talk, Serena swam away down the shoreline to find a tide pool to see some of her favorite marine life. I turned away from the beach and looked out into the ocean. I was emotional after discussing how my grandfather's life transpired and, ultimately, how his passions were what he perished from.
I thought back to the day of the caterpillar two years prior, almost to the day. At that moment, I decided to put my intentions out there again, calling for my grandfather to see if he was with me. Again, I requested the color orange. It, again, took about ten minutes when I heard a loud whipping over my head. It sounded like a sail taking on the wind. The sound lasted a few seconds, then came crashing into the water beside me. I turned to my left to see what happened, and a Brown Pelican floated to the water's surface. The back of its neck was a burnt orange color. It was another overwhelming moment, but I felt calmer since I had years to process these emotions. That moment was validating, knowing that maybe I was not out of my mind. I may have started to understand the energy that surrounds me. However, I still was not entirely convinced that it was not a coincidence. Something told me to grab my camera, and I would go on to photograph this pelican feeding for over an hour.
Brown Pelican, Little Lameshur Bay 2024.
Profound things always occur in moments of vulnerability. Unbeknownst to me, my grandfather had a collection of photographs of nature and him in nature. I never thought he was into some things that I was, but in hindsight, it makes sense, considering I am his kin. On Friday, August 2, 2024, I had gotten access to a cloud drive of my grandfather’s photos. I started to see similarities in the photographs we had taken. I scrolled through thousands of images when I came across one he had taken in California in 1990.
Sometimes, synchronicities can be terrifying, but you learn to embrace them. I was born in Riverside, California, in 1992. My grandfather passed away in 2020. I never knew my grandfather loved photography or enjoyed taking photos, for that matter. For my grandfather to take a picture of a Brown Pelican in California, thirty-four years before me, standing in a body of water where I would put out my intentions requesting his presence, these locations are thirty-four hundred miles apart, maybe the most profound moment in my life. It still sounds ridiculous to say any of this, but I no longer feel insane for being able to experience this moment. Because it is a discovery and a validation, my fears are no longer a fear. I can receive this as an affirmation that the trajectory for my growth is linear.
Brown Pelican photographed by Ron Gurnsey, California 1990.
