One of the things I enjoy most about my new mediumship office is that the drive home takes me past the cemetery where my grandparents are buried. Managing my energy is crucial to my work. Sometimes I’m left with intense feelings at the end of the day—but my most recent cemetery visit was after a long day of readings that left me with an empty feeling.
Giving too much energetically can leave me with the sense of wanting to feel sad, to cry and release something, or wanting to be joyful in the good work I’ve done but not fully able to feel it.
It’s these emotionally void times that I can most use a stop-by to remember who I am and fill myself back up with me-ness. To come back to myself.
I park by the Mount of Olives sign and walk to the grave. Even though I’ve been here hundreds of times, it’s challenging to find because of its uniform flatness. I sit at the bottom of the stone on the ground, which is surprisingly comfortable for a 40-degree day. The sky is clear and sunny. There are always groundskeepers here, but they give me plenty of space, so the place has a solitary but not altogether abandoned feeling.
I consider what this says about me, that this is how I comfort myself. I question if it’s strange that I’m sitting here alone. I hope no one comes to visit today and finds me sitting here like this. I think I must look like an overly dramatic teenager wishing to cry or feel something.
I touch my fingers to my lips and then to each side of the headstone and close my eyes. I send a silent query to my grandmother. If I were to put this thought into words, it might sound like, “can I see you?” As I wait for a response, it reminds me of when I was a kid and would get up the nerve to knock on a neighbor's door and ask if they could come out to play. Except for my Grandmother—Grammy—always answers. She is always available when I call on her.
I feel a warmth come over me as I sit with my eyes closed. The sun feels like it's baking me. I see bright orange beneath my eyelids, changing to a swirl of purples and greens. Then, I smell her. Just briefly, just for a second. It’s so quick that I could tell myself I imagined it. But we’ve been through this too many times for me to believe it’s my imagination. I smell my grandmother's skin, tanned and sunkissed; it is the most comforting smell I can imagine. The smell transports me to a childhood memory of snuggling with her at the beach. Wrapped in a towel and my grandmother’s arms, freezing from the ocean and feeling the sun's warmth.
I experience the smell a total of three times on this visit. Each time is only a second long, a flash, but that’s all I need. On the second time, a thought pops into my head—“liquid gold.”
I know my grandmother has put these words in my mind, but at first, I’m not sure why. It’s like a puzzle to be solved. I know the only way to unravel these puzzles is to sit curiously and allow the answer to come.
Perhaps I am smelling the sun? I wish I could hold on to it. I think about how much my grandmother loved the sun—remembering how she used to swim in the ocean with her golden hair covered in a swim cap.
Then it hits me. I remember when I first heard the phrase liquid gold. It was after the birth of my first child. I was hospitalized much longer than expected, recovering from a life-threatening illness. Because of my condition, the doctor suggested I get a blood transfusion, but I refused. They tell me I will not be able to breastfeed, and I don't believe them. A lactation consultant arranges for me to have a costly breast pump because my son is in the NICU and unable to leave. I try to pump so that my milk will come in, but all I get is this strange yellow liquid that doesn’t look like milk, or so I think. The first few times, I was embarrassed and threw it out, not wanting to admit what I fear is true because I didn’t get the blood transfusion. I was too weak for this.
Luckily a kind nurse catches me on the third try, and I explain the situation to her. That this is all I’ve been able to produce, this yellow liquid, something is wrong. Her eyes light up as she shakes her head. “This is liquid gold,” she says. “This is precious.” She goes on to explain colostrum, usually golden yellow in color. This concentrated milk is sometimes called liquid gold because of its coloring and high nutritional value to newborns. The yellow color of colostrum comes from fat-soluble colored pigments called carotenoids, which act as antioxidants. A revelation, what I thought was a failure is precious.
I sit at the cemetery and consider how I question myself and everything I have doubted myself about in the past. Recounting how I’ve tried to change, assumed I was wrong, or needed fixing.
I think of that nutrient-rich liquid gold I’ve tossed out like garbage, not knowing what I had.
And I think of my speech at my grandmother's funeral almost ten years ago.
I still have the speech committed to memory, so I know the first few lines.
“Grammy was so warm.
You know how some people can light up a room?
Well, she could light up another person.
Make you realize your potential and bring out your best qualities.”
And she’s still doing it, I realize. She’s still helping me to accept myself by loving me unconditionally and encouraging me to do the same. I feel her holding me at that moment in the cemetery and walking beside me daily.
I know she has conjured the perfect memory to make her point, connecting with me through this smell of sunshine in a perfectly placed synchronicity.
This is the love and infinite intelligence of the spirit world in motion.
It’s the magic of the electric curtain, and I want to soak up every drop of it. I won’t let it be wasted. Each time I question myself, I try and remember this, and I’m sharing it with you now, hoping you’ll do the same.
We are all connected, and the world needs your authenticity. Finding ways to fill yourself with your own light sends a vibration of love to everyone you encounter.
Your uniqueness is precious, liquid gold, sunshine, and light.
With love,
Sheryl
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