Septuagesima Sunday

There was snow on the ground this morning, but it was all gone by noon, a quiet rain melting it all down into the winter grass, clearing the way for more on the way overnight. Jinx and I did a fair amount of rambling, and I spent quite a bit of time examining the buds on the bushes and shrubs in the woods. The green is slumbering, but it will awake. Will Arthur ever awake? Or will his England stagger on without him, growing colder and more pecked-apart by the hour? I envy those who have legends. Here, in my haunted South, we have no more legends. We have kudzu-choked ruins and whispered tales of valor, tales that may put us in irons someday if the wrong ear hears them being repeated in reverent tones.

Very early this morning, in the deep part of the darkness, probably around two or three a.m., I gradually came awake. It was the sort of awakening that feels like surfacing after being deep in the water; surrounded by dark pressure, and then kicking and gliding up towards whatever light is above the water’s surface, and finally feeling one’s face break free of the liquid and thrust up into the breathing world.

When I came awake, I knew for certain before I opened my eyes that someone was behind me. I was lying on my back with my head turned to the left, an unusual sleep posture for me. I sensed someone there, and after I opened my eyes, I could feel him or her there at my shoulder.

For a long minute, I lay still, breathing quietly and trying to determine who who might be standing behind me, and how he/she might have gained entry to the house without alerting the dogs or my wife, and what intentions might be carried in the mind of the intruder.

And then a quiet, insistent assurance came to me, an assurance that the presence with me was not a living human being. I knew nothing else for certain while I waited, but I knew, knew that whoever was standing over my left shoulder was no longer a part of breathing, earthly existence.

The thing is, I was not afraid, not even for a moment. I had the initial thought of “Who’s here? How did he get into the house?” but there was no true alarm within me. The only sensation of…what? apprehension?…was in trying to decide if I should raise up and look around and face…whomever. And I could not bring myself to do it. I could not turn and look. It was not truly fear that prevented me from moving. It was a sense of awareness of fragility. Like coming upon a herd of deer, or a certain cloud formation, I felt that if I moved, the intruder would vanish, or leap through the window, or shout and frighten me. I wanted the intruder to stay, but I didn’t know why I wanted this.

After perhaps ten long, silent minutes, I felt the presence withdraw. Physically withdraw, as in taking a step or two back. I sensed it bend forward, as if at the waist, as if bowing or nodding or…grimacing? It stepped back again, and then I knew it was gone.

I lay there for several more minutes before I could bring myself to look over my shoulder. When I finally did,  I saw nothing but the pattern of ambient light from outside glowing on the wall.

It was some time before sleep claimed me again. I was not afraid, not nervous, not edgy. I was simply thinking about what had happened, gauging myself, asking the essential questions one asks after such experiences, taking interior inventory. But I finally did return to sleep.

When I awoke, I remembered the entire incident with considerable clarity. Over breakfast, I told Mrs. Orr about what had happened. She listened with intense interest, asking the same questions that had come to me.

Throughout the day, the incident stayed with me. I drew the memory to me, complete and perplexing, and held it and turned it over in my hands and rubbed my cheek against it, asking, asking, thinking, asking.

And after hours of thought and questions, I concluded that the presence was human. Not alive like me, but alive in a way that I am not. A strong sense that the presence had once been like me, but no longer is. This realization had ramifications, not the least of which was that it was a person who had visited me. A personality with…what? Intent? Hope? Concern? A goal?

As I turned the dark hour experience over and over in my mind, I became aware that I had perceived a mood, an emotion in the presence. What was this emotion?

Mournfulness. The presence that visited me was mournful. Sorrow or regret or loss…something like this was in the black air around it like midnight motes. I will not speculate about who the presence once was, or what he/she might have been sorrowful about. I will not think about who might have been visiting me to see me just one more time or to be in my presence just one more minute before silence or oblivion or a journey to a new heaven and new earth. I will not go so far.

I have thought of this experience all this day, the last day of January in this bleak year. And I have wondered what or who might be around me right now, unseen but vital and watching. All I know is that I was awakened in the night by a mournful and living presence that knew that I was there, that I was aware. I believe it came to me; I do not believe it merely flitted through my home by accident.

And I do not believe the presence, whoever he/she was, has forgotten me.

My mind grows weary with the number and the weight of the questions that come to me every day.

~ S.K. Orr