Soul Song


Dear Seamus,

When I was a young girl of about five or six I wanted to be a tap dancer. I pressed thumb tacks into the soles of my black patent leather shoes. In the little courtyard outside my parents’ bedroom I practiced for hours at a time, making up my own little dances.

This was to be the beginning of my love affair with the performing arts.

At fourteen I joined the Pam Dunn Young People’s Theatre. On Saturdays in a leafy suburb in Wollongong, children of various ages would gather for classes in her home. We learned from a seasoned professional, the craft of acting. She introduced me to many classical and modern pieces of theatre. I performed the ‘All the World’s a Stage’ monologue from Shakespeare play As You Like It for one of her popular drama recitals.

At high school I auditioned for a part in the 1989 production of Brigadoon. As it was an all-girls college we played the male roles too. I successfully landed one of the principal character roles. Jeff Douglas was a New Yorker who liked hunting and drinking.

On opening night as the curtain was going up on the first scene, my heart was beating so loudly I thought the whole audience could hear it. Yet the thrill and exhilaration of becoming a character and telling a story was intoxicating to me.

At sixteen I knew little of being a middle aged man who liked guns and whiskey but I must have been convincing. I won the annual Arcadians Musical Theatre encouragement award for best principal character in a musical.

For work experience I chose to work in the local theatre. They were preparing for a production and I was able to partake in everything from set design to lighting and assisting in rehearsals. I loved it so much I stayed on as a volunteer usher for the next eight years. After we took the tickets and showed people to their seats we were allowed to creep into empty back row seats and watch the shows. Sitting in the darkness I was immersed in another world as a tale unfolded before me on the stage.

I longed to be an actress and for five years after I finished school I rang the National Institute of Dramatic Art and requested application forms for their annual auditions and intake. I never filled out the forms. I was riddled with self-doubt. I constantly compared myself to the glamorous actresses of the day and in my mind I just did not measure up.

Throughout the years I dabbled in things here and there but mostly I got my fix by going to live performances. I looked up at the players telling a story on the stage and it was the one place that I felt I truly belonged.

Almost ten years ago I started a job for a telco in Sydney. Beginning in the training group with me was a young New Zealander called Seamus. He was an aspiring Opera singer and had come to Sydney to pursue some training and hone his voice. He was charismatic and kind and infectiously happy. We would often hear him singing on his bathroom breaks. Probably something about the acoustics. The song would float out onto the call centre floor and seem to dance around us. He would emerge to spontaneous applause and break into his characteristic honking laugh.

We enjoyed many after work drinks together and I listened enthusiastically to his aspirations for a professional career in Opera. He told me about a young woman, also a singer, whom he had fallen in love with. He confided in me that he wanted to marry her. I was delighted and we raised a glass in a moment of happiness, revelling in the excitement of an incredible future unfolding.

Several years went by and although we moved on to other things, we stayed in touch. One day I received word from his wife that he had been involved in a car accident. Within the week he was gone.
I pondered on his life and who he was. He was inspiring because he lived and breathed his heart’s desires. He did not leave this physical reality feeling unfulfilled or wondering “what if”?

He was the only Seamus I knew before you were born. If personal attributes are associated with a name then you are in good company. He was warm and charming, with an unfaltering courage to pursue his dreams.
Last night I took Nanny and a family friend to a performance by The 7 Sopranos. Seven beautiful women, resplendent in ball gowns with angelic voices. They took me on a wondrous journey, drawing out memories and emotions.

As their other worldly harmonies glided over the lyrics of “Somewhere over the Rainbow” I thought of my friend Seamus. His life may have been cut short but it was a life rich with dreams coming true.
I have always been a storyteller, it was written on my heart long before I was born. Now my heart writes to you and my soul’s desire has found its voice.

Dare to dream my darling and let nothing hinder your passions. There will be examples all around you of people living their dreams, no matter how big or how small.
Your heart will sing to you and listen you must, for then you can share your divine song with the world.

“Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue,
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true.”

Music and lyrics by H. Arlen and E.Y. Harburg


Vast Deep of Diversity


Dear Seamus,

When I was pregnant with you we had quite a menagerie of animals in our yard. We had five sheep, two goats and our dog Rex. The largest was a cross bred ram. Whenever I waddled through our front gate he would trot towards me and follow me to the front door. His curiosity and beautiful eyes won my heart. Your Father had been working on farms for the best part of ten years. He told me “When dealing with livestock you never, ever give them names. It personalises the animal and forms attachments”.

Much to your Fathers chagrin I named him Henry.

As it got closer to your due date and I struggled with my mobility, your Dad was nervous that Henry would bowl me over one day so along with the little mob, Henry got moved to an empty paddock across the road.

Each evening when the heat of the day was subsiding, I took the vegetable scraps bucket to feed them. I would lean against the fence and watch them enjoy their snacks. They were all different in personality. One always stood back looking nervous. Another would charge the other sheep, including Henry, to get access to the best picks. Then there was the sheep that would only eat scraps of bread or toast and nothing else. A fussy eater! I saw such diversity in their personalities.

From as long back as I can recall, I was always drawn to what was different. If there was a contrast to my own life and experiences, I was immediately inquisitive. At high school I enjoyed visiting with a certain group of girls. They were from various backgrounds, mostly European but with a smattering of South American countries represented too. As I approached them I could smell the coconut oil which they had rubbed on their legs to tan. On the seats I could see containers of food that somebody’s Mum had made for them to share. They would smile and invite me to sit down. I always felt so welcomed.

When I was twenty-five my Nana offered to buy me a ticket to London and a UK working holiday visa. When she was in her sixties she began to spend six months of each year in Somerset, Southern England. She had travelled extensively during her life to many different countries and wanted to extend an offer to her three grandchildren to have an experience overseas. I arrived in London in the summer of 1999. I was lucky enough to get a job almost immediately and spent almost a year living and working in a hotel in Westminster, just one block away from Westminster Abbey.

After a visit to the famous Edinburgh Festival and a tour taking in William Wallace’s stomping ground and the Isle of Skye, I decided to move to Scotland. It was colder than London but much less gloomy. I recall many a sunny blue sky as I walked along snow covered streets. I shared a toasty Edinburgh flat with two strapping Scotsman. They initially had to repeat almost everything they said because I found it so hard to understand them. As far as they were concerned I was the one with the strange enunciation! So they started speaking a little slower, and I began picking up the nuances and inflections of the Scottish accent. Our diversities met somewhere in the middle.

When I backpacked through Europe I would cross the border from one country to another and immediately there was a new language, currency and culture. I enjoyed the challenge of trying to speak the basics of a language foreign to me. I learned through trial and error the cultural norms and loved sampling the local cuisine. Just as I began to get the hang of things, I would be off to the next country.

In the two years I spent living and travelling through Great Britain, Europe, Ireland and China I met many friends that I still keep in touch with to this day.

Diversity is an incredible gift of this world we live in. It can exist on various scales. Diversity can be as sweeping and enveloping as immersing yourself in a different culture in another country. Or you can see it in a small mob of sheep. Diversity can be delicately subtle or eye-openingly obvious. It is everywhere that you look.

Diversity is to be celebrated Seamus as it offers us so much. If we are here to have a physical experience for the expansion of our souls then keep your eyes and ears open to all that is different.

Diversity is just another point of view, another expression of the divine. A life energy wanting its own expression. However the most important thing to remember is that behind those variations and beyond the distinctions, we are one. Enjoy learning about the assortment that is on offer with detached curiosity and appreciation.

Be aware of this when you are experiencing others purely on the level of differences. See beneath the culture, the religion and the race and behold the human.

Look into the eyes of another and note not their colour or shape, but have the perspicacity to see the life force. At our very core we are the same and we are love.


”You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop”. Rumi

A Rose is a Rose


Dear Seamus,

I am not much of a gardener but I seem to have an affinity with roses. It may be because I am their namesake, or it could be because they are sturdy glorious plants that are not easily killed. When we moved into the farmhouse I discovered a few wild rose bushes along the fence line. I donned some gloves and took to the largest rose bush with secateurs. I relied on instinct as I removed some of the tangled branches. I periodically stood back to observe my handy work before trimming a little more from here and there. I was paid handsomely for my work when a number of buds appeared shortly afterwards.

I watered the rose bush and checked on the progress of the buds. One morning, to my great delight, a stunning red rose appeared. I was so excited!

At first the crimson petals were tightly bound together above a long thorn covered stem, as though guarding a wondrous secret. Slowly they began to open over the coming days. Before long it stood fully opened, brandishing magnificence. Tall and elegant as it bathed in the sunshine.

I carefully trimmed it from the bush with a few other buds. You insisted on carrying them to the house in your bucket. I warned you about the thorns but you are a curious kinaesthetic learner. I kissed your pricked fingers better and your briary run-in was quickly forgotten.

I loved looking at those roses sitting on the dining table, resplendent in my favourite vase.

When they began to look a little tired I added sugar to some fresh water. They revived for my viewing pleasure for a few more days. Then, as roses do during their life cycle, they began to shed some petals.

As I stood looking at the petals sitting on the table I recalled an email my friend Juliet sent me.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, my Oncologist advised I was to begin chemotherapy immediately to try and contain the disease. After four cycles of chemotherapy I was to have a radical mastectomy.

On the eve of the surgery I sat down with my laptop to check my emails. I was feeling nervous but mostly I was feeling sick from all the chemotherapy. By this time I was sporting only a handful of hairs on my head and my eyebrows and eyelashes were barely hanging in there. I was literally shedding my skin.

Juliet had wanted to make the trip from Sydney to be at the hospital but commitments prevented her. Instead she sent me a beautiful email. She reminded me to experience everything in all its shades and contrasts, knowing that it would not alter who I really was, in my heart. She told me that she would send angels in her place to watch over me and ease the process. Then she told me that a rose is no less a rose just because one of its petals has dropped.

The next morning I allowed myself to feel everything without hindrance. The fear, the anxiety, the strange enveloping calm and the hope for the future. True to her word, Juliet sent some heavenly guardians. As I sat alone and gowned up in pre-op waiting for the surgeon, I found myself surrounded by eight men of differing ages and ethnicities. It was hard to make them out with clarity but I could see they were dressed in white. They stood, four on each side, with their hands on the railing of the hospital bed. The doctor came in and asked if I was alright sitting there by myself. He must have thought it odd to find me with a smile on my face.

“Yes, thank you. I am fine”. I was not alone. I was in the company of love.

Soon afterwards I awoke from surgery and one of my petals was gone. Yet I still emerged a rose.

A modification to my physical form did not take away from the very essence of who I was. Just as the petals lay on our dining room table, the flower they came from was still a rose. Even when all the petals had fallen off it was no less a rose.

There is an incredible reality that is unseen yet lives through us. It is the spirit within that grows the petals. The soul is the marrow that forms the stem and the thorns. Our heart flows through the roots.

Don’t identify purely with your body Seamus, it is not who you are. You are breathing your body, your body is not breathing you.
Long after the petals have fallen you will still be the rose. A magnificent flower in a heavenly garden.

“What was said to the rose that made it open, was said to me here in my heart”Rumi

The Miracle is Now


Dear Seamus,

Your birth coincided with a terminal cancer diagnosis for me. Amidst the fear, shock and broken dreams I heard a quiet voice that assured me everything was going to be ok. I chose to believe in those words and I made a decision to reach for a miracle.

I have had a strong focus since that time to be healed. I have read many books that have inspired me, educated me, soothed me and provoked serious questioning. I have dabbled in vegetarianism. I have meditated. I have chosen to eat a lot of chocolate with as much joy as possible. I have written letters to you so that you may know me if I am not here with you as you grow into an adult.

I have prayed and been prayed for. I have tearfully admitted my fears to others and listened with love to theirs. I have enjoyed beautiful lightness with a soaring, joy filled heart. I have crashed into the depths of despair where bed is the only safe place I know.

I have been hospitalised with severe physical side effects of disease with an innocent astonishment. I have panicked and worried about little aches and pains.

I have happily day dreamed about future events of various times in your life in which I am present. I have gone to bed some nights fearing that it will be my last.

All the while I have desired a miracle. Something in me knew it with such certainty that the largest and most ferocious fears could not distinguish its vibrant little flame.

My body is up against a barrage of multiple medications which makes me more susceptible to fatigue. My mind and my drive, however, sometimes rage ahead with a determination that requires a younger fitter physical form. So from time to time I am faced with feeling burned out and exhausted and I find it difficult to do the simplest of tasks. I am reminded of my physical restrictions. Let me tell you darling, I do not like it one bit. Sometimes I can be graceful and accepting and other times I am frustrated and furious.

Two days ago I sat on the edge of the bed in my underwear, too weary to go any further in dressing myself after a shower. Only a week ago I had spent a wonderful weekend in Sydney, attending a workshop and catching up with friends. I had felt invigorated and energetic, happy to enjoy the company of friends I rarely see, along with some new ones. Now here I was, head in my hands, sobbing. You stood in the doorway and watched me intently before disappearing down the hallway. You reappeared with a small container in your hands. As a gift you had been given a large tube of smarties and I had put the last of them into a plastic dish and kept them on the top shelf of the fridge.

Your little hands fumbled with the clasps but you managed to get the lid off. You tilted your head to the side and walked towards me. You leaned on my leg and carefully picked out a chocolate. With big blue eyes gazing up at me you pushed it against my mouth and nodded.

“Choga”? You nodded again. I laughed and accepted the smartie.

So I just sat there with tear stained cheeks as you fed me smarties. You had an incredibly intuitive sense of the situation and proceeded to nurture me. You proved to me that it is indeed a Universal truth that chocolate makes everything better.

Something else became crystal clear to me. I had been seeking and reaching for a miracle of healing, yet in that moment it was so obvious that the miracle was happening now.

A moment of sharing is a miracle. One human being showing love to another is a miracle. That moment of feeling overwhelmed and tired is a miracle. The fact I am able to have the occasional crappy day two years after a terminal diagnosis is the miracle.

I am the miracle, you are the miracle. The miracle is now.

With gratitude I took down my vision boards and gave them to God (and the recycling bin). I have stared at that blank wall several times now, feeling tiny sparks of excitement about what is to come into my life next.

Sometimes we ask for a miracle and become so busy co-creating it and visualising it that we forget to simply put out the welcome mat and turn the kettle on. The miracle will come. It may appear to be late or disguised as something else that you never expected, but it will come.

Seamus, never hesitate to ask for a miracle. Your only job after that is to keep your eyes and heart open, for miracles are everywhere.

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle” – Albert Einstein

A Vision of Home

Walter Wick

Dear Seamus,

When you were a young baby I tried to introduce you to books. I would prop you up on my lap and leaf through a little children’s book. You would give me about twenty seconds of your attention before you began to wriggle and whimper. I tried all kinds of books, from Diary of a Wombat to Winnie the Pooh to a six page soft cloth version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. You were simply not interested.

On a visit to your Grandparents house, Grandma gave you some books to celebrate your first birthday. I explained to her that you had no real interest in books as yet but Grandma insisted on sitting next to your pram and opening up one of the books.

As most children do to their parents, you proved me wrong.

Your eyes lit up as Grandma opened the large hardcover. The pages were thick cardboard and brightly covered. They were filled with animals and objects. You pointed at each image with great excitement and Grandma could hardly keep up as you tried to turn the pages. Grandma was most pleased that it was she that opened the door to your literary fascination. A special moment and memory for you both.

You have now fallen in love with books and mostly they fall into my lap at least once a day. You delight in the shared experience of reading a book.

There are countless books at Nanny’s house too but your favourite is a photographic I Spy style book by Walter Wick. The first time I saw it I picked it up to casually flick through the pages. I found myself half an hour later, still captivated and trying to spot objects in each picture. Alongside each image was a panel containing a list of things to find.

A carriage, a cork, a chicken, three forks.

I would search and search in the picture for the objects. Some of them were easily located but others were harder to find. The chicken might be printed on a ball and the carriage might have been made out of sugared lollies. You needed to think outside of the square, or what was obvious for you. However the most fascinating part was that when you finally found something on the list, it was impossible to un-see it. It made me wonder how I could have possibly missed it the first time. They were there the whole time.

This is reflective of my spiritual endeavours.

Anita Moorjani uses the analogy of using a torch in a warehouse when recalling her near death experience. Your torch focuses on various things with its small focused beam of light. Then the lights in the warehouse get switched on and you suddenly become aware of the countless objects that are there, that you just couldn’t see. Because you couldn’t see them does not mean that they are not there. Even after the light is switched off and the warehouse disappears back into the darkness, you know it is there.

You cannot un-see what you have seen.

I have spent the past six years reading various spiritual texts and rebuilding my belief system. Many times I have felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath me. Not only that, but that the floorboards had been ripped up and the very foundations of my belief system opened for inspection.

It comes down to the manner and grace in which you allow this to happen.

Do you cling to the old foundations or do you dare to tear it all down and rebuild a new home?
Do you have the faith to renovate because you have seen another house in which you can reside? Or do you stay and merely draw the curtains and bolt the door.
Even as you baton down the hatches in your old home, you cannot un-see what you have seen.

Seamus, allow your spiritual eyes to see into the beyond. Fear not your ever expanding range of vision.
Your true home is within. Your real residence has no need for physical sight, for you dwell in the heart of God.

“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart”. Helen Keller

Divine Melodies

Music man BW

Dear Seamus,

I have always loved music. You were about three or four months old when I noticed you too loved music. The first time I became aware of this we were driving into town for an appointment. A song came on the radio and you began to mimic the notes and have your own little sing-a-long. It was such a delight to listen to. It is a daily occurrence in our household to listen to music on the iPod. You have your favourite songs which you repeatedly request until we turn them on. One of your favourites is “Chandelier” by Sia. You love getting up close to the speaker and pointing at it in excitement.

Music is such a beautiful way to experience your emotions and it can connect us so strongly to memories.

My earliest musical memory is sitting between my Father and Nana in her farm ute. I must have been about 4 years old. We had been on a trip into town and were returning to my Nana’s 100 acre property in rural NSW. It was nearing dusk and I could see the wide open farmland whizzing by and smell the freshness of the descending evening. A well-worn Neil Diamond cassette was playing softly. Suddenly we pulled onto the side of the road and there was an urgency in the conversation. My father instructed me to stay in the car as they both got out.

Up on my knees looking through the back window, I watched them make their way towards a fenced paddock. A flock of galahs were on the other side and all but one of them flew away. It was pacing back and forth frantically. That’s when I noticed a bird stuck in the barbed wire fence. My father and his mother sharing a pair of fencing gloves, slowly approached the trapped bird as its distressed mate watched on. Together they worked to untangle the bird’s wing.

As Sweet Caroline serenaded me, I saw the freed bird and its mate fly away to join the other Galahs in the trees. My Father and Nana watched on. It is such a beautiful memory. Years later I went with my Aunty to a Neil Diamond concert and the memory came flooding back. The colours of twilight outlining the birds as they flew away. The happiness and satisfaction on the faces of my Father and Grandmother as they climbed back into the car. My sense of childhood wonder and feelings of love and security as I sat nestled between them for the rest of the journey home.
Music has a way of marking poignant moments for us. It is also an incredible vehicle to allow us to express our emotions.

John Butler recently said in an interview; “Music for me is a kind of diary entry, it’s how I relate to the world; it’s how I express how I feel about the world and all the things that are going on inside me”

It is so many things. It is therapy. It is expression. It is a universal language.

Singer Billy Joel said; “I think music in itself is healing. It’s an explosive expression of humanity. It’s something we are all touched by. No matter what culture we’re from, everyone loves music”

I always loved the idea of being able to sing. However just because I can’t doesn’t mean that I don’t! In one of my many incarnations I did a stint as a Karaoke hostess. I’m quite certain I made some ears bleed but my vocal inadequacies were a great way to get the party started. Someone would inevitably down a glass of Dutch courage and volunteer to pry the microphone from my sweaty grasp.

Whilst singing was not my forte, dancing most certainly was. As a child I adored the escapism of dancing. It was when I felt complete happiness and ultimate freedom. I found a whole new world idolising musicians. They became a great fascination to me. I yearned for a life of musical creativity.

I spent many years of my twenties in nightclubs. I loved everything about the experience. The darkness, the loud music, the anonymity, the freedom to dance, the liberation from self-consciousness and the connectedness with complete strangers. I would dance for hours and make my way home when the sun was coming up, my feet aching. I would feel a dread about returning to the ‘real world’ of which I felt I did not have a place.

Seamus, I would love you to learn a musical instrument. It can another way for you to express yourself. I gave you the Happy Party Band pack for your first birthday. I’m not quite sure what you are naturally drawn to yet. You have given the drum, maracas and xylophone equal attention. I usually end up with the recorder or the tambourine in our collaborations.

I believe that music gives us the same gifts as silence. Music provides an extra dimension and an expansiveness that can only be duplicated in stillness. Silence is an incredible conduit for the unspeakable language of the soul and music is its voice. Be fluent in it.

“Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything”Plato

The Ruby of Life


Dear Seamus,

We seem to spend a good deal of time desiring and applying ways to live a good life. We don’t often give thought to experiencing a good death. A few weeks ago I was gifted my very first encounter of witnessing death and I must tell you, that it was beautiful.

This time last year your Father came home from a camping trip with a baby Kangaroo. He has had experience hand rearing Kangaroos in the past and it seemed that each time he had a new human baby, he managed to end up with an orphaned joey soon after. He handed me a reusable supermarket shopping bag, which was her makeshift pouch. Two shiny little eyes blinked up at me from underneath one of his flannelette shirts. It was love at first sight.

I spent many early mornings that winter heating two bottles of formula. Sometimes I juggled feeding two babies at once, depending on how hungry you both were.

I named her Ruby, Ruby Roo, and she was a much loved part of our family. As she grew she spent more and more time out of her pouch. Trying to get her accustomed to the normal life of a Kangaroo, we would put her outside in the back yard each morning so she would begin to eat grass and drink water. However she quickly discovered the doggy door and it became common for Ruby to appear in the kitchen where like you, she enjoyed inspecting the bins.

She was completely independent of her pouch when we moved to the farm a few months ago, so she happily relived her days as a tiny joey when your Dad put her into a large hessian sack to transport her to our new home. She loved the wide open spaces and while occasionally she could be seen hopping around in one of the paddocks, she mostly stayed close to the house.
I discovered some amazing wild rose bushes alongside the long driveway and Ruby would often keep me company while I pruned them beneath a sunny autumn sky. You loved the tree lined walk to the letterbox and Ruby would bounce along with us to check for mail.

Perhaps to Ruby you were another kangaroo and just like brother and sister, I would be called upon to sort out your tiffs. You would pull her tail and she would box your chest with her claws. However I did wonder if Ruby thought she was a chicken! She was usually found in their company as they scratched around the yard or had a rest underneath the bushes in the front yard.

One morning we discovered her lying in the sun along the side of the house. She lifted her head only to put it back down again. She flinched when you approached her but she didn’t get up which I thought was very unusual. I could see that she was not well. Your Dad and I coaxed her up to have some water and she moved around lethargically, smelling the grass. We assumed she must have eaten something that did not agree with her and that it would probably pass through her system.

She was not quite herself over the next few days. However she was regularly grazing on the lawn and I took that to be a promising sign of her improving health. It was lunchtime on a Wednesday and I realised I had not seen her all morning. When I mentioned this to your Dad he said he had done a lap of the house yard earlier but couldn’t find her. My heart sank but I hoped for the best and pictured her resting under a tree in one of paddocks, sure she would return that evening.

It was late afternoon when I decided to take you with me for a walk to see if we could find her. My hope that she was fine had been replaced by the desire to find her so she didn’t spend a night out in the cold. As we walked past the cattle yard the western sky was brushed with pinks and oranges. It was then I noticed her little frame lying on the ground near the storage shed. My tears started as I walked towards her. I knelt down and saw that her chest was rising and falling. She was frail and very ill but she was still alive.

You watched me with great fascination as I cried all the way back to the house to tell your Father. He carried her into our garage and made her comfortable on an old lambskin, which she had slept on in her pouch as a joey. I covered her with a blanket to keep her warm.

Just as she had shared her life with ours, I realised that I had an amazing opportunity to bear witness to her death. As I sat beside her I was so aware of the joy she had brought to our family. I gently placed my hand on her and could feel her heart beating. I literally felt her life force and marvelled at how lovely she was to look at. Her pulse cycled from weak to strong and back again. Several times I thought she was going to die but she would take a big breath and her heartbeat would resume vigorously.

An hour or more passed. As the darkness descended outside the fluorescent light in the shed became brighter. The air felt heavy and frosty but my hand was warm against her fur.

In the final stage, after being still for so long, Ruby began moving her head forward slowly. She lifted her paws as she used to when she would come to me for a scratch. Then her head tilted back as though she was looking up even though her eyes were non responsive. I was reminded of a book I had read by David Kessler called “Visions, Trips and Crowded Rooms” about experiences of the dying. Was Ruby experiencing her own vision of what was to come as she left her physical body and hopped into the afterlife?

As her heartbeat finally faded away beneath my hand, I felt deeply humbled.

Seamus, a gorgeous little Kangaroo gave me such a special gift. With her passing she took with her any lingering fears I had of dying. In her wake she left me marvelling at the grace and peacefulness of her departure. She set me free.

The fear of death and dying is a veil obstructing the truth. Death is merely a transition. Release your fears. There is only life. Always and ever more.

“There is no “death.” Life goes on forever and ever. Life is. You simply change form”- Conversations with God: Book 2