Indicators By Laura J. Oliver

“I have a story to tell you,” I text my friend David as I pull up in front of my house after the Washington College Lifelong Learners pitch session. We’d both just promoted classes we are teaching in January, but I don’t elaborate—I just hit “send,” then wonder if he will believe this story.

David teaches a course on Near Death Experiences. It’s a fascinating class that fills to capacity. The course I’m teaching uses writing to heal grief, loss and to get unstuck. The people in my class would find comfort in David’s because the commonality of near-death experiences is that life continues for all of us. Still, while death may be an adventure for those leaving, it creates a gaping hole for those with a later departure date.

To assuage this grief, we have been looking for ways to communicate with the dead for centuries. Thomas Alva Edison worked unsuccessfully to invent a “spirit phone,” and seances were hugely popular with Victorians. Today, researchers at the Universities of Michigan, Virginia, and Arizona study the science of consciousness itself—looking at evidence that it may not be generated by, nor stored in the brain and may not be dependent upon anything biologic to exist.

And most recently, AI-generated representations of those who have died have been programmed to supply conversational answers to questions in the voice of the dead to give the illusion that they are still with us. While those using this method for solace say it helps, it’s still fake.

Zircon is not diamond.

In my experience, however, you don’t need the artifice. You need only open-minded willingness.

For instance, on Mondays, the day I protect from editing other peoples’ work in order to write my own, I always invite any souls that perhaps love me still into my heart, mind, and office. Like my beautiful maternal grandmother, who died when I was three. And my mother. She was a poet, and I feel certain she gathers others near to me to inspire stories, memories, images, and awe. She was big on awe. And I don’t need AI to connect.

Sitting at my sunny desk overlooking the street, I feel into my gratitude, and often, in response, a buzz of energy, like low-current electricity, travels down my right arm. When life pins you down against impossible odds (heal my child, deepen my love, write something new and meaningful every week…), I call in the cavalry. That slight buzz is the thunder of hoofbeats. From the other side of the ridge, from the other side of this life, reinforcements are coming.

So, I was thinking about this as I closed the miles between Kent Narrows and the Chesapeake Bay Bridge after the pitch session that dark December night. How utterly grateful I am that spirit sends assistance when requested, narratives for teaching, and stories to tell.

As the transom arm of three green arrows appeared, indicating all lanes of the bridge were open heading home, I said aloud, just for fun, “Hey, guys! If it isn’t too much trouble, you could send me a sign that I’m not making this up—not inventing your presence and help.”

I felt as you do when you roll the dice in a game you don’t have to win. Playful, happy. There is positive energy in play—and there should be more of that in our lives. Ask Leah-dog.

“Maybe,” I said, casting about for ways to communicate, “you could make the little red person-shaped light on the dashboard come on–—the one that indicates there is a passenger aboard not wearing a seatbelt.” I understand how some of you (yes, you, Dr. Viviani) will think about this.

Kidding/not kidding.

Stay with me now.

The moment I said the words, the seatbelt indicator light popped on. Without a sound, it just lit up. A little red person glowed cheerfully from the dashboard. I couldn’t believe it because that is the nature of miracles, of answered prayers. When things unseen are seen, when requests are granted, our first impulse is to search for any explanation other than that we were just given what we asked for.

How frustrating this must be for those who attend us, I thought. You asked. We answered. And holy cow, have a look, everyone. She’s pulled onto the shoulder to search the service manual  for “seatbelt indicators.”

So, I didn’t do that. Instead, utterly charmed, I just laughed. “Thank you for the bonus points– for not only listening but letting me know you’re listening.”

I hit the base of the westbound span, that gradual rise in elevation where I always look for the mouth of the Magothy, the river of my childhood—where I first realized this is not real. This car, this body, the meeting I just left, the house I’m returning to—time and endings–all as transitory as stage props. And that what is real does not end.

I couldn’t see the river in the dark, but I didn’t have to see it to know it was there. I gave myself over then to negotiating three lanes of bridge traffic. And the light went out.

Twenty minutes from home, I was looking forward to a fire in the fireplace and a glass of wine by the hearth. I had a story to tell. To myself, anyway. I wasn’t sure I would tell you. But imagining telling you, as I merged onto Rowe Boulevard, I said, “I’m reluctant to ask, but if it’s not too much trouble… could you do it again?

Like…right….right…. now!””

And just like that, the seatbelt indicator light popped on. I couldn’t stop smiling as I pulled in front of the house and turned off the engine. I picked up my phone: I have a story to tell you.

I have relationships to deepen this year, dreams to realize, people to love better than I have, but when I receive the help I have asked for, I’m not going to explain it away.

May curiosity and open-mindedness only grow faith.

And may the evidence prove coincidence, at least sometimes, is grace.

 

Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.