The day I left Germany forever, my mom accompanied me to the airport. We were both still surrounded by the great energy from her Reiki-2 initiation two days previous, and were bathing in joy and laughter.

When the moment arrived where I actually had to disappear through the gate into the airplane, we — a 61year old and a 39year old woman — suddenly had watery eyes.

There was a last, long, deep hug, and some kisses. I had a very heavy feeling, almost painful, which I had never experienced before. It came from just saying "good-bye" -- and I had done that many times before.
My fake smile of confidence could impress nobody, but in both of our eyes was the unmistakable language of love and deep connectedness.

Every other day I called her to report what I had discovered, learned or screwed up in my new chosen homeland of Colorado. I called so many times because I knew she missed me. I called her because I love her.

On the tenth day of my adventure, I called her again at eleven AM. She had almost no chance to talk. I adored Colorado and was praising the weather, the mountains, the sky and the lovely people here. I told her that soon I would find a nice apartment and that it was my wish for her to visit me.

She barely responded. She mumbled something like, "Well, we'll see." Very unusual. Normally she would react much more alive than that. I let it pass, though. I had too much of my own excitement, and my phone card was almost empty. So we said one last "good-bye" to each other.

When I hung up the phone, I felt strange about her poor reaction. Was she not interested in visiting me here? Was she afraid of the long flight? Why in God's name was she so quite during the entire conversation? Was it something I said?

The next day came in a call from my sister: "Mom is dead."

I stared out of the window, pressing the phone close to my ear and waiting for her to correct her message, but that didn't happen. I was shocked for many long seconds. Finally, I was able to ask her some questions.

Mother passed over around seven PM. Her heart had stopped beating. She was lying on the kitchen floor, both arms along her body, open hands with her palms pointing to the sky. She had a smile in her face.

After my flight back to Germany was reserved, I asked — after 12 years being completely alcohol free — for a huge glass of whisky. I cried and cried. In an undramatic manner tears ran down my cheeks.

Later I went to bed and thought about how much "I" would miss her, and I cried silently into my pillow.

Very early the next morning I was sitting again in an airplane. I didn't care about the other people around me, and every once in a while a new wave of tears came out of my eyes.

By that time I was clear about the reason for my tears: my own self-pity about "my" loss, about "my" pain, about "my" disbelief, about "my" ego issues.
I knew that "she" was okay, and I wished to get a grip on my poor feelings. So I closed my eyes and talked with her! Once again she lulled me into a long and deep sleep.

After doing some mathematics around the time difference, it occurred to me that I was the last person she had talked to; she must have died almost right after I hang up. Oh my God. I wished I could have said some more profound things, but on the other hand we had so many conversations about "life and death" before, that I knew no puzzle part was missing.

She passed over in harmony and had embraced the transition with open hands and open mind; I knew that. She also took with her the secure knowledge that I was in a very happy and desired spot in my life. There was nothing to worry about.

On the other hand, my father and my sister, who still was living in their house, are neither religious nor spiritual. They don't like to think deeper than the surface goes.
Here I saw a potential problem and I also saw my job. So I started communicating with my Mom again, about those who were closest to her and how to help them if they needed help.

My initial pain of loss had vanished into deep feelings of love and understanding. The entire circle of life has never scared me. It is all too simple: being born is as natural as dying. I had made peace with that thought a long time ago. Now I could "walk the talk," and the fact that I was searching contact with my Mom on this other level of existence made it easy for me, indeed.

II.

Except for two shivering dogs, nobody was home when I entered the house. I sat down and both dogs, which I barely knew, jumped on my lap. They received a massive Reiki treatment for more than twenty minutes. In the meanwhile, I strongly sensed my mother's presence. It was nurturing and fascinating at the same time. Theoretically I have known about all these things, and now was obviously the time to experience it.

Over the next few days, I talked to my Mom a lot. I assured her that she could leave wherever she desired to go. When she was ready, she could enjoy her new, non-physical freedom. I told her there was no need to watch over her beloved ones, everything would be just fine… But hey, try to convince a Mom not to watch... impossible.

During those days, the contact with my father, sister, brother-in-law, and condolence-expressing neighbors and friends made me grow stronger. I was the rock in the ocean, the oak in the storm, the shoulder to lean on, the one face with an understanding smile... In other words: I amazed myself.

And I learned: if we take on a spiritual job or responsibility, trying to act from a place of unconditional love and understanding, in alignment of who we truly are, Spirit will always help. In my case I had many angels around, and, of course, my loving, caring Mom.

Nevertheless, nobody wished to talk in a spiritual way. Nobody wished to hear about the concept of "soul in body," and for sure nobody wished to hear my belief that it was okay "to be happy for/with the passenger joining the time-train to the next level of existence." And that was all right, too. I was strong enough to live according to my beliefs and knowledge without forcing it onto others. Yet this brought some questions up among those around me.

My sister mentioned, without expecting any response, "It’s strange, but I haven't seen you cry one single tear all the time you have been here . . ."

The ceremony before the cremation was wrapped in a heavy atmosphere. I felt like an alien from another planet.

It is an unspoken social law that you must wear black clothes. It is a hidden social law that you need to cry in church. It is an invisible social law that you should show suffering about the loss. It is socially acceptable to collapse in the face of pain, and it is absolutely forbidden by commonsense social law to smile.

And I ignored all these bizarre social laws. Not because it made me feel good to ignore these "unspoken laws" but it would have made me feel really bad to obey them.

Besides, how could I feel "loss" when in reality I felt my Mom's presence so strong all around me? She wasn't even gone yet!

The fact that I couldn't touch her physically didn't make me sad at all — it was quite the opposite. I was happy for her — and happy for myself that I was able to "perceive" her in this very special way.

She was her entire life a servant to her family in loving, understanding, helping and giving manner. She put herself always last, never complained, and she grew within this lifetime truly into mastership. Now her time of serving was over. I thought that was wonderful!

Of course, there was no way to explain that to any of the non-believers in my surroundings. I also knew with all clarity: if a soul has chosen to experience deep feelings of loss and suffering in the physical plane, then so be it.

Somewhere in the second week, while having dinner with family and closest relatives, my Mom really left. It happened shortly after my father announced,

"I know that you are all concerned about me, but I can promise you that I will not stumble into alcoholism. I will take care about myself. I know that is what she would have wished for."

Now I had watery eyes!

I hugged my father with great respect and deep appreciation. While contacting my Mom on our "silent level," I said to her, "See, I told you that you don't need to worry, just go on. You deserve it... I love you!" With some delay, I added, "I hope you don't mind... it might happen, every once in a while, that I will call your name. But if you don't come, that's fine too. I will know that you have better things to do... "

[At this very moment, more than six years later, my own writing here makes me cry. How silly is that? But it's far from pain; it's unbearable love! And of course, what do you think, she's always there when I call her!]

After three weeks of serving my family in my very own way, I decided to start over again with the adventure in America.

I left with the strong conviction to have done an excellent "service" of being patient, solid, helpful, compassionate, and loving. I was able to Be who I truly am, without any masquerade, and standing up in non-intrusive manner for my belief and applying my spiritual knowledge, while at the same time helping to soothe my family's pain.

Until a few months later when my sister's email arrived.

She took all her courage and wondered one more time, "Everybody in the community noticed that you haven't cried. Not one time! Did you not love our Mom???"

A paragraph later she quoted our aunt, who said, "Gosh, how can she be so deadhearted?" In another paragraph, she wrote, "And I still cry and cry. It hurts so much. I miss her so badly. Don't you, too?"

Oh boy. I tried again to explain to her why I don't suffer from "loss." I carry my mother within, I still communicate with her, and I know that there is nothing wrong with dying.
I gave my sister some of the tools I knew, but she couldn't apply them. And so I closed this chapter, knowing that time will change it all.

I know I am not "deadhearted," far from it, so why would I worry about this title? I don't. As a matter of fact, I don't care too much what other people think of me, and I don't need to prove to anybody what I have experienced and how.
But I wanted to share this experience in case there are other people out there, wanting to be who they truly are and wanting to deal with death and funeral a bit differently than society is accustomed to -- with honesty!

It is okay to cry.
It is okay to suffer.
It is okay to hate and fear death.
It is okay to smile.
It is okay to dance.
It is okay to perceive death as joyful event of transition.

You choose what you believe and how much of your belief you wish to apply. Be assured: just because millions of people do something over and over again in a certain way doesn’t mean it's the only way it can be done!

Love and Light,
Angela