The last time I saw my mother alive, she asked me when I’d next visit. As she was in palliative care at home, in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I am living in Los Angeles, I had a series of flights already booked, and told her the exact date. She carefully wrote it down in colorful ink, in neat cursive in her main notebook on top of her desk.
When I let myself in on the exact day, I found her peaceful in bed, having passed at home, exactly as she wished. She was newly out of the hospital, having returned home after being diagnosed with advanced kidney disease. She declined aggressive treatment, preferring instead a peaceful completion of her life.
In Tibetan Buddhism, the body is to be untouched for the first day, as the soul is weaving its Lightwork and processing the energetic field of the incarnation. Many refer to the lightbody field of those who have just passed as opalescent.
The kind responding officer assessed that my mother had passed the previous day. In her kitchen, he noticed she had taken her morning medication, but not the afternoon dose.
My mother was my first spiritual teacher, beginning my training in Buddhism and Hinduism, starting when I was 3 years old.
In Buddhism, during the process of dying, the incarnated soul first withdraws from the main chakras — Sanskrit for energy wheels — of the body, starting with the lower chakras as the physical systems shut down. The soul works its way up through the chakras, from the root, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye, and finally crown. The incarnated soul then flies up through the spiritual cord or gold Antahkarana bridge with the Higher Soul, finally energetically reuniting with the Higher Soul again.
While passing peacefully at home was what my mother wanted, finding her on that day was not what I wanted.
The world got wavy before my eyes as I went into the veil between life and death. My screams of “Mommy!” reverberated throughout her senior complex to the point where her neighbors came by to check on her. I told them, one by one, that she had passed, and I thanked them for their concern. They met my tearful gaze with the kindness and empathy of those who have seen death many times.
I realized that I hadn’t only torn through sound that day, but in my grief, I also tore a space in the universe, fragmenting my mom’s soul, and keeping a piece of her incarnated soul in my heart.
When other psychics would look into my auric field, they would see a white light, like its own flame, in my heart chakra area. They would say, with compassion, that I needed to let her go, so her soul would be complete. I would say, through tears, “I know, but I’m not ready yet.”
While my mother was being cremated, I quietly sat next to Gandhi’s ashes. I couldn’t be of the rest of the world that day. Most of the Mahatma’s ashes were scattered in holy places throughout India. There is just one place in the world where any of his ashes were memorialized. In honor of his deep friendship with Paramahansa Yogananda, author of Autobiography of a Yogi, and founder of Self Realization Fellowship, they are here along the coast in Pacific Palisades, California, at the Mahatma Gandhi World Peace Memorial. There was nowhere else I could be.
Photo by Leah Lau Art (https://www.leahlau.com)
Immediately upon her passing, my mom’s spirit came to me as a warm Gold Orb over my right shoulder. I could hear her communicating telepathically with me about instructions for what to do with her things. I could feel her nudging me to find specific papers, go into various drawers, and find caches of information, among other things.
Born in China during World War II, my mom grew up with the refugee refrains of bombs exploding, sirens, air raids, fleeing. Her eldest sister assessed it had fried our mom’s nervous system when she was a baby, setting the stage for her nervousness in life.
My mom hid money and jewelry in inconspicuous places: unmarked white envelopes under piles of kitchen junk drawer contents, in old pill bottles, rolled up in socks. It was up to my older sisters and I to distinguish the actual trash from somewhere hundreds of dollars or diamonds might be hidden.
As I told my sisters I had a sense about where mom hid things, she was communicating at the spirit level, saying, “Here, look farther, under the Tupperware, keep going.” The proof was in the pudding: I turned up $700 cash that we put toward her memorial service expenses.
We have three generations of our family living all over the United States, from coast to coast, and through the Midwest. Our grandparents and parents immigrated from China in the late 1950s, escaping the Chinese Civil War, Japanese invasion of China, World War II, and the Communist takeover.
The core of our family settled in the San Francisco Bay Area, close to our grandparents’ Episcopalian Church sponsors, and nestled within the extended town community of Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, Catholics, Jewish people, Muslims, new immigrants, first generation Americans, and multigenerational Americans, of all races and beliefs. These friends have been in our lives for decades, and continue to be.
While growing up, my extended family had frequent reunions, usually Mother’s Day weekend, celebrating the trifecta including my mom’s birthday and my grandma’s birthday, either of which easily landed on Mother’s Day itself.
For my mother’s Celebration of Life, those same three generations of family rallied from around the country. It was the first time we had gathered for a memorial service instead of a wedding or other more joyful occasion.
I wore my mom’s pearls and opened with how I get all my fairyness — my love of animals, rainbows, sparkles, psychic intuition, everything lighthearted and magical, from her.
The youngest of her three daughters, I was her baby through and through, having spent the first five years of my life glommed onto her. I was either snuggled in her arms, or playing at her feet.
I loved her more than anyone. We had a soul contract. She brought me into this world. It was only natural I would help steward her out of this incarnation.
During the year I carried her white light soul fragment in my heart, I lived in the veil between life and death, serving as a psychic bridge between realms and worlds. I knew it was also my longer-term goal to be able to do so without physically and psychically holding onto her.
The gift of time grants a certain amount of grace.
If death teaches us anything, it is that Love is Eternal.
The day finally came when I was able to release my mom’s soul fragment back to her, after living wholly that her love is always with me.
As one of my main Spirit Guides, my mom is with me now more than ever. Anyone who has had a very close loved one pass knows this, as well.
When other psychics look into my auric field, they consistently observe that my mom and my grandma are with me. “Your grandma is fierce,” people always say. I nod my head and laughingly agree. And they continue, “Your mom is right there with her. They are always together.”
“Yes,” I confirm, and the tears roll down my face again.
At the spirit level, your parents, grandparents, and great grandparents are always looking out for you and Guiding you in every aspect of life. They are invested in you, in your happiness, in your well-being, and in helping you thrive. I know this in the love and Guidance I receive from mine, and in the psychic communications I have Guided for thousands of others.
You are eternally loved across all space, time, and dimensions. Always remember this.
~ Leah Lau is a Lightworker who writes about Spirituality and Love www.leahlau.com
This article originally appeared in the Medium publication Spiritual Tree on July 30, 2021
https://medium.com/spiritual-tree/my-mother-the-golden-orb-e121180c8f89