An Angel Named Wanda


lord flea and my pagan-Catholic mama

Some of us are living angels and some of us are spirit-angels, but let’s face it—all of us, one way or another—we truly are angels.

In my book an angel is a person (or his or her disembodied soul, their spirit) who acts in, through, by and for Love. And for a newcomer to Lord Flea Sings, let me say right here that Love is my all-purpose, go-to definition of God. Usually, people think of angels as having wings and flying through the air. And yes, that’s the way artists have depicted them throughout human history. Even I have. Here’s an example of my “Twenty-first Century Angel” series.

Protection Mandala

Good Dreams Mandala

Today I’ve got my mother on my mind, as I’ve had a lot these past weeks since hospice announced she’s “In Transition.”

What does that term mean: In Transition? Well, to a bus or train rider it means something completely different than it does to a thanatologist, a person who helps others approach the end of their physical life, preparing them for their spiritual existence. These are the kinds of people, angels all!, who work for hospice. When I first heard the term, over 30 years ago from Jane McCutcheon, who was in the first graduating class of Thanatology at Cornell University School of Nursing, it was explained to me thusly by my good pal.

In Transition means that a person is in the process of separating, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, from the many layers of denseness that holds their eternal soul in the body, which is, of course, a temporary temple for the spirit.”

When I put the following post up on Facebook a few weeks ago, “Please pray for my mom as she’s in transition,” most people thought mom had died. But no. She’s very much alive. But … in a half-here, half-there kind of way in which she’s being visited by “entities” and “people” and … last night Wanda was there.

“She sat by my bed all night long, just being quiet,” mom softly told me when I arrived to visit at my usual time to read “Gulliver’s Travels” to her, our quirky way to share mother-daughter time, always reading a strange, obscure book out loud.

“Really?” I said. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t do anything. Just sat there.”

“So what did you do, Mom? Was it weird for you? Did you talk to her?”

“Sure it was weird. So I asked her, ‘Who the hell are you?’ and you know what she told me?”

“I haven’t a clue, Mom.”

“She told me she’s God. But I think she meant she’s from God. Then she told me her name is Wanda.”

Wow, I murmured. I couldn’t think of anything to say after that. I just held Mom’s hand. She didn’t exclaim about Wanda any more, just matter-of-factly accepted it.

But I can’t wait to see who or what is happening today surrounding her deathbed, when I soon go visit my beloved 97-year-old mom, whose transition is not all peace, nice thoughts and soft fluffy clouds. Mom resists leaving us and there’s been too much pain of the gross, physical sort that one doesn’t like to think about during such sacred times as this. It appears like Mom needs all the help she can get, during this letting-do process, so she can remain in the Light of Love, feel some joy instead of pain, excitement int or peace instead of sadness and fear.

I think my role as mom’s sidekick through this adventure, her last here, is to help her accept that life after death just may, JUST may, be even more exciting than this world of fishing, writing, growing and making art and babies and lots of other things, laughing, loving, and dancing around the globe that she has so adored doing, with or without my father who has left us thirty years ago now.

I pray for my mom to relax and enjoy her transition time. Each day a tiny thread—holding her down to earth, keeping her captured in her heavy and now-useless body—gets cut. Sometimes she’s “gone” for hours at a time. Once, a few weeks ago, the entire day. All day long she “sees” things. Then she reaches out her hand to grab it/them as it/they float by. Her eyes are always looking, looking, looking at the wonder that surrounds her. Up in the air, mostly, her gaze is looking—in wonder.

My job, as her loving, patient, open-heart daughter is to stop with the tears, already! And give Mom as much comfort, love, peace, smiles and laughter, as I possibly can.

That’s my job, here.

I have to remember to not trip-up on the sentimental bull. There’s no time for feeling sorry for myself, thinking about losing someone so special in my life. I have to remember I’m  in the state of Grace, witnessing my mother’s very own transition — right up close, right next to her as I am.

What an honor. What a privilege.

Maybe someday the angel named Wanda will come and help me through some rough time, as well. I sure hope so.

Your pal, LordFlea, aka teZa

here’s another of my “spirit body” works … sans one wing.

One-armed Angel (view 1), mixed meida, 30“x15”x8“

One-armed Angel (view 1), mixed meida, 30“x15”x8“



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