There is something magical about early childhood memories. I’m transported into an innocent and curious observer. My earliest recollection is of being in a basinet of sorts. A door opens and a silhouette of my mother comes into view. My legs and arms flail and I can almost feel the excitement of recognition. When such memories come they are like windows into the past. Not just the past of this life but the past of previous times.

As a child I had multidimensional awareness, as children often do, before the physical senses dominate and the more expanded awareness of both sides – the embodied and the disembodied – begins to fade, usually by the age of seven. Though most have grown faint some of those memories remain clear, as though time has been suspended.

Little snippets of early events shaped my discernment and view of the world. Some rekindle awareness of things familiar from a distant past, reminding me of stories of those who come into life with incredible talent and knowledge from an early age. I came with no superior skills or talents. I did come with connections – to nature and animals, to people I love and to trusting my personal perceptions even when not popularly accepted. I kept my inner life private.

Growing up as a small child in Minnesota my best friend was Katie McCarthy. We were kindred spirits from the start. We attended Catholic school together through the second grade. Having to leave Katie when my family moved to California the summer I turned 7 was a sad parting. My bond with Katie has never dimmed, though I never saw her again. Nor the memory of her mother, who I felt a deep connection to. My sense of connection with Katie has never dimmed, though I never saw her again. Nor the connection I had with her mother, both of whom I felt a deep closeness to that preceded our time in this life.

Katie and I loved the freedom we felt when the final school bell rang. We would dash home to get out of our uniforms and then run through the swamp behind my house with magical imaginations. Once as we played I saw an adorable “kitty” and ran toward it in excitement. It didn’t run. Instead when I got closer it unleashed a spray in my direction. I was drenched in a horrible odor. I was put in the bathtub and my hair was washed with a number of strange things in an effort to get rid of the smell. The experience did not discourage my love of cats. Or skunks.

Katie’s mother was like a guiding light, a guardian angel in those years. I was always treated as a loved member of the family. When Katie’s infant sister died both Katie and I were brought to her mother who broke the news to us. She put her arms around both of us as she explained, in her gentle voice, that little Mary had gone home to a beautiful place to be with God – or some such words. She spoke with us for some time but what I retain is her calm and loving presence and acceptance. There was sadness, I’m sure, but what I took in was her strength and faith in an ongoing bigger picture.

I was included in the memorial service and Katie’s mother invited the two of us to say goodbye to Mary. Katie and I approached the casket together. We looked at her peaceful little face and each of us took one of her little hands into ours. The skin was rubbery and shriveled. I marveled quietly at the texture and feel. Then we leaned over together to kiss her little cheek as we said goodbye. The memory continues to hold feelings of love and comfort. It has provided me with a strong foundation for accepting the intrinsic beauty of that final transition from the physical world. It is, after all, a journey we will all take.

Cheryl Canfield, CCHT, 2023