When I saw Messengers of Light it sent a chill up my spine. The painting was a visual representation of the reason I’m on earth. To me, there is a haunting quality about seeing a select group of people walking alone/together in the dark. Bearers of light looking both weary and calm.
My oldest sister, who was eighteen my senior, used to say that I was born forty-five years old, knowing things about people and life instinctively. Eerie wisdom she called it.
There have been other labels; earth angel, shaman, indigo child. Being in the presence of “different” human beings makes most people uncomfortable, until they find a box to put them in. In the last 15 years several new categories have been created to pigeonhole people: autistic, ADHD, Borderline Personality Disordered. It’s odd that no one seems to think neurotypicals need defining.
But, I’m off topic. This is supposed to be about Messengers of Light.
I’m particularly drawn to this piece because Pitre shows children as messengers of light.
I remember being 6 years old and waking up on an upper bunk. There were flashes of light dancing on my skin. I didn’t think about the source because I was fascinated by the circumstances; it was as if I’d just incarnated. The soul who’d occupied this body, all the days before that moment, was something akin to a place holder. It was my turn.
I crawled down the foot of the bed, felt the wood floor beneath my feet and heard something in tandem with the rise and fall of my chest. Breathing… the breath of life. I smiled and whispered, “I’m human!” The flashes of light called me to a dormer window. I looked down and saw a house across the street engulfed in flames.
It rocked my soul’s concept of what it meant to be human. Mother earth wasn’t beautiful; she had flaws. The perfection I’d known was gone in that instant and every fiber of my being knew I was in a very dangerous place… the world.
I heard a child’s voice, “What’s going on?” I turned to see a girl— my sister, I assumed— on the bottom bunk rubbing her eyes.
“A house is on fire.” The sound of my own voice startled me.
She darted out of bed and stood beside me. “Oh my gosh!”
There was a girl, about 10 years old standing on the lawn. She was in a white night gown looking up at the flames. There other people were outside, but only the girl stood out. “She’s going to live with us,” I said.
My sister looked at me. “Kathy?”
“The girl in the white dress.”
“That’s Kathy.”
I shrugged. “Okay, Kathy. Her family is going to move to Florida but Kathy won’t want to go. So, Mom will adopt her. Oh… and she’s going to marry our brother when she’s nineteen.”
The way she knit her eye brows was so different from her previous expression, I realized she was confused. Didn’t all people know things?
That was the first of a lifetime of prophecies.
Soon, Kathy was resting on a cot in our room. My mother was stroking her hair. “Take this,” she said. “It’s only an aspirin but maybe it’ll help you sleep.” She handed her a glass of water. “We’ll get you a real bed tomorrow. You can stay as long as you like.” She kissed her on the forehead before leaving the room.
Kathy sat up on the cot, looked at me and said, “You look different. Like a grown-up trapped in a kid.”
I laughed and knew we would be very good friends. For many years I was closer to her than anyone else.
Now, she and my brother Neil have been married for 41 years. They were the ones who gave me Messengers of Light for my 50th birthday. I’ve never received a more touching gift. It was their way of saying they accepted, maybe even appreciated, my “otherworldliness.”
Bringing light into a dark world isn’t always easy, but as the painting shows, it’s imperative to keep walking the path of ethical truth, because I am, aptly put, a messenger of light.
