Small glimpses from Across 4 Continents
... Once on board, the usual flight announcements begin. It’s a Finnish airline, so they announce everything in Finnish. I can understand most of what they’re saying, but I’m missing some words because they’re talking so fast. Then I hear people around me speaking in Finnish—a mother gently talks to her child, and two friends giggle and chat. I have a strange feeling of familiarity and connection to these strangers on the plane. A little piece of my heart melts; a tear rolls down my cheek, and I begin to feel a deep sense of home.
Soon, the plane lands. I make my way through the airport and collect my suitcase. The feeling of “home” I’m experiencing is so unfamiliar after spending the last eighteen years in Australia, trying to become an Australian. ... (page 91)
... One night, I’m in bed, bathing in the moonlight that streams in through the double glass doors by our bed. I do this often as a way to comfort myself. The luminescent glow feels like a blanket of love and peace; it helps me to let go of my frustrations. I drift off to sleep.
Then I wake up in the middle of the night. I’m groggy from sleep, but I clearly see the image of a woman, appearing like a hologram, floating just above my bed. I’m not scared at all. I feel completely held by her loving presence. She doesn’t speak, but she tells me without words that she’s helping me to heal. I’ve never seen a spirit before. I sense that some major transformation must be happening to me. ... (page 224)
... I open the image in Photoshop. There are all sorts of tears, blotches, spots, blemishes, and missing pieces. I begin by using the “healing tool” to smooth out some skin blotches, and as I do this, I feel a nostalgic connection to my young uncles. I feel a deep sadness that their lives ended so abruptly. As I continue to work, the grief begins to intensify more and more. I wasn’t even alive when they died, so the level of grief I’m experiencing is too much to be mine alone ... It feels so much larger than me, like my family’s grief. Then, I see an image of Mummo in my mind and wonder if the pain was too much for her to bear. Tears begin to flow freely down my face as I continue to restore the image. I don’t even bother to wipe them away, allowing them to soak into my skin, cleansing something deep within me. I spend many hours doing my best to restore the damaged photograph. When it’s finished, I print it, pack it with my luggage, and then wipe my face. ... (page 286)