My Garden, My Angels

I kind of felt bashful, and laughed as I opened my eyes. I realized right away that I was expecting some kind of white-robed, human-shaped being to come into my view. Pretty silly of me – I know that angels take many shapes.

Colorful abstractish painting of birds nest fern leaves

Rainbow Birdy

It was slightly overcast that morning, the light mellow, muted. As I gazed at my beautiful garden right outside my window, a light mist swirled around the base of the palms and banana trees.

An issue I had been struggling with pulled my attention away. I went over to my desk and got online to see if I could find a solution. I clicked on inspiremetoday.com, because I always feel lifted and expanded by the articles there.

I was intrigued by the interview with Sophy Burnham, who reminded me of my past encounters with angels.

In the interview, she says, “You ask me, how can you learn to see them? I tell you, you ask. You simply ask: ‘Show yourself!’ You say, ‘I want to see you. Let me know that you are there.’ “

I thought, OK, let’s try that!

I got up and walked back over to my garden-view window. Eyes closed, I said out loud, ‘I want to see you. Let me know that you are there.’

I kind of felt bashful, and laughed as I opened my eyes. I realized right away that I was expecting some kind of white-robed, human-shaped being to come into my view. Pretty silly — I know that angels take many shapes.

. . .

Some of my plants are huge. I love to go be in their space, feel their rich, vibrant Beingness all around me. They calm me down and help me feel centered and grounded. I soak in the peace of their presence — it’s like taking a spirit bubble bath.

I often go out and sit next to my Bird’s Nest Fern — it’s over 6′ tall, with the widest, most incredibly vibrant spring-green leaves.

As we hold hands, leaf to palm, we tell each other our stories.

The date palms were making enormous ovoid-shaped clusters of long stems covered with masses of little red berries — future dates. Hard to imagine these three 25′ tall trees were once mere seeds from store-bought dates.

My papaya tree and straggly volunteer tomatoes are fast friends. The tomato vines are like wild crazy mountain climbers, clambering up Papaya’s trunks, draping themselves all over the huge, hand-shaped leaves. Papaya saying, ‘Just lean on me, everything will be OK.’

I wondered if I’d see one or more of them just light up and become a gauzy filmy bright angel.

They didn’t wait a second!

Right after I asked them to appear, the light started to grow and grow, glowing so bright I had to shade my eyes.

I wasn’t seeing any human-shaped angels, but boy, how could I deny that the garden itself, and every single plant in it, were my own special brilliant angels?

I choked — my breath catching like velcro in my throat. Tears shot straight out of my eyes. Projectile tears. My heart swelled so full it felt like it would spring from its nest in my chest.

It was the most explosive inner tsunami of love — I don’t know how to say that without sounding sappy-drippy or corny, or like some spaced out woowoo-pollyanna-love-child — but yes, it certainly was love.

Love deeper than anything I knew of in daily life, love wider than here to the moon. It filled me up like sweet magma syrup, flowing out the ends of my hairs and leaking out of my pores, and slid around in the bottom of my belly until I couldn’t help but laugh in delight.

And just like Tomato leans on Papaya, it was clear to me that, when I want and need to, I can lean on those angels.

I can hear you thinking, “Yeah right. Sure, Angela. Snort!”

Thing is, I get to believe or disbelieve.

It is my reality, after all — I get to choose.

I like believing — it makes me feel good inside. To just think about them being there, hanging out with me, lighting up my little life.

And I love it that I can nurture them, as they nurture me, by closing my eyes and gazing at them with love in my inside-eyes and a full heart. Sending them intentional buckets of affection and gratitude.

It’s OK that you might not believe in them. Most do not.

Most of the people I’ve spoken with who don’t, carry around a stiff, crusty old disbelief, their lips curled up in an I’m-superior, I’m-better-than-thou sneer. Not particularly attractive, but maybe sharp, hard times with no hope shaped their beliefs.

Is that you?

Does that attitude really serve you?

What if you allowed yourself — if only for a few minutes — to think that, yes, maybe there are angels?

What if you allowed yourself — if only for a few minutes — to think that, yes, maybe angels do reside in plants, animals, birds, landscapes, the sky, in the soil — in our houses, rooms, kitchens, even by our beds!

And that when we want and need it, we can lean on them, know they’re there for us, lifting us up and out of our fear, and grief, and poor-me, sadness and anger, and even lack of confidence.

What if we imagined them lovingly draping gossamer capes over our fear-filled hunched shoulders, capes imbued with soft, penetrating angel love?

What if we understood that their love for us is like diamond-bright energetic sequins and threads and ribbons that they gently weave into the very fabric of our beings, so we, too, might glow from within?

What if you asked for your angels to appear?

Close your outer eyes.
Look with your inner eyes.

Try it now, and if you don’t believe they’re there, take that disbelief and stick it in a drawer somewhere — if only for a few minutes. You can get that old thing back any time you want.

Just give calling them a try.

Say out loud, ‘I want to see you. Let me know that you’re there.’

Angels are everywhere and anywhere. They’re just on a different vibratory plane.

We have to be open to the possibility. Open to observing signs that show out-of-the-ordinary things confirming our angels are right by our sides.

. . .

The coolest thing I got from my encounter that day — as if the gigantic suffusion of extreme love wasn’t enough — was that they want us to call, they wait for us to call them.

So what the heck — why not?

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Thanks for reading my story — I appreciate it so much. After being a long-time hermit, my nerves get so frayed from telling these odd stories about my life that sometimes my legs feel like hopping around like they’re dancing on coals. It’s so precious to me when someone claps or comments that they like what I wrote.

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