Stepping off the Eurostar from Paris to London, my feet touch the pavement at St. Pancras International Station and I am home. I feel it in my bones. Ancestors breath pulsing through concrete flooring. My deceased Dad of 11 years whispering my name, “Sharon Anne, my wee ShaSha, we’ve more to discover.”
It’s a paradox for me, this ‘living’ in Lake Forest Park, WA and feeling at ‘home’ in both Paris, France and London, England. Mystical transcends time and I feel as if the space/time continuum is thin, there’s a veil to the other side.
Memories flow like the Thames and circle like the London Eye. Am I 54 or 12? Scottish bagpipers pass within 25 feet of my friend Cathy and me, as we witness the changing of the guards in front of Buckingham Palace. Childhood wonder and delight mix with slow falling tears as I treasure the memory of witnessing this before, with my brother and parents, at a young age. Time has passed quickly and, yet, so much life has been lived since I was 12.
Dark grey skies and heavy rain greet me the next morning and I heed my inner voice, mixed with my Dad’s slight Scottish accent: “Go to the National Gallery.” I use to ignore these ‘inklings, intuitive callings, magic, sixth sense’ – no longer.
A crowd of adults and children gather on a floor covered with tiles. I have this thing with tile floors; they speak to me.
In my head I’m yelling at them to move their collective bodies. Tiles are calling my name. Butterflies, a beetle, the words: wonder, curiosity, dance.
I hear my Dad, again. Laughing, I feel his hand in mine; his firm grip, larger than my own. I’ve been here before.