Between Two Worlds – How I Leave My Body to Go Home
There are moments when I close my eyes, and the world around me softens like mist. My body is still here — breathing, blinking, moving through the everyday — but something deeper begins to stir. I feel the cotton-wool conduit open, that strange hum in my ear, and then I am pulled.
It doesn’t only happen at night. The daylight hours can carry me too, in the strangest, most unexpected ways. I could be washing the dishes, hanging clothes out to dry, or simply sitting with a cup of tea when I suddenly feel myself stepping away from this Earth-body.
It begins as a tingling along my spine, then a weightlessness. I rise. And in that instant, I am caught — he is always there waiting. Gary. My husband. My love. My eternal twin flame.
Sometimes I see Florence from a distance, its terracotta rooftops glowing like embers in the sun. Sometimes I see the Tuscan hills, the cypress trees standing like sentinels. And then — I am home. Our home.
He catches me. Always. Whether it is at the back door, or in his arms, or in the garden where the drone hums above, showing me the house we built together across the veil. He is my protector, my warrior, my Ashak from lifetimes past.
Even in daylight, when the mind says “this isn’t possible,” the soul knows it is. Because I feel him. I smell him. I hear his daft laugh, his Yorkshire cheek. I see his eyes soften when I arrive, as if I had only stepped out for a moment and now returned.
It is the strangest, most beautiful truth — to live half here and half there. To cook dinner and fold laundry, yet also dance in the piazza of Florence with the man I thought I had lost. To feel the tug of grief, yet also the pulse of a love so alive it breaks every rule of time and space.
And so I carry on. Slipping between two worlds. Leaving my body in daylight or in dreams. Coming home again and again to the only place I have ever truly belonged: in his arms.
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