Angelic

Her name is Carla Lee. She runs the place with her husband. Two converted sheds filled with statuettes, incense and ornate incense holders made out of painted liquor bottles, crystals, books, CDs, and other mysterious items on a now horseless horse farm. Her Appaloosa passed some time ago. The ground in front of the sheds is covered in a mix of white stones and pink rose quartz pieces. She invites the customer to participate in a complimentary angel card reading upon entering and affords him/her the opportunity to pick up a piece of rose quartz to place beside the altar, if there's someone you're thinking of who's passed on, and to take a piece for yourself and the continued healing of your heart on your way out. 

She served in the Coast Guard a lot of years ago and told me I should never diminish my service by saying "not a combat veteran" when someone asks me if I'm a veteran. She opened the shop because an Angel told her to. She doesn't advertise, except for the three small hand-painted signs I followed, and she's pretty far from centrally located. But, she says, people find her. She came through trauma and addiction and hopelessness. She said most of her family members are hanging from her family tree. She found her Angel after her brother killed himself in his early 40's. That's when she stood up and said, you're not gonna get me too! Things began to change for her after that. Recovery, sobriety, spirituality and an Angelic presence that has never left her. 

We talked for a long time - she and I and sometimes an interjecting Angel. I told her how I'd found her, what led me there. Part of it had to do with feeling like I had more work to do before I could help others. She looked up for a second and told me that "they said, qualified." Meaning that doing my own healing was what would qualify me to work with others. It's not enough to know suffering, to have empathy for the suffering of others. You have to have the experience of your own healing too.

Light rain started to fall. It was getting dark. A bird flew between us at head level. She was planning to play her flute at the open mic in town tonight. The Native American flute. I love the sound of that instrument, I told her, but I don't have any musical talent. Neither do I, she said. I just close my eyes and breathe into it.