 Everyone has their own concepts of death and the time (or lack thereof) that follows. There are times when those conceptions are shaken, times when they break down altogether. But there are also times when our beliefs are reaffirmed powerfully and we are able to reach a sort of peace with our own reality. My friend Shannon brought me one such moment.
Shannon was a beautiful person. When I first met him, he became my boyfriend. After that he became my friend and finally, he was like a brother to me. He had an infectious smile, a free and easy laugh, and gave the best teddy bear hugs I’ve had to date. He loved metal music and drawing cartoons and collecting knives and weapons. He was 100% guy, 100% trustworthy and 100% lovable. And then, on Lammas (August 1) of 1996, he was gone.
My Mom called me at work to tell me that Shannon’s del Sol had been obliterated by a semi truck in Danville, Virginia. He lived long enough to look at his mother at the hospital, and then died. I hadn’t had a friend die before and I didn’t know what to do but burst out sobbing right in the middle of the bank where I worked. Among the rich Charlestonian trust customers, I cried until my eyes hurt. On this holiday, the first harvest festival of Lammas, when we usually celebrate the things we have and the bounty of our own harvests, one of my best friends was killed. It was a lot to work through. Even after the viewing and the funeral and the hugs of sympathy, it still took time for me to fully realize that he was gone from this world. Once I ingested that idea, I was certain that I wouldn’t have him around anymore, in any way, shape or form. But unfortunately, I was mistaken.
I have always had a fascination with ghosts, spirits and the like. And to say I “believe” in them isn’t truly accurate. What I can say is that I have experienced things that fit the description on several occasions. Shannon comprised four of these occasions.
Several months after his death, in early spring of 1997, I was working in my kitchen, looking out of the window into my back yard. I remember how sunny and beautiful it was as I peeled potatoes and stared at the trees. As I worked, I smelled something familiar…soapy, clean with an undertone of new car scent. My brain immediately seized on and identified this smell as Shannon’s, the very smell I would be wrapped in every time he gave me one of those big hugs.
I jerked my head around but didn’t “see” anything. I smiled and the scent came closer and got stronger. I laid down my potato, held out my hand, and said “Hi Shannon.” I felt something brush my cheek, almost like a breeze without the wind, and ZIP…the scent vanished. There I was, alone in my sunny kitchen, wondering if I had imagined the whole thing. I even went so far as to stand in different areas of the kitchen trying to smell the same smell to no avail.
My skepticism was knocked out of me when, the week after Shannon’s birthday in April, he “came” to me again. It was the day before my birthday and once more, I was in the kitchen preparing dinner. This time, I decided to talk to him a bit, telling him about being pregnant, how my life was going, how his parents were, and that we missed him. Then I said “Goodbye” and, just as before, he was gone. I knew then that it wasn’t my imagination.
It was after this incident that I called my friend Deb, who is one of my priestesses and spiritual sisters. I told her what had happened and she, being more objective, was able to think clearly enough to understand what Shannon was doing hovering around me. I hadn’t asked why he was visiting before and it didn’t occur to me that he might need help of some sort of help. Deb suggested that due to the abrupt and violent nature of his death that he may need some direction and explanation of where he was and why. Once she said that, it made perfect sense to me. I could feel him there and I listened and I conversed with him. If he was confused, I was the person to help.
I decided that on Lammas, the first anniversary of his death, I would have a ritual for him and try to give him a “goodbye party” of sorts. I set up my altar with pictures of him and I, of his parents, of some of his friends. I lit incense and candles, set circle and asked him to come and be with me. Immediately, as soon as I said his name, the room was filled with his smell. He was obviously excited to have been asked to be with me. So, I went on to talk to him about the past, reminiscing about things we had done, crying through all the memories, walking with him through his life and finally, his death. I explained the details of the accident, how he got to see his mother before he died, and how it had been a year since it happened. I tried to emphasize how life here had moved on but that he was stuck and that there must be somewhere “out there” that he needed to go. I urged him to let go, to stop clinging to the past and a world closed to him now, and to get on with the afterlife, whatever his was like. I told him how much he was missed and that our memories would remain. And then, once more and for the last time, I told him “Goodbye” trying as best I could to send him off and cut him from this world. The smell gathered to me very close and then vanished. I placed all of the pictures I used in a box and keep it hidden away in a drawer. Each year at Lammas, I still light a candle for him and put out a picture of him. But it has been four years since that ritual and he no longer visits me.
When I think about death now, I have a firm conviction that there is something more than this life. And I also feel that there are as many ways to move through death as there are to move through life. I thank the Goddess that, with Deb’s help, I was able to connect to my friends’ path and to hopefully be helpful. Most importantly, I’m glad that I don’t smell Shannon around anymore. With any luck, there’s a small child somewhere in the world who has an infectious smile, a free and easy laugh and gives some grade-A bear hugs.
In memory of Shannon Layne Flynn 1972-1996
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In recent years a new genre has arisen in the book publishing industry. While it has not yet gained a wide audience, it has much promise. Visionary fiction allows the reader to enhance their spiritual journey through the enjoyment of storytelling and poetry. The focus of the stories leans more toward spirituality than religion. When they do take on religion, it's usually in an unusual and thought provoking manner.