Quantum Ghosts

I watched another incisive and provocative film as the snow fluttered into my courtyard this weekend — “A Ghost Story.” It’s a beguiling yet disconcerting film about a woman’s loss of her husband, a musician, in a tragic car wreck close to their home. Aside from its unflinching and brazen gaze at the enormity of grief after a sudden loss, the film explores the concept of the cyclicality of time. It’s the notion that time is not linear — and the past, present, and future are infinitely entangled and concurrently unraveling in the universe’s quantum ball of string.

Shrouded in a bedsheet with eyeholes haphazardly snipped like a trick-or-treater, Casey Affleck appears as the deceased husband trapped in some sort of cosmic purgatory, eerily looming in his wife’s space as he watches over her achingly authentic attempts to grapple with grief. Given its lingering pace, excruciating at times, and perplexing narrative arc, I almost expected to see Rod Serling lurking in the corner, too. I’m not sure if it was the macabre whimsy of the strange, costume-cloaked figure — or the shy, poignant presence of his spirit, but it felt like filmmaker David Lowery peered into my soul for a brief instant.

The real twist comes when the bereaved wife moves out of the house they shared, and the bedraggled ghost remains. He is stuck there for decades, seeing residents come and go, but he also finds himself thrust back into the past — until the spiral of time circles back around again to the couples’ most recent time in the house. In one particularly potent scene, we see the mischievous specter make the very same loud bang on the piano that had awoken the couple at the beginning of the film — when they searched to the living room and were not able to find the source of the noise.

The glimpses of overlapping time and space are both unsettling and comforting somehow. On one hand, they reinforce the omnipresence of those we lose and love, but they also remind me of the peculiar events I experienced around my 26-year-old son Elliot’s death. Two days before his mysterious motorcycle accident, I was at home in the afternoon and heard a crash in my office at home. I ran up the stairs, walked in, and saw my treasured porcelain doll on the floor, shattered.

She was the first doll I ever acquired for my small but precious childhood doll collection. I loved her. We had reunited when I found her in an old, tattered box cleaning out my parents’ house after their deaths in 2014. She had been perched on a shelf of books Elliot had left behind after he moved into his own place. The entire bookcase was filled with his scholarly volumes, always reminding me this was his room, as well as my office — another example of his tsunkoku. It shook me to the core at the time —though I was not sure why. I even mentioned it to Ian, Elliot’s brother who was home from the summer from college. There was no reason she should have fallen that day — no vents nearby and the cat was asleep on the couch downstairs.

I will admit that I do tend to look for connections in unusual places. As I have reviewed the events of that devastating year, 2018, and the months following, I have noticed so many unexplainable synchronicities, events and signs. Though I am confident I will never decode all of them while occupying this earthly plane, noticing them has taught me our knowledge of creation, divine wisdom, time, space and the universe is miniscule.

In fact, last year when I was rummaging around on the internet for answers, I discovered the concept of nonlocality, a quantum theory in which two or more particles exist in interrelated or entangled states remain undetermined until a measurement is made of one of them. When the measurement is made, the state of the other article is instantly fixed, no matter where it is. “In space–time as a whole, it is a continuous interaction extending between past and future events,” said Avshalom Elitzur of the Weizmann Institute of Science So, explaining the unexplainable just got even harder in the non-linear context of time and space.

Boggling.

But this I do know — time might be an illusion, but love is not.

Signs of Life

I found a dime on the garage floor beside my car door today.

My heart lurched as I said out loud—oh, a dime.  It’s Elliot. It’s a sign. Then, I smiled when I remembered that Elliot had named my 2007 SUV Doris.

A couple of months ago, a friend told me she began seeing dimes after her husband passed following a brief illness, and they gave her some peace. Then, I started seeing posts and mentions about the prevalence of this common coin greeting from those we have lost. The belief is that when you find a dime, it is an indication that someone on the other side—ancestor, spirit, guide, or deceased loved one is looking out for you. Also, in numerology, the number 10 connotes a circle, so a dime could be a sign of fulfillment, unity, or coming full circle. Interesting.

I am always looking for signs—bring ’em on. I pay attention to the birds on the creek behind my complex, the patterns the jet trails make in the sky, and every Miata within 100 feet, which seem to be driven uniformly by Mr. E’s doppelganger. I’m always looking. Always noticing. When I make a connection or think I do, there’s a sort of serotonin hit. A kind of spark.

In truth, being intentionally present and absorbing these gentle winks is my new favorite pastime, though they are often as painful as they are comforting. Nothing else really seems to matter as much anymore—as I navigate this gnarly path of unbearable loss. I am realizing more than ever—especially under the weight of the deepening pandemic, that all we have is this very moment. Right now. That’s it. And this dime, of course.

I still cannot believe my Elliot left this earth so suddenly and senselessly 28 months ago tomorrow—a lifetime and an instant. The tragic details of his shocking single-vehicle motorcycle accident remain unclear. So, as I train my psychic radar to maximize reception, I’m looking for any flash of insight regarding what actually happened on that worst of all days—or maybe just a glimpse of the enigmatic Elliot I miss so much.

Some days, the signs appear to pop like corn kernels in the pan, but on others, there is radio silence. Laura Lynne Jackson, one of my favorite grief gurus and spiritual mediums, says in her book “Signs: The Secret Language of the Universe” that we can even ask our people for specific signs, but alas, Elliot can be quite the contrarian. He’d rather surprise and tickle me by orchestrating random retro saxophone riffs on NPR—or by returning an object that had been lost for 20 years.  

The latter happened just after Thanksgiving. Elliot’s dad, Max, had misplaced the baby scrapbook I carefully crafted to document his first few years, including a cover I handstitched from the same fabric I used to make the curtains, comforter, and bumper pads for his nursery. Somehow, Max had packed it in the moving maelstrom around our divorce. Our house sold in one day two decades ago, so the separation was a turbulent affair. I had been asking him for this treasure for more than twenty years—almost to the day.

When Max called to tell me out of the blue that he had uncovered it, I  was completely gobsmacked. A flood of bittersweet images tumbled across my mind’s eye as I sat stunned and overwhelmed in heart-stopping incredulity. The startling discovery was also a poignant reminder of time disrupted, of time missing.

But Elliot, my Elliot, was making an appearance for Thanksgiving—for both his mom and his dad. Max’s voice cracked with emotion as we finished the call.

“I’ll bring it by tomorrow,” he said quietly.

Though the brittle scrapbook was dusty and soiled, I was enormously grateful to finally receive this precious artifact that contained pages and memories as tattered as my heart. It was like finding an elusive piece of my brilliant son that I had been searching for.

What a sign, indeed, and a glorious glimmer of grace. I will keep looking.