Balls of Light: Days Two Hundred Seventeen - Two Hundred Nineteen

Sometimes people tell me things; I'm not sure why. Long before I ever meditated, a friend, really more of an acquaintance, confided in me.  She was dying, a victim of colon cancer and in her forties.  She'd  had the illness for several years and you know the drill: many rounds of chemotherapy, a few experimental treatments, a bad wig.  But when I saw her, she always had a smile on her face and the last time I saw her, we were both in the gym working out.  The treadmills in our gym are set in front of large windows that look out onto a golf course.  She told me to look outside and asked if I saw something sparkling on the grass.  I wasn't sure.  Once she'd suggested it, I looked pretty hard, certain there was something to see.  "Do  you see something?" I asked.  She nodded, solemn, wide-eyed.  "They're balls of energy.  I can see them when I look for them.  I see them now."

I guess she told me about it because she knew I wouldn't think she was crazy.  Even though I couldn't see what she saw, I had a strong vision of what the balls of energy looked like.  Smallish sphere of light scattered on the grass, prisms of energy and purity.

I hadn't thought about that for a long time, but it came to me for a flash of a moment yesterday when I meditated and then I forgot about it until I went to the cemetery late yesterday afternoon.  Cindy's grave was plush with autumn flowers and although I didn't stop, I remembered her lovely vision.