Under the Duvet
I must be talking to the angels
Marian Keyes is not sure it was really an angel-channeller, but the intense session left her feeling safe and cherished.
I'm a peculiar mix of gullible eejit and bitter sceptic. On he one hand I think we all have to take responsibility for our own happiness - but on the other I'm always first in the queue for the dreamcatcher, the tarot reading and whatever you're having yourself. I'm a sucker for new age therapies.
So when I heard about Victoria Mary Clarke and her angel-channelling, I became very excited. And even more so, once I'd established what it actually was: apparently she operates like a celestial America Online. Somehow she could summon up my personal angel and with Victoria acting as interpreter - I could have a good old chin wag about my (our?) life and the direction it was taking.
As luck would have it, I'd been going though a baddish patch - the kind of thing that happens to everyone occasionally. Also I was facing into a gruelling US tour, and when I found myself praying for a broken leg or burst appendix to get me out of going, I knew I had to do something. I was the ideal person to test-drive this spiritual fix.
So one fine Monday afternoon, off I went to see Victoria. As I walked down her road, some men were digging up the footpath and I quickly took my emotional temperature. Yes, I was still hoping I'd accidentally fall into the hole and break one of my limbs.
And in this frame of mind, I arrived at her flat. Apart from the fact that we were both wearing almost identical purple tops, there was nothing at all spooky in the atmosphere. (And was this even spookiness - or simply that purple is the colour du jour?)
Victoria seems almost disappointingly normal and pleasant: not a hint of a feather, not a gold glow, nothing! Did this mean she was a swizz-merchant? Or the real thing? I can never decide. However, the spookiness factor suddenly shot through the roof when I realised that Victoria was living in my ex-boyfriend's flat. (This may not be part of anyone else's experience, unless meladdo was much more of a boyo than I'd thought.)
So up the stairs and into her lavender-fragrant front room; there were crystals and candles and a picture of a golden cherub. Victoria sat on the floor and I took the couch (the same one I'd spilled curry sauce on one Saturday night many years ago? Who knows?) and we faced one another.
The idea was that we'd both sit quietly until my angel began to "speak" to her, at which point she'd relay it to me. She said though she had no control over it, it had never yet let her down. She closed her eyes, and in silence I waited. And waited. And waited.... The froth of my hope dissolved, revealing the underlying bedrock of my scepticism; bitterness began to rise in me. I might have known: nothing ever works for me, noting. Not automatic doors, not fake tan, nothing! I was going to be Victoria's first failure.
And then, just as my self-pity was reaching over load, she began to speak - as my angel ..."How are you, dearest one? " This surprised me; shouldn't it know? But I swallowed my sarky remark and said politely, "Poxy as it goes. And yourself?"
"Very well", was the reply. The voice was Victoria's. I'd half hoped for tingly silver chimes, I'd even have settled for a gravely, Exorcist-style growl - something other, you know? - but never mind.
She asked me if I had any questions and I produced the one that everyone seemed to want the answer to: are angels male or female?
The answer is - perhaps you could have guessed this - that they're neither. In fact strictly speaking they're not entities at all, just different manifestations of eternal love.
I'd have loved a disclosure along the lines of,
Something that only my angel and I could know, so I had proof. But nothing doing.
Instead she outlined my current, rather pitiful, state of mind, and she was so accurate I found myself holding my breath. She spoke slowly, distinctly, sometimes with long pauses between words. It didn't sound as if she was making it up as she went along. It really did sound like she was doing a kind of translation and relaying the message to me in my language. Not unlike hearing the Estonian vote in the Eurovision. However - and it seemed almost churlish to point it out - I already knew how I felt.
But this is where it got really good, because this was where she gave me advice. There were no false promises: if you're looking for sneak previews of tall, dark strangers, travelling over water or any of the usual, you'll be coming away empty-handed. It's not that kind of gig. Instead it was more of an incredibly intense advice or counselling session, but one that was steeped in compassion and had its basis in universal truths.
The most important thing she said to me - bearing in mind that I was temporarily paralysed with fear - was,
Fear is something we learn - and can unlearn. I'd known all that already, but somehow I'd forgotten. Another comforting gem was the reminder that most of us spend our lives running around trying to please everyone except ourselves. The problem is that these kinds of sentiments look bafflingly trite when reproduced in print. Really, you had to be there. Because the change she wrought on me was due to much more than the effect of mere words. The most scientific I can get is to say there was a "feeling" in the room.
As I left I had no idea whether I really had been in conversation with my own personal angels, but I didn't care. I remembered all the good things I'd already known but had managed to forget and I felt better than I had in ages - safes and cherished, restored to myself, happy to be the person living my life.
And as I walked back to my car, I noticed the hole in the pavement and this time gave it a good wide berth.