• Gail Anderson-Dargatz
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  • Gail Anderson-Dargatz

    Mentor
  • Gail Anderson-Dargatz

    Author
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margaret falls 0My latest literary novel, The Spawning Grounds, is largely about the watery boundaries between the ordinary world and the world of the spirit. Those who know my writing won’t be surprised. I’ve written about the wandering soul that travels between these realms in almost every one of my novels.

In The Cure for Death by Lightning, a transforming spirit chases Beth. Augusta travels out of place and time in A Recipe for Bees. And in Turtle Valley, Kat and her family are haunted by ghosts from their past.  So naturally readers are inclined to ask if I believe ghosts are real.

In the years immediately after my mother died, I dreamed of her. In these dreams, we often walked a familiar street and talked about writing, about my kids. My mother offered advice as she always had. Then we embraced and she left me, again.

Once, my father was with her. In one of those lucid dreaming moments that are so rare I asked, “How can you be here? You’re both dead.”

My mother said, “We’re not real.”

But they both felt so real, so very real. I hugged them and said, “I miss you both so much.” I woke, heart-wrenched and convinced I had spent a few precious minutes with my parents.

These are the moments in which we say our goodbyes.

So, do I believe in ghosts? No. I don’t believe our souls survive death. But ask me again. Do I believe in ghosts? Yes. We see the ghosts of those we love in our dreams, and in our grief, we see them walking on the street. They appear at the foot of our bed in the wee hours hovering in that space between sleep and wakefulness.  Sometimes these encounters frighten us. But for the most part I believe that within these final visits with our beloved dead we find solace and closure.

I know for a fact my mother’s spirit lives on, in the stories I tell, in the bits of wisdom I pass on to my children. I see my mother in my own lovely daughter, in her haunting grey-blue eyes, in her grace, her humour, her will, and her ability to read the emotion of a room. I know when my life ends, my daughter will carry my stories and sensibilities forward. She will see me in her own children, and just as I carried on my conversation with my own mother long after she was gone, my daughter will visit me within her dreams.

This piece originally appeared in BC Book Look.

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