Perhaps The Last Chance

Justin is back on tour starting March 31, and he has named the tour The Story in Your Eyes.

What is striking is that the word Story is highlighted, and that gives me hope that this time he will tell the whole story, the true story.

Perhaps with our advancing ages, and the loss of John recently he has decided that time is running out, that he cannot let the truth die with him should he also succumb.

For we were given the task to prove that love survives death.

Imagine how that knowledge would change the world. How people would live their lives differently, knowing that our time here has lasting impact, that what we think and do makes a difference.

I know that responsibility hangs heavy on him – you can see it on his face in the promo photo.

If you don’t know what I’m referring to, please scroll down through my posts. I explain it there. I’m the woman he refers to when (after he receives my note apologizing for the full realization to have taken so long to reach full consciousness, received too late for us to meet) he writes “I would have given you the world to stay”.

Please, if you are attending those concerts and he does open up, please tell him about this blog.

We have been denied so many times, but promised that some day we will return before we die.

Perhaps you are the messenger who delivers the key, and will forever be part of our story.

My sincere thanks.

Time

To understand someone is the deepest intimacy, to not believe in them leaves the deepest loneliness.

A few things have happened lately that are weighing heavily. A man posted recently on Facebook that he had attended Justin’s US fall 24 concert, that it was magical as always but the group had placed extra emphasis on “You and Me”.

In it are the lyrics “you and me just cannot fail if we never, ever stop.”

Of course this has meaning for everyone who cares for the earth, cares for humanity, but for Justin it is much more personal. Apart from his love of performing, it’s the reason he is still touring at 78 years old. If you have read all my previous posts, you will understand.

“You’re an ocean full of faces, and you know that we believe. We’re just a wave that drifts around you, singing all our hopes and dreams.”

Of course this was sung when the Moodies were still together, when they still believed that Justin would show the world that love survives death, and that they, by extension would be graced as well.

But the fact that Justin emphasized it shows that he has still not given up, but that time is a great weight hanging over him. It is frightening to think of, but three of the five members of the Moody Blues are dead. We could lose Justin too.

There was a very good interview also recently posted on GuitarPlayer.com by Glenn Shapiro (thank you Glenn). In it Justin addresses the sometimes strange and otherworldly lyrics that only fit our situation, but that he is, sadly, not prepared to be candid about.

“The Voice” is another song that means a lot to me, every word. But don’t ask me to explain it, please. It just means a lot.”

Regarding Nights: “Every word in that song makes perfect sense to me, but trying to explain it to someone is difficult. I mean, I lived every one of the lines in that song.”

I urge you to watch Sammy Sultan’s interview again, when Justin is asked “Why ‘In your Blue Eyes’?”

I urge you to listen with your heart so that you can truly understand the man, not from your life’s perspective, but from his.

Honour and Truth

I am so very proud (as I’m sure you all are) of Justin. The late Queen Elisabeth the Second and in turn King Charles the Third have honoured him with The Order of the British Empire.

It is an honour he richly deserves after giving the world the gift of music and magic for the duration of his life. You have all felt his impact on your lives, as have I, in the deepest and most personal sense.

But my heart goes out to him because, for all the honours he has received and all the love his millions of fans have shown him, he still hasn’t achieved what he most wants: to prove that love survives death, that our lives are cumulative and have meaning.

With the clocks of our lifetimes continually ticking toward midnight, time is running short. He knows it. I know it.

He will not achieve his most heartfelt goal until someone with kindness in their heart tells him about these pages.

Then he can finally tell the world the truth.

And for that, I hope he is Knighted.

Fate

I had another of those dreams last night – you know the kind. I was at the gate in the airport, but my ticket was with someone else, and they had just taken off on the plane I was supposed to board. In the taxi my money had turned into Monopoly money, and when I was forced out of the car, the dreamscape had changed and I couldn’t find my way home.

Despite the fact that my dream world had not caught up with cell phones, I awoke acknowledging that the dream reflected my reality: obstruction, and my state of mind: frustration.

For those of you who have been following our story, you know that it is now thirty years since I tried to tell Justin Hayward that I remembered our shared past, and the tragedy it held. At first I didn’t know how to proceed, so I did the only thing possible – I wrote to the fan club in Cobham. With no help from that quarter, and with my husband’s blessing, I flew to Britain and visited the various spots I knew to be important to Justin, there and in Swindon, but with no luck. Desperate to leave with no progress, I left fifty pounds and a note explaining the situation with an employee of the Moody Blues’ record shop, imploring him to pass it on to Justin.

He took my money and admitted to saying nothing.

Over the years I plucked up the courage and tried to reach him at any concert I could get to, but I was discouraged, misdirected, even lied to. It is not in my nature to make a spectacle of myself, and I tried to be polite and discreet, but always I was humiliated. And every time I went, it ripped a hole in my family.

Once I secretly flew overseas to try again, and as I sat in that plane I was so torn. What if the plane went down? How would my family feel? Which allegiance is more important – the one I owe to Justin and in turn the world, or the very personal one that is my orbit – my present family?

I had a friend whose son was killed senselessly with four other boys, and I desperately wanted to prove to her that we do survive death, and that she and her son would be together again. And so, in 2010, when The Moodies came to a nearby city, I vowed to do whatever it took to finally reach Justin, despite my fear. So this time I sought out the theatre manager, explained that I was a long ago acquaintance of Justin’s and was sure that he would want to see me if he knew I was there. He agreed to get my note to the band manager.

I waited, my nerves walking a tightrope, and as the theatre emptied at the end of the evening, I went searching for the stage manager. He assured me he had passed on the message. But when Justin didn’t appear, I ran for my car and left.

I spent the night in a nearby hotel listening to the elevator clang and the traffic racing outside, and drove home with the worst migraine I’d ever had, to admit defeat, again, to face the inevitable “well maybe it’s because it’s all in your head”. But worse was holding my friend as she cried.

If I’d only known that later that same night Justin did receive my note. That he waited for the next night’s concert, thinking I’d try again. But I was two hours north, unaware and about to break.

In the years that followed, I went on the cruise (see my previous post), I left my family to travel miles and miles away, always to be mislead. In 2016, I decided I couldn’t keep repeating the same behavior and expect a different outcome. I vowed that if it was to be, it would be in the hands of fate.

And so, it is. After thirteen years Justin is returning to my area of the world. And possibly hoping that this time, things would work out and we could finally speak. He announced the tour recently, months after I’d agreed to fly out to Calgary at precisely the same time. Why not cancel, you might ask. Because my sister took over my ninety-five year old mother’s care two years ago, and desperately tired, is finally taking a vacation in Croatia with her friends, and it is my moral duty to go and take her place caring for our mother, who cannot be left alone.

Fate. Repeatedly defeated.

As Justin writes: “We put our faith in God and Man, and one of them betrays us every chance he can.

We stumble on, through wind and rain, and even in the sunshine we get burned again.”

One Day, Someday…..

At Sea

I’ve grown weary of late, trying to convince those who will not see that our loves – yours and mine – can span centuries. But with Justin’s latest effort – Living for Love – and the lyrics within it, I felt ashamed at not trying harder.

And so I thought I’d tell you about my encounter with Graeme. It might confirm in your mind that I’m delusional. On the other hand, for those who know in their hearts that what I say is true, you will appreciate that the truth always takes courage.

If you haven’t read my previous posts, none of this will make sense. I encourage you to open your mind, and scroll down to the bottom, reading back to this point.

And thanks for taking the time.

After Justin received my note in 2010, and my apology for taking so long to realize the situation fully, three long years went by. I waited. But then in early 2013 he launched Spirits of the Western Sky, saying “the things that had to be said” “from the heart”. Then the first Moodies Cruise was announced, to sail that March.

I knew I had to be on it. But I was terrified. The last time we had been together on a ship, we died. I wondered if, in a cruel twist of fate, we were to be reunited at sea again, only for some dreadful accident to cause us to perish once more. But I knew I had to go.

I wanted to go alone but my husband insisted on coming with me. He worried that if I didn’t get the result I wanted I would fall apart. I’m stronger than that. Being in this situation has made me that way.

I wrote the following immediately after my chance encounter with Graeme on board the ship. Graeme, with his wry sense of humour and sharp wit. The man I thought would kid me unmercifully were he and I to become friends. I was so wrong.

“Graeme, I’m sorry to bother you.”

I felt the warmth of his skin penetrating the wiry hair on his arm. He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to me. His eyes were brown and glinting with intensity.

“Yes?” he said sharply, and I felt I had one half second of his attention and no more.

I looked into his eyes, still mystified at how I happened to be standing there. Only a second before I had seen him and vaulted up the stairs, my husband trailing behind me. A blast of sea air came in at the door, heavy with musk and moisture. I took a deep breath and felt it fill me.

“I’m Andrea”, I said, hoping, half expecting a smile of relief. Finally! he’d laugh and pump my hand. What the hell took you so long!

His eyes narrowed. They shone like black stone, every glint of light stabbing my heart, warning me not to try, to go back. But I was there, on the edge of the cliff I’d been backing away from all my life, the one you throw yourself over when you believe. When you believe in your truth. When you believe the universe is a good place and will support you.

“I’m the woman Justin is looking for.”

His head jerked back, as did his arm. The warmth and wiry hair were pulled from under my hand.

“Absolutely not!” he snapped. Indignation jumped into his eyes, and his body recoiled.

My brain lost connection to my body as thoughts raced madly, hitting each other, confusion and pain bashing around inside a head that couldn’t contain them. Did he say “absolutely not” twice? I stood there stupidly, with nowhere to hide.

But I burned with humiliation as he walked on with a small woman dressed in black by his side. “What did she say?” she asked.

“She said she was the woman Justin is looking for,” and he shook his head in disbelief. His voice was loud and brassy. Not the voice of a man I thought would be a friend.

They retreated down another stairwell, her heels clacking on the hard steps.

I was routed to the floor. My husband was behind me. But so was one of our dinner mates. I flushed with shame as he glanced at me and then away. “Oh well, he said, “at least you got to contact him.”

My husband steered me past him and through the doors toward the deck. Outside I found the rail, leaned my head against the glass and felt waves of adrenaline and nausea wash through me. My stomach ached with the tears I couldn’t shed.

How could Graeme have been with Justin all those years and not known his heart? How could he write The Spirit and not remember? On the other hand, what if I’m wrong? I felt a rush of anger. How could Justin provoke a hoax? And insist he spoke from the heart? But no. How can I explain the knowing, even as a young girl, long before there was any evidence to support it? Why would it stay with me all my life, if it was untrue?

My husband was there by my side, giving me water, giving me space, giving me love. Holding me up as much as the rail.

He tells me my life is not empty. He tells me my greatness is not what I hoped to do, but what I have done.

It is late that night as I sit alone on the balcony of our stateroom, with the ever constant searchlights spraying over the waves that radiate from the ship, and the roar of the sea like cymbals in my ears, that it hits me: Graeme thought I was offering myself as a whore.

And hope survived. It still lives.

Echoes

It’s the evening of April 14th, 2022 and one hundred and ten years since we last were together; in the arms of bliss before the hours of horror which followed as the Titanic slipped bow downward, surged upward after breaking in two, and then plunged into the sea, taking waves of screaming humanity with her. I still feel the echo of that night.

And yet I take comfort in the fact that I’m here, safe, and well. I hope all of you do too, whatever echoes you feel.

Watching and Waiting

The truth is often the body that floats to the surface, long after the searchers are gone.

It’s a new year, and like the others before it, it brings with it hope. The failed outcomes of the year before fall into the “should have been” file, and we move forward, all of us, toward the dreams yet unfulfilled.

With Graeme’s passing in November of last year, Justin lost not only a dear friend and lifelong colleague, he lost the redemption he’s been waiting for since his early twenties. He lost the opportunity to say to his friend “See? I’m not crazy. All the dedication you put into our music on my behalf has now paid off. We – you, John, Mike, Ray and me – we’ve done it. We’ve proven to the world that death is not the end but instead the open door to the resting place, the learning place, where we all assess and absorb, ready to make our next entrance into the world as better people than we were before.”

I know that the losses of Ray and then Graeme have brought him great sadness, and even more frustration than before.

We can only hope that with death comes greater understanding, and with that some divine help.

And thinking about that I wonder what control we all have over our lives. Both Justin and I remember the purpose with which we were sent into this life, and yet we, despite years of effort, have not fully realized it. How much does free will count for? How much is decided before we’re born? What is our fate to be?

It may be a moot point, in that Justin did receive my note July 4th, 2010, albeit too late for us to meet. He did produce Spirits quickly thereafter and stress over and over that it was a labour of love, that those things needed to be said. “Other restless spirits cry for the dreams that pass them by, but we were mortal – you and I – we were going down. As I loved you then I knew I had lost you – I’d lost you, like the crystal mountain dew in the sunshine. Cos I remember the days when we swore we would always be true. What on earth am I supposed to do?”.

“I would have given you the world to stay. If I’d only known what I know today.” What forces were at play that evening when I’d arranged with the stage manager to meet with Justin? When he came to look for me as I drove away? To talk with him about our past.

That’s all I want to do.

I don’t want to disrupt his life. I wouldn’t hurt his family for the world. I don’t need his money. I am comfortably well off on my own, well loved and surrounded by a cherished family. And his fame has never been something I sought. Ironically it is the thing that brought him back to me and yet still holds us apart.

I know I should be content with the fact that I know and he knows, but the spirit of the Guardian, that glowing, loving but authoritative figure (that I think we all see but can’t remember) still pushes me to make it known to the world. And so I continue to bear disbelief and even abuse, because I know it to be true.

(If none of this makes any sense to you, dear reader, scroll down to the bottom and make your way back up. To those loyal followers, thank you. Together we will see its fruition, someday.)

Nostradamus, contd.

I have probably done myself a disservice by introducing this topic at this point. In fact it’s very likely. I realize that I haven’t given you enough background for any references to have any meaning, and so all credibility could be lost.

Add to that the fact that Nostradamus’ posts are deliberately vague, (as he pointed out, to protect himself) and you have ample reason for skepticism.

But it’s the way that I discovered what I believe is the connection that compels me to share it with you. So I’ll forgo the other quatrains that I think speak to Justin’s situation, and just talk about the key one.

It was in that period of grace that I mentioned earlier, when I was in a state of hyper-awareness. I just knew things, as if being steered by an unseen force.

We had invited friends over for dinner, and while settling on something to watch on television we happened on a documentary about Nostradamus. The program didn’t delve into his predictions but rather focused on his life. I had never heard of him before. But I was struck by a sense of urgency and hardly slept that night.

In the morning my footsteps clattered across the marble floors of the mall as I hurried toward a bookstore. I had never set foot in it before but I knew exactly where to go – the far right corner at the back.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked as I rushed past the desk.

“No thank-you,” I answered, and brushed her query aside with my arm as I kept on. “I think I know where to find what I’m looking for.”

And this is where it was weird. I walked right to a line of shelves, reached out my hand and it fell on a book. When I pulled it from the shelf the book opened to page 213, not in the center but toward the back. I looked down. The title of the chapter was “The Heart of the Lover”. I flipped the book over to see what I had drawn from the shelf: “Nostradamus – The Millenium and Beyond” by Peter Lorie.

I remember feeling faint, as if I was in a dream, so I slumped down into a crouch behind the shelves before I read the quatrain. I somehow knew what it would say and I felt the need to hide, as if everyone in the store would think I was crazy. As if they knew what was happening to me.

I read C8 25: “The lover’s heart is opened by furtive love the woman ravished by streams (of tears), the lascivious will mimic half a hurt, the father will twice do without the soul.”

Justin had written dozens and dozens of songs by that time, all coaxing a lost friend and love to remember their shared past, to think of him, to bring him redemption. My heart had been opened when I was young, but closed again when I doubted myself, then opened again in the strange occurrences of the previous year. Could that really pertain to us?

I thought of all the time I had spent crying in secret (explained in a previous post), overwhelmed by the grief of our deaths and the great burden put on us in this life. The woman ravished by streams of tears.

The lascivious will mimic half a hurt. So many artists had written and sung about Justin’s predicament. From the viewpoint of a man who lived centuries before, rock and roll singers might well have been considered lascivious. And they had placed themselves in his skin, mimicking his half of our hurt.

But it was the last line that struck hardest. The father will twice do without the soul. I haven’t told you about the life in the 18th century out of fear of being dismissed, but I believe in that life I left my husband – the same soul I am currently married to – to be with the soul who is Justin. And I had already hurt my husband so much, turned his life upside down, when I told him what I believed to be true. The guilt was overwhelming.

There are more quatrains that I believe speak directly to Justin – to his power as a force for good in this world we are in, but I won’t go into them. I can’t be sure I’m right after all, until Justin and I can sit together and speak about it. And even then, who knows?

But I was struck once again when I realized some time later that Justin had written a song about Nostradamus. A song so out of character with his previous works.

“Do you ever get the feeling Nostradamus told us true? And it’s all being realized by you.”

“Do you ever get the feeling Nostradamus told us true? And it’s all being witnessed now, by you.”

Until next time, stay safe.

Nostradamus

In order to understand how Nostradamus and Justin Hayward are connected, you must first understand that his plight, his motivation, could not remain secret no matter how much he wished it to be so.

The other members of the Moody Blues learned of it early, and before long were contributing to the effort with their own songwriting. There are too many examples to list here, but some that you will recognize immediately are Candle of Life with John collaborating, his Isn’t Life Strange, and It May be a Fire, Ray Thomas’s For My Lady, Graeme Edge’s After You Came, Mike Pinder’s One Step Into the Light.

The British music scene was tight, with bands meeting at The Bag o’ Nails and other pubs as well as flowing in and out of each others’ recording studios. And so Justin’s strange story became known.

Songwriters are feeling people. Their success depends on it. And so it was natural that some of those more intuitive and compassionate writers and performers took on his quest and made it their own through their music. It’s my belief that Peter Gabriel wrote In Your Eyes and Mercy Street with Justin’s story in mind, and later, in 1992 released US with its evocative cover of a man (Gabriel) chasing the ghostly figure of a woman. On it are Steam, Come Talk to Me, and Kiss That Frog. Give them a listen.

In that period of grace that I found myself in (see previous posts) – around 1992 through ’94, many such efforts came out. Whether Justin actually spoke to the artists I can’t say, but there seemed to be some collective consciousness, a subtle vibration that those sensitive people (including others not in the musical industry, like James Cameron who launched his epic effort to create his film Titanic) picked up on. Phil Collins was one of those.

I quote his notes on his album Both Sides: “This is the first time I’ve ever written sleeve notes for one of my albums. The reason I write them now is to give the listener a direction or to maybe explain what the songs are about. Songs are all things to all people but sometimes the wrong path is taken and the misinterpretation stays with you forever. This batch of songs crept up behind me during the last few months of ’92 and the first half of ’93.”

Precisely when the knowledge came to me.

Was he referencing Justin’s frustration and despair, so clearly painted on his face as he sang New Horizons at Red Rocks, September 9th, 1992?

Both Sides is filled with the story: Everyday, Can’t Turn Back the Years, Can’t Find My Way, but most notably, especially, in Survivors, where the printed lyrics read “No I never meant to cause you pain, no I never meant to hurt you” but he actually sings (listen closely) “No I never meant to cause you thaed” – which is death – backwards. He also says at one point “Survivors in THEIR night” as if making a nod to the fact that this was not his story, but Justin’s.

And We Fly So Close. In this song his empathy is so touching it tears at the heart.

In November 1993 a hauntingly beautiful album was launched by Andreas Vollenweider featuring Eliza Gilkyson, called Eolian Minstel. The name itself speaks volumes – eolian meaning borne by the wind – but the songs within it tell our tale from both sides of the story, with a mention in the notes of a person behind the scenes. It’s quite possible that, knowing how much I loved Andreas’s music, Justin spoke with him about the fact that he couldn’t reach me – in another attempt to overcome what he perceived was my misinterpretation of his songs, as Phil alluded to.

And then there’s Sting – with his evocative story telling skills. There are many examples but the one that speaks most clearly is Fields of Gold. “You’ll remember me when the west wind blows among the fields of barley…” He echoes Justin’s descriptions of heaven: the golden meadows and luminous light. In it he hopes the sight of golden fields here on earth will spark the memory. The “jealous sun” is our sun, jealous because it can’t compete with the light of heaven. It is an odd song among love songs, but it speaks directly to our strange situation and has given me much comfort.

Years later Sting wrote A Thousand Years. A mysterious song. Give it a listen.

There are more artists, possibly even the Beatles. Less crazy than you may think, given the fact that Mike Pinder was a frequent visitor to their studio. But I won’t labour the point.

How does this factor into any connection to Nostradamus beyond Justin’s song about him? Next post.

There are so many conspiracy theories out there right now I recognize the need for skepticism, but I do thank you for your open mind as I unwind this story.

Going Home

Welcome back, and thank you to those faithful followers who have checked back regularly (hello Germany, Finland, China and the others). I apologize for taking so long to continue – it has been a trying time for us all.

If you are joining me for the first time, be sure to scroll right down to the bottom – Justin’s story is there. Then work your way up to join us here.

——————————————————————————————————————————–

Self-deception is the ego’s trip wire, and so in the weeks, months and years that followed I bought every Moody Blues album I could find and listened with a skeptic’s mind to disprove what my heart and soul acknowledged. But I found the opposite, as you might if you choose to do the same. Almost every song, written by Justin or the other members of the Moody Blues, confirmed it, albeit with some projecting forward to a successful outcome. If you’ve ever wondered about some of the mysteries in their music – some of the thoughts that are expressed that don’t quite make sense in the context of everyday life as most of us know it – you will know that I speak the truth.

I was struck by the extraordinary strength it took for Justin to persevere against all odds for all those years, and the love and loyalty that Mike, John, Graeme and Ray showed toward him.

A year went by. I kept my silence while I carried on with my life – caring for my husband and children – but I was exhausted by the effort it took to keep my two worlds separate and safe from each other.

But of course that was impossible. My husband demanded to know what was going on. I knew that once I began to speak nothing between us would ever be the same. He would never see me as the person he knew so well again. I would have to hurt the man who had done nothing but love me well since I was sixteen years old.

It was agonizing, as you might imagine. He reacted as anyone would but in the end he held me close and promised to help. If I could prove it he would change his thoughts about life, about love, about death.

If I died on the Titanic, then who was I? He wanted to know. He said I should know that, if reincarnation was real.

But I didn’t know for sure. I only had a vague notion that we had been on honeymoon. That I had chosen to stay with my husband. I was deathly afraid to think that I had had children – that they had drowned and I hadn’t been able to save them.

My husband, sons and I traveled to Halifax and the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic where I donned white gloves and was ushered up into the freezing room where they keep the archives. A woman in a steely grey suit and sensible shoes chatted as we rode the elevator and made our way down the hallway. “Halifax of course played such a vital role in the Titanic disaster,” she said. “We sent the MacKay Bennett to retrieve the bodies and set up a morgue to receive and process them. Gruesome task. Some of them just babies. They say the tarpaulins over the bodies rose and flapped with the wind and the motion of the ship as she came back to the harbour. Made them seem to still be alive. A good many bodies are in the Fairview Lawn Cemetery here in Halifax, but I guess you already know that, as you’re doing research. Anyway, here we are.” She lay a large volume on the steel table, and looked at me sternly. “Here is the ship’s manifest. Handle it carefully. You have twenty minutes. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

As I scrolled down the list of passenger names – I felt sure we had been in second class and some references in the music suggested the same – my finger lit upon the name Benjamin Howard. I looked across at the point of origin – Swindon, Wiltshire. Justin was born in Swindon, Wiltshire, backing onto the tracks of the Great Western Railway. I looked at the profession listed. Mr. Howard worked for the GWR!

My mind leapt to the possibility of a grand design. What if Justin had been reborn right back where he had lived before? What if the familiarity of the surroundings were designed to help him bring the possibility of reincarnation to the world?

Some time later I flew to England and drove to the Maritime Museum in Southhampton. The Titanic left from that port in 1912 and the museum there had a large exhibit. It was there that I found out that Benjamin Howard’s wife’s maiden name was Truelove. Ellen Truelove. Surely this was the universe telling it’s story.

I was seduced by the simplicity and beauty of this answer for many years, but all the while I felt unsettled. I let all sorts of fantasies cloud my own feelings – (the common letters in both Benjamin Howard and Justin Hayward are “in” and “ward” – surely the word “inward” was significant – and other things of that ilk.)

And that left me to relive all the deaths of the people on that passenger list. Had I been Augusta Goodwin, scrambling to gather all her six children to her as the crowd pressed against the cages that kept them locked in steerage? “Frederick, for God’s sake make them open the gates! Let us out! Don’t be afraid my darlings, Mother’s here. Frederick!” Had I held Sidney, my infant son out of the freezing water as long as I could? Did I fear that I might die first and drop his tiny body in the sea?

Or was I Bess Allison, holding my five year old daughter’s hand and frantically searching for my little son, Trevor. “Come out of the boat, Lorraine. Yes, out of the lifeboat. We must find your father and that blasted nurse. She has your brother and I don’t know where she’s taken him! Hudson! Hudson! Trevor!”

Over 1,500 people died that night on the flat stillness of the north Atlantic, under a sky studded with stars. Justin and I had been two of them, I felt sure of that. But who?

In Saved by the Music by Justin and John on Blue Jays they sing “This time I’m saved by the music – saved by the song we can sing – the song that you bring.” The band played well on until they could stand on the slanting deck no longer on that fateful night in 1912, but could save no one. Of course no one ever figured that the Titanic would be found, as Justin mentioned in You – again on Blue Jays. “I- I believe what is lost forever has brought the change in me.”

But Dr. Robert Ballard did find the ship, and by some strange cosmic alignment, James Cameron at precisely that time made a film about it. I slipped away while the boys were in school and my husband was at work and sat, shivering in an icy cold theater watching the frigid water race down the hallways. Watched the bodies float by the Grand Staircase. Watched the ship stand on end and then plummet to the sea. Still I felt like I had amnesia.

It was years later as I drove to Cornwall, Ontario to lay the ashes of my mother-in-law that the answer came to me. Her name – Isabelle Sarah – had always haunted me. Sarah. And I remembered how I’d felt in another Cornwall all those years ago when I’d first stepped onto English soil in this life. A sense of coming home.

And then I knew. I was Sarah Elizabeth Lawry, lately married to John Chapman. We had lived in St. Neot, Cornwall. It made sense. As a child I had named my doll Elizabeth. I called the statue in the garden Elizabeth. I had been Sarah Elizabeth Chapman. John had always called me Lizzie.

I finally felt settled.

It seems that John and I had stood by the rail that night and watched the lifeboats being loaded. But when it came my turn to step in I turned back, saying “If John can’t go, I won’t either.”

So many questions. Was I really that brave? Or had I felt safer on the ship with him than in the lifeboat? Had he cajoled me into staying? I sometimes think that he believes that, and that this demand put upon us, this dedicating his life to finding me is somehow, in his mind, karma. A life for a life.

I don’t feel that way. I hope someday to tell him so.

Until next time…. thank you for joining me.