Reflections On Life And Death Submerged In Bubbles In The Swiss Alps

I had to hang on in trying to stand in the neck-deep hot bubbles fiercely surging and erupting around my head.  The strong force of the thermal waters pummeled my torso rocking me to one side to the other, making it difficult to keep my face above water.

Overhead loomed a creamy white full moon towering above the snow capped Swiss Alps, reflecting the moonlight against the dark  blue inky sky.

The outdoor pools of Les Bains de Saillon, where photos are not allowed, was in the valley whereas the photo of me squinting in full sun was taken  the next day at another thermal bath.

We had gone to Saillon after sunset when thick  steam vapours swirling around my head made it difficult to see across the pool.

I had to totter and move about only on my tippy toes, because I am short, at least in comparison to the majority of Swiss.   Just another disadvantage of being short I guess.

Drenched and dripping tangles of hair framed my face uplifted toward the moon, like I was looking for some sort of understanding of life so far lived.

My mind flashed backed to the time when the fiercest winds of life seemed to have crashed down upon my heart and mind ripping away whatever understanding and hopes I might have carried.

I had come here for some soothing distraction for my grief, a pure and simple way to approach the death anniversary of my son, who died on February 18, 2017.

The sugar dusted Alps are a monumental symbol of strength and endurance that I was called upon to have, as a mother who has to confront the cruelest of fears come true.

They say the Alps are still moving and growing, perhaps as slowly as I feel sometimes.  Grief grabs hold of your reality, stopping you in your tracks,  and dims the colours of your horizon.

A life I bore within me, nourished and loved with all my heart for many years, left this earthly existence to go beyond to wherever souls go.

My Christian faith portrays an afterlife of heaven as peaceful as these mountains seem.    A returning to the source from whence we all came.

The source of Light and Love eternal perhaps remembered only a short while after we are born and then forgotten as the veil of illusion of life, as we know it, becomes our only reality.

About three am in the morning I awoke to some dancing stars outside my window at the hotel in Malbuisson, a very small village where we stopped for the night high in the Jura mountains , more covered with fresh snow than the Valais.

The brightness of those stars was unreal, outshining the clearest of diamonds. Not only were they twinkling  but they seemed to change dimensions non stop.

God of God, Light of Light, Very God of very God, Begotten not made……, a part of the Nicene Creed recited at every Mass and in most Christian churches flooded my thoughts.

Our earthly existence for those of us who are Light bearers in the making, is to polished our souls to reflect the purest Light of God  brighter than when we arrived at our earthly birth.

Perhaps those twinkling bright stars are those  souls who have returned to pure energy and Light, with maybe the brightest belonging to Saints and innocents, known and unknown regardless of their earthly religious affiliation.

I flashed back to the time when I worked part time in a psychiatric hospital. A young psychotic woman who was being hospitalised in the locked in unit wandered around aimlessly uttering revelations in her psychotic state.

She suddenly looked off into the distance with her arm outstretched,  pronounced with great conviction that “we are from stars”  “and we shall return to be stars”.

I have never dismissed  patients psychoses as stemming solely from the  misfiring of aberrant neurons.  Yes, their psychosis may often be contaminated by their beliefs and fears, especially those immersed in paranoia.

Normal functioning human beings create their own perception of reality too with their own array of beliefs, prejudices and fears.

I have often wondered if those afflicted with psychotic illnesses have certain neuronal abnormalities that creates a “window” that allows them to go beyond our perceived physical reality, that is closed off to us non afflicted “normal” beings.

Therefore,  I have always sincerely listened to them and sifted out their contaminating fears as best possible, rather than dismiss all that they say as nonsensical.

On the day of the  18th, I sought out more hot thermal waters, this time in full sun high up a winding road in a ski station.

Les Bains d’Ovronnaz  are nestled and bordered by drifts of snow with white capped Alps surrounding the outdoor pools.

I love the sensation of having my head barely out in the crisp cold air and the rest of me submerged in soothing bubbles. Even better if there are falling snow flakes.

We stayed till the setting sun started to leave the peaks and the steam vapours became more dense. By this time my hands and feet looked water wrinkled, but my grieving soul soothed somewhat.

I don’t ski, but I chose the small village of Chamoson in the upper Rhone Valley of Switzerland  in the canton of  Valais; the area famous for their wines and apricots and mostly French speaking.

It is not far from Lac Leman and situated close to three thermal baths and a nearby abbey. Towards the West as the crow flies lies Mont Blanc just over the French border.

Chamoson is about 105 kilometers from the shrinking Rhone glacier which carved this valley thousands of years ago and stretched all the way to Geneva.

The green Rhone here looks only about 20 so feet wide , yet fills up Lac Leman then spills over the border into France where it widens and becomes the major river of southern France, emptying into the Mediterranean sea near Marseille.

Chamoson is a wine village, where vineyards grow all around and even behind houses.

The welcome sign cautions being quiet amongst the “sleeping” vines!

I loved sitting out on the balcony of the wonderful Airbnb apartment each morning drinking my cafe au lait in the midst of all those dormant vines.

It was very quiet and peaceful, except for the occasional cry of a mule trying to get attention from his other equine friends beyond the vineyards.

Those brown looking stumps stripped naked and bare of any foliage look lifeless as I sometime feel, especially in February, the month of my mother’s death anniversary too.

I saw vintners out in their vineyards each day to prune or clear away dead twigs fallen in between  the rows.  They say that grapes will only grow on newly sprouted vines.

We too have to be pruned of unnecessary baggage we carry around, in order to fully expand again to  life giving forces. 

Though dormancy is not a part of our existence, the dark days of winter offer a chance for us to retreat and be still, storing up our energies for the spring to come.

Grief can’t be pruned away though, for it leaves deep gashes in our psyches, looking a lot like the cracked crevices in old vine stumps, called ” les vielles vignes”.

Premium wines come from those gnarled old scared vines, and they are labeled as such on French wines as an indication of a richer quality of wine offering more nuances of flavour than from younger vines.

Winemakers say some vines live for over 100 years, and although they are not as productive as the younger ones, the grapes are highly prized for their depth of flavour.

I can say that I have joined the ranks of les vielles vignes, firmly planted, bearing scars and at times struggling, but still yielding whatever I can on my earthly mission to help others.

Gratitude for all the blessings in my life despite the painful losses is my daily mantra. Life has to lived on life’s terms, not ours.

We are here for only a short time, and like the source of the Rhone, which has been flowing since eons, life continues to be lived as fully as we can.