One Starry Night
Being Pyotr Ilyich: Tchaikovsky’s Inner Life, Revealed by Himself 130 Years Later, a spiritual memoir by Chris Nielson that delves into past-live regression and the journey a soul takes through life.
The following is a memoir of my own.
When I was a little girl, I loved looking at art books. I was one of the few children allowed to go into the adult section of the library in my hometown. Art books called to me along with books on people from around the world. One day, as I was thumbing through a book on Impressionism, I came upon the section on Vincent Van Gogh. The minute I saw, Vincent’s “Starry Night” something inside me clicked. I just sat studying the painting, running my small fingers over the images on the page. I knew this painting was mine; it was painted for me.
Several years later, as a student in the third grade of Gate of Heaven Elementary School, Sister Monique gave me a postcard with a painting on it to research. We were to look up the artist and write about their life as well as reflect on what the painting meant to us. When I turned my card over I exclaimed for all the class to hear, “Oh, that’s the painting Vincent did for me!”
The class began to giggle. Sister rolled her eyes; she was used to me coming out with outlandish statements. She put her hand on my shoulder, softly saying, “Just do the research, Linda.”
Throughout my life, stories, biographies and other books on Vincent found their way into my life. Reading about him felt like reliving a life I knew firsthand. Consequently, his artwork and writings have inspired my own poetry and writing.
The Provence was always on my bucket list of places to visit. Finally, as an adult, I had the opportunity to travel to Europe.
We landed in Amsterdam on Museum Weekend, when all the museums were open for free. Of course, I wanted to go to the Van Gogh Museum. When we entered, the first room was filled with letters between Vincent and his brother, Theo. The handwriting was familiar even though I couldn't read the words on the pages. While I spend some time gazing at the correspondence of the brothers, I was eager to view Vincent's art.
After walking down a short hall, I turned a corner, coming face to face with Vincent’s self-portrait. I gasped seeing it. His blue eyes pierced my being and I burst into tears. The feeling was the same as seeing a loved one after having been separated for some time. I wanted to touch his cheek, to tell him that he had been a success, that his art had touched so many lives. I prayed that somewhere in time and space he heard my thoughts.
I walked slowly through the rest of the museum, savoring each painting. Unfortunately, “Starry Night” was not on exhibit. (I learned later that it is housed in New York. I still have not seen it in person.)
From Amsterdam, we traveled to Germany, then the Provence on our way to Alicante to visit with my first class ESOL students who lived there. Of course, I had to stop in Arles.
We wondered around the small town until noon, when we thought to find a place for lunch. Without hesitation, I pointed to a little alley and made the statement that a great il fresco cafe was at the end of it. Low and behold, I lead the way to a lovely patioed cafe were patrons sat on cozy chairs in the open air. When the waitstaff gave us the menus, they handed them to us with the back facing us. There, on the back cover, was a story that told of how Vincent frequently dined at the cafe and painted the patrons.
My hair still stands on end when I remember this. The strangeness of this visit doesn’t end there, though. I also found my way to the Yellow House were he lived and died without use of a map. (No GPS at that time.) We couldn't go in because it was too late. My emotions were so extreme that tears ran down my cheeks without effort.
Returning to our small hotel, we were on a road filled with trees. Suddenly, the mountains came into view. Once again I gasped. “Stop the car!” I exclaimed.
I got out and stood amongst a grove of olive trees. “I have been here before,” I said in a whisper. Trembling, I walked toward the edge of the grove, staring at the mountains. I turned, saying how I knew I had been here before. I asked to have my picture taken, sure that there was something very mystical happening.
When I returned home from Europe several days later, I walked into my bedroom. There on the mirror was a tiny card given to me by a dear friend. Tears welled in my eyes and the hair on my neck stood up as I realized that the place my picture was taken was the same place that Vincent had painted, “The Olive Grove” many years ago.
When I shared these event with a friend, she told me I was an old soul. Momma told me that I had "the gift." I am not sure but I do know that I have always had unexplained knowledge of things, feelings of deja vu, and other unexplained events in my life. This was just one, but it was one of the most intense, especially since I had always felt connected to this artist and his work.
Today, “Starry Night” hangs at the end of my bed, a gift from my love - an answer to a prayer said that we were meant to be together. He got it on his way home from a trip, wanting to get something meaningful. He asked the woman in the gift shop if she had a poster of the painting. She said she didn't think so, but then she went to the back to check. Serendipity! She found the last one.
When I opened the matted and framed poster, I asked why he had picked this particular painting for me. His words made my heart jump. "I just knew it was your painting."
Every day I see "Starry Night." The painting is not only a symbol of love, but also a reminder that Vincent's legacy lives on. Every day, I give thanks for Vincent and his beautiful artwork that still touches my mind and soul.
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