The Hamlet Project

There was a period wherein I really believed in Angels. I had an angel book that kicked it off, I think. I purchased it for next to nothing at a used book shop. I had angel cards, too.
I’ve never been religious – didn’t believe in God, even while believing, with tears and laughter, in angels.
Angels were appealing in a way that God was not. They had personalities, specialties. I welcomed them with meditations and automatic writing. One of them got me through a break-up and an up-ending of my life.
I feel pretty clear now that that angel was my own mind, my own imagination, giving me the good advice I needed. The fact that I found a roundabout way to hear it is of no consequence now. It was an angel then. It helped me. When it enfolded me in its imaginary wings, it provided comfort.
There is something assuring about a flock of angels watching over you, ready to defend against difficulties of all kinds. The fantasy of someone flying in from above to save you is one of the best there is. In a future dark moment, I might imagine more angels, even if I don’t believe in them.