The Right One

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The Moment I Started to Say "God"

With conviction, because I began to trust the existence, benevolence, and actual interaction with my life.

God appeared.

God appeared in every form I long sought through, and in every language I had previously attempted to speak with it.

I found God in José Silva's deep meditation methods—a radiologist who discovered God and found a way to communicate with it as a Westerner, without dogma, and quickly.

I went to the sea and threw a bouquet of flowers in. The moment I did, a huge wave arose, accompanied by the rushing sound and my excited squealing, capturing this instant communication on video by Dino.

Inspired by Joel Osteen and Florence Scovel Shinn, I repeated affirmations, casting my burden to the Christ within. He helped me in a miraculous way, provided time, and gave me clues to navigate a life crisis with unexpected speed.

My Hare Krishna friend from London sent me a beautiful insight on God and life that was very apt and in tune with what I was contemplating.

The book "Autobiography of a Yogi" fell into my hands. It contains the most incredible accounts of a life lived with God-communication by a Hindu, deeply inspiring me.

My hairdresser, a friend with whom I have deep conversations about life, asked me to read the Quran, so I bought it and started to read.

And there’s my mother, as always on her crusade to convert me—not really to God but to do whatever she tells me in the name of God.

It is all current, all very intense in these few weeks.

I hear you!

The thing is, while I have wandered the religious path, as I have the world—curious, trying different things, places, tastes, colors, and contexts—my stops along the path have brought me into closeness with several people who shared their God with me.

These friends, who have embraced me with love, shared their bliss, their faith, and their ways—many of them also sharing the opinion that only their way is the right way. Absolutely convinced that only their way is right and all others who do not find it might be spiritually lost.

Among these, I have friends who are Hare Krishnas, Muslims, Jews, Pagans, Buddhists, and Christians.

Recently, I spoke to an American writer of Jewish background. He was an atheist for a while and eventually met God in Alcoholics Anonymous. His life improved dramatically since the meeting. "I believe in God," he said. "You know, it's all one God to most of us now. But I do prefer my own family tradition."

To some of my friends, this attitude is exceptionally triggering, and they simply view it as wrong.

But then I've heard tales of Krishna appearing to a friend in London, and Jesus's mother Mary appearing to my mother, and Jesus speaking out actual words friends have heard which have saved lives. And in my life, I have had plenty of interventions from the invisible—the always invisible.

Why is God in touch with me right now, from all these directions and religions, which are almost making me dizzy with their concepts, similarities, and differences? Why is it that at this point in my life, I hear in my head "write the book" each time I meditate? As I am finally editing the stories that have been written two decades ago—suddenly God pours in from all sides. Why couldn't I put this book of art and life events together before? Why now?

Recently, I posted on Instagram how the only place people of all religions are welcome and at peace together is the art gallery. The gallery is a temple of the spiritual, safe for all because its without dogma. Without judgment or required initiation or specific books.  Easier to digest for the contemporary human, who is not growing up in a homogenous small town, that has one religion- but the 2025 metropolitan growing up in the rainbow civilizational cocktail most large cities are. So we wonder over to art and just feel and interpret what we feel. But art has in the past for many civilizations meant- though it may have been forgotten- the channeling of the divine. 

Reading the book by Yogananda, "Autobiography of a Yogi," he describes a Hindu saint, Lahiri Mahasaya. This man became a yogi, a realized man of God, as a husband and father who had a family and a job. Lahiri met Babaji, the avatar saint, at the age of 33, who tells him he is chosen to be an example that other people with families and human lives can reach God-consciousness—they do not have to renounce the world as many Hindu saints have. Lahiri becomes a saint who inspires a renaissance of religion in India.

Who am I? An artist who has wandered with western style amorals, this life from cosmopolitan multicultural London and all in-between to the Balkans, curious—in between my first love and marriage, addicted to the feeling of in-loveness, ever hunting for "the right one" for years. In retrospect, I was looking for that satisfaction of intense all-encompassing, condition-free, sublime love in a human man.

I have not found a man that can love in a divine, unconditional way, but I have, by and by, finally found God- if I'm honest trough empirical evidence ,and continuous answers to my requests, to my inital amazement. So I can stop looking for perfection in a man. I can have love for both and permit myself to feel the being loved by man and God. Less pressure or demands on both.

I'm under the impression that each of us alongside our own affection—is a channel for the divine love to pass through us to people around us.  I feel all the more convinced that all we have around us is a manifestation of this channeled divine love—from the tidying up Dino has done because I am sick with fever today and my head hurts so much I have not moved from the couch much, to this apartment and safety that is now my home materializing. I think it's all a manifestation of the divine love.

This morning I looked at the Art form Bali- where religious scenes of gods and daemons reminded me of the Balkans energy. In the Balkans  region live people who are Catholic, Bogomili, Pagans, Orthodox, Muslim, Jews, and Romi with their own beliefs- for centuries. There have been many wars between certain groups . They each consider themselves the righteous believers of "The Right One." . And in all the wars they all have "the only true god " on their side . 

Santa Maria di Trastevere

 Rome 

The sheer confidence in the divine existing has changed things for me. It is through my troubles being solved miraculously that, to me, proved the existence of God. All the amazing blessings that have occurred throughout my life, I have always seen as- Magic. But as I look back into a thousand incidents, there is proof I have been looked after when I have not known it at all. It might mean that there is something expected of me to realize that I had to be cared for, and not allowed to extinguish in various dangerous moments I have walked through in life, like a fakir over fire—unharmed. Or maybe it is enough that I am. 

This sudden confidence in the existence of God, the allowing myself to slow down, stop driving my chariot forward headless, and letting myself be looked after, guided, allowing the not knowing to last for longer than I have ever been confident to—shows the strength of my faith. And I wonder what is that thing I should do next.

I had the most beautiful dream yesterday, a prophetic dream, with a white horse breaking free from its confines, jumping in the sea, and coming to my arms. A dream so incredible I know mostly it’s a blessing but still do not understand what it means in my life.

 Now that I know this energy exists—what should my purpose be? To share it? Is that the point—with each person who discovers it? Duty? I have been triggered by extreme missionary zeal to convey God—as my mother has fought me all my life on this subject—and I have no wish to become this embarrassing, violent missionary. But if I was to go back into all my adventures and write in, the intimate divine connection experiences, in between the exhibitions, is this why all I hear in the quiet of my most recent meditations - Write the Book. Is this what actually connects all my stories? Was this in fact missing the whole while in the enormous quantity of life adventures and text- the vulnerability to be honest all the way, my innards?

I arrived in Rome on the train. The sky was pink-orange, colors of heaven, and of promises of amazing things—at least I had begun to connect this kind of sky to the promise. 

Raffaella was abroad and was not picking up her phone. For an instant, with all my drawings rolled up in a huge, cumbersome tube and a suitcase of clothes, with limited money, I thought about getting on the train back to Croatia. I had arrived for my first exhibition since graduating in London a couple of months earlier. A solo show in Rome!

The amazing thing is—I had been fantasizing about getting a job in Rome. I had applied to work in a gallery in Rome—and did not get the job—and then Raffaella, whom I met on a night of full moon at the Ron Arad Show in the Design Shop in London—because of Marina, who was working for him and who invited me—Raffaella and I became friendly enough for me to host her in London and for her to see my artwork—and as it happened, she was a curator and gallerist with a gallery in Rome—she invited me to have my first exhibition in Rome—and here I was. 

My plan B was to work for the auction house Christie's newly opened in Dubai—which seemed like a plan where I would get paid and have an adventure—but Rome was my heart’s desire—and I had no real idea how to do it.

Here I was. In Rome. My grandmother, proud of me, gave me some cash. She had just had a heart attack, and returned home from the hospital, we seperated with plans for us to go to my exhibitions together in Paris and Rome in the future.

I had no idea how wild this year would get -and that the orange-pink sky was really being super honest. A man called Luigi phoned me. He was one of the two male friends I had met with Raffaella in London. He was a film producer who worked with Raffa on the Beatles exhibition and, as he told me then, convinced Raffa to bring me over to Rome.

 I doubted the truth of this as Raffa and I-  connected in a magical way—but he called me up—offered to host me in his house, which, while kind, did not make me feel entirely comfortable. He said Raffa had asked him to call. And then he told me about the place Raffaella had planned for me to sleep in—called Bettie’s House—which he advised against, again offering his own place—but I felt safe in Raffaella’s choice. He also gave me the number of Raffaella’s assistant , to help me set up the show , and the address of Bettie’s House.

 I got on the bus to Chiesa Nuova—center of Rome—and that was that.

Completely in love with Rome, in the next few days in which I was preparing the gallery and my works for the exhibition, I wandered and walked, exploring the Eternal City, with each step more in love. Eventually, I came across a church that looked significant. Santa Maria di Trastevere. I went in and prayed, almost to the point of tears, that Mother Maria would let me stay in Rome, would let me live in Rome, that somehow I could stay. Of course, I sort of disbelieved myself—I had very limited funds, I could not work in Italy suddenly—without all kinds of bureaucracy, I had no house, I knew no one. The truth is I was alone—but I immediately loved Rome.

And just in case Maria, Mother of God, would not make it happen, I did some kind of leaf-counting magic whilst walking all the way down the river Tevere for miles—hoping it would help keep me there. Something like stepping on every yellow leaf for every day i will remain in Rome.

Transcending into the Cosmos from the Radha Krishna Temple

In cities and metropolises, despite millions of inhabitants sharing one place, sometimes each of them experiences solitude. This city solitude can be very intense, and it clutches at your soul despite you doing all the things you have come to do in such a city. A melancholy seeps into your bones like a chill.

The St. Martins building on Charing Cross Road was home to the fine art studios. This is the heart of London, Soho—the edge of this area is Piccadilly Circus, and you might know London by photos of the big advertising screens here, even if you have not set foot in it.

It was one of those über-gray London winter days with relentless drizzle that makes you not even notice it, merging time and space into one seeming endlessness. I was on the 8th floor of the building, in my little glass nest studio, working away on my wall as ever. Fay and Henrik, with whom I shared the studio, were not around; their absence seemed woven into the endless grayness, so I had spent hours, days alone. The never properly mourned loss of my father crept into my loneliness, and I felt alone to tears.

I became so upset that I could not stop the tears or the profound sorrow that overtook me. The studio was made of two walls of windows and a corner of wall where we hung our artworks. Suddenly, drumming started to vibrate through the glass—happy, exotic drumming that was unexpected, making me unsure for a moment if I was imagining it. But the drumming continued.

I felt an urge to abandon the art-making that was going nowhere and run all the way down the staircase to the street to hunt down the sound. The sound disappeared once I got to the street, making me question myself and feel foolish. Then it reemerged in pieces, as if teasing me. A rhythm of something exotic, something alive, warm, and inviting, led me to follow the sound like Alice follows the rabbit, through the gush of multinational strangers pouring out of tube stations, seeping from buses, osmosing through the street, and taking photos of the Londonness.

When I finally arrived at the sound on Oxford Street, I recognized Hare Krishnas. I had seen them in Split and Birmingham and was a bit freaked out about their wearing socks out in the middle of winter everywhere. But this time I decided to follow them wherever they might go. I wanted to hear more of their music. The tears had dried up by now. The sun broke through the clouds at the end of Oxford Street. The music stopped, and the group of Hare Krishnas started walking around the corner. I kept on following them to an unusually decorated door off Soho Square. They all somehow dispersed, leaving me confused about what to do, so I went in.

I was just curious and lost, but as it happens, the man at the door was from Split. He gave me some unusually tasting sweets called "Prashad" and talked to me, with no expectations whatsoever, without any kind of religious sales talk. His name was Tripad. The most unusual thing for me was finding out he was a Croati and  Hare Krishna. Tripad told me I could come anytime again.

The Radha Krishna Temple on Soho Square is just around the corner from my college, so I started to visit. At times, I came often. Most of all, I enjoyed the mantra in the afternoon, which started as chants of the Hare Krishna mantra and then, depending on who was guiding the prayer, turned into a dance with its own rules of movement to the rhythm of the words and very simple repetitive steps. The mantra that would start off as slow-paced would speed up and sometimes become euphoric, then be brought back down to slowness and calm before ending. In this mantra, I would become out of breath, dance, and become happy. It was a language of prayer that included dance and music, which suited my personality and needs better than somberly sitting in a church on a wooden bench and enduring a service my mind would drift away from in boredom. In the Hare Krishna mantra, I was engaged.

All my life, I had fought with my own mother because I hated eating red meat since I was born. My entire teenage life, I had been vegetarian during each Lent period because that was the only time my mother accepted to stop fighting me to eat meat.

Hare Krishnas did not eat meat. And so there, once again, I stopped too. I bought a book of recipes and stopped eating meat altogether. I went to a few Sanskrit lessons. The Bhagavad Gita I found inaccessible to understand, although I had read all the other little books around it. One by one, I took my college friends to this temple to show them this hidden gem so close that most people never see it, because I was delighted by it. The always welcoming, familiar warmth of the temple had its doors open to me, and my solitude loosened its hold.

One particular time in the Temple Radha Krishna, I arrived and underwent the usual preparation. I greeted my friend at the temple reception, went up the stairs, removed my shoes, entered the temple, bowed to the sculpture of the guru God and mother goddess, poured a little of the sweetened blessed yogurt onto my palms, drank it, and then took my mat and sat down on the right side of the temple room where the females sit. The music began with the harmonium, and as devotees entered, they picked the instruments they wanted—drums, cymbals.

The music at first was sacred and deep, but as time went by, it developed, and the mantra, guided, changed harmony and tempo. The music soon became so full of energy that mats were removed and dancing ensued. There are very specific steps that are danced in rhythm to the Hare Rama mantra, but when these steps are speeded up in great joy, the whole body is involved. The tempo sped up, the instruments now a percussion orchestra played to incredible inspiration and jamming of energy, and a sort of happiness and euphoria could be felt in the room. Standing on my feet and dancing, I suddenly felt myself floating above the room, above myself and the other people still dancing, and as if I was rising above, I saw the roof of the temple, the London roofs of the buildings around us, Soho Square, and Oxford Street, and up higher I went. I saw Britain, and the planet Earth below me, as if I was watching from space, myself in the vast dark space. I had enough time to feel and see all well, and yet soon I whooshed back into my own body, which was still dancing to the set steps.

A coffee with the Pastor

It is the beginning of the year and if I were to be honest and tell you the predicament my material little ass is sitting in since just before Christmass, you would be stressed and not want to continue to read.

But what has happened to Sunci, I realize as I write, is that I no longer have all my eggs in the one basket that is visible—I actually rely on the invisible basket, and the invisible hand of God to get me somewhere good, still invisible to me now. 

I know it will happen; I will arrive where I should be, and I will be happy for it. It has already started to unravel, the evidence of this protective hand in action, answering the prayer or affirmations or faith I had repeated quietly all day,  when almost numb with fear at the situation I had suddenly found myself in and which completely affected my children's and my life and safety,  is already softer, less frightening in ways I could not have expected, and unexpected new life opportunities have opened to me during the holidays. 

 As I meditate in moments of silence, all I hear in my head these days is "WRITE THE BOOK."

Well, dear reader, the book you are reading is in question, for I am trusting, and applying myself to the voice in my head. As subtle as it is, I keep hearing "Book," so while I find myself without proper orientation to action, I hold on to this little voice and am dusting off the many short stories I have written since launching the blog, "A Coffee in the Balkans," in 2009, upon a whim while living on my favorite island Hvar, in the ancient library and shady summer sanctuary,  I thought it might be useful to write a travel blog—seeing I was a tourist guide at the time—just to let people know about amazing places and adventures to be had, which soon turned into a blog about my life, the life of an artist who, when unable to paint, loves to write.

Yesterday when Pastor Sean asked me "How are you", I replied in a language that to a Bible-versed man was short and to the point.

"I feel like right now I am riding the storm. But I trust God knows where I am heading, has plans for me, and I am okay. I’m good. Maybe even excited."

As he looked at me, I replied, "But I have no idea where I am heading or what God wants of me this time round. All I feel is the need to use this precise time to write a book about  my adventures in the life of an artist, which eventually get us to this point where I know there is a God. The thing is, I have explored all kinds of religions along the way, many spiritual paths."

I'm too honest and thrilled about this unpredictable storm to even consider whether this might be distasteful for a Christian pastor to hear. I keep going.

"You know I was born, in a communist, atheist country, and then when I was somewhere around the age of 10, due to the war, the breakdown of Yugoslavia and communism, the new Croatian nationalism suddenly meant all the kids were shipped off to church and religion classes by parents who were not religious. It was the new country's identity. We were all Catholic overnight.

 My mother was not religious at that point. She soon became a fanatic Catholic, but then we moved to England, and there it was not even cool to admit believing in God. I discovered friends were mostly atheists—it was embarrassing to mention God at all. But at the same time, I had a few "Path finder " friends and went to the Protestant church in the village.  I grew up with Christianity: Catholicism, Anglicanism, and Atheism, - there were years I was just not convinced at all. 

But I explored other paths, and at this point, I see there was a long journey of searching for connection, for a visible the reply from the invisible. I was looking to find where the invisible would reply. Now I believe in God. The proof summed up. 

"For years , I was very allergic to all things Christian, in particular the name Jesus."

"I know. I remembered you when we met; you said something about if we would get you interested in the bible we would be the first, -it would be amzing."

"And you did."

"You were the first Christian priest whose sermons I felt interested by. My previous memories of church was this presentation of suffering as good, of poverty as good and of trying to get me to vote for specific politicians. 

But what stuck to me as a child from the kids bible were the parables of the talents and gifts we multiply—using our talents  in the world as gifts.  I had spent years reading books on growth and self-improvement, and what you spoke about was growth and serving the world and God with our gifts, of being happy when people around us succeed, and you used the Bible to say this. I was happy to find I can align with that. I could not align with the prospect of suffering this whole life and waiting for the next. That's just so far from who I am and what is natural to me.

Its interesting how differently the same words, the same book can be interpreted by different people.

"I believe that God is an abundant God, there is plenty of evidence for it in the bible" Said the pastor. " We should celebrate our success and each others"

There I found myself in dialogue with the first Christian pastor, the one who had with his sermons managed to break my thick armor of self defense from Christianity, and it is in the International church of Split- I accepted the gift of my own pink leather bound Bible, because I was curious to read more- having not  read the dozens my mother had bombed me with throughout the years. 

Having developed into a mean little anti-Christ over the previous decade—in terms of my humor, full of cynical comments against Christianity, fighting in this way the crusade mother perpetuates to get me to comply to whatever she says or wants me to do "in the name of God" , sending me numerous accusations that I am Satan, together with whole written exorcisms, to rid my body of satan- in a what-sap messages. And having having spent more than a decade married to a cynical atheist who mocked all people religious —it has been difficult for my ego to accept- that I believe in a "God" and using this title.  

And that I am begging to communicate with God , with the metaphysical pictures form the Bible.

There, I’ve said it. Out loud. 

 I have for years thought religion a private affair, the inside of a human, that doesn’t affect friendships or relationships and shouldn't separate people or be talked about loudly.

 I now think it does affect  intimate romantic relationships. For what we believe affects how we live, our values, and if you live with someone- it clearly affects you. With friends is easier to be of different values and be inspired.

From my observations, I feel like—the difference between an atheist and a person who believes in a divine is the amount control and fear present in ones life. People who trust there is a divine , and trust it to watch out for them can chill and let life happen more, maybe feel less stress and pressure—they know they can ask this force for help, while atheists, in my experience, have so much fear, they feel they need to control so many elements around them and are overburdened, are more scared, and tend to accumulate more material things, be it cars or music records, as if the owning of those things will show their own strength, keep them safe, or a little less mortal, further from the petrifying all end.

I have traveled and have read bits of many religious texts, and have called to the Goddess of the moon, and have invoked the four elements on the mountain, and have danced to the mantra Harri Krishna, and have felt relief in the wisdom of the Torah, have meditated, and have tried learning Arabic with the Quran, and have called for the sun and the rain as a child in gray England by dancing to it inspired by native Americans.

Everything has worked. 

In every language I called to the invisible divine, the invisible made me aware in some way that  it has replied. 

But it is I who has changed throughout. In each of my changes, I had different needs and the divine always answered.

I had recently given my birth information to ChatGPT and asked it to tell me based on the Vedic Hindu system—who I might have been in my past life. And ChatGPT calculated and said—I was very much a lover of arts and culture—I was an aristocrat and lived in comfort—but I was very dogmatic—and this life for me—must be one in which I explore different cultures and belief systems.

 This made a lot of sense to me, regardless of the source it came form. 

 The way I immigrated form Croatia as a 11 year old child in the war, knowing only of the Catholic, trinity Father ,Son and the Holy spirt and the mother of god- and all the many saints,- believing that the truth,  and the way I have questioned it and lived among so many different religions and cultures since, in this marvelous wonderous world- I as small child i had no idea exsisted. I thougt the world was the same everywhere, people of differ religions where the enemy in war- or just- wrong. 

The truth is I believe in the soul of the world -God, and it talks and will talk to you however you choose, form my experience. You can seek to speak to God, the divine, through a culturally established tongue, a religion, which others can show you and teach you, or find your own idiosyncratic language with the Divne .

Some people need to remove themselves from the religion of the people they were born into for many reasons, some find themselfs in mixed marriages, and want a third religion to be neutral. Sometimes as, in my case—my allergy to this culturally native religion was tied to the very aggression, of my mother who told me she is with God, and—her God wants me to submit to her more. Her god was called Jesus- so there was no way it could be mine- not with all the aggression she committed against me in his name. There was no way I could accept that she dominates my insides too, my beliefs, as she endeavored to dominate my life.

I took to nature. Godess responded by the river, in the forest, off the balcony under the full moon. In the sea. No books. No interpretation other than my own. Signs I understand established.

And yet I find myself having arrived , cricketed back to the Bible. In many ways its easier to have some guidelines, text ,words that are clear, imagery, available, rather than interpreting and establishing one's own entire language system to talk to God. There are also rules there, life suggestions in the book- that, actually sound like teaching of boundaries -put in place to keep you safe- trough I read about boundaries first. 

It was Neissa my firend who inspired me to check out the International church she and her husband started, I wanted to support her as a firend at first- to soon feel the support from the church.  towards me and my children. Sean her husband and pastor in his sermons surprised me with how relevant the message for the bible was to me. Than I discovered Florence Scovell Shin, an artist who translated and taught the magic of the bible a century ago, and the incredible faith in life and god and wellbeing she read promised to man in the bible. Joel Osteen pastor on you-tube recently joined my car listening podcasts and has roused enthusiasm or confidence in me in this god, revealing promises made to man- using the words in the Bible. 

So here we are. After a long roundabout journey- I call on Christ again, and I have had some important my prayers answered, swiftly, and feel I safe on what seemed unsurpassable tempest. I don't even know the bigger plans of the divine and where it wants and is taking me, but I have heard that they exist and am trusting it at this point.

We all have our own theories about this mystical invisible divine, validated by our life experiences, and our ideas might not align. I think that the Divine, the God , Universe, I and my beautiful culturally diverse friends reach out to, is the same soul of the world. 

We each choose the language to communicate to it, and a culture that aligns with who we are in any moment ourself ,and the experiences we seek to have. My fat Cat answers to a different name she has been given in every apartment she visits on the 16 floors of the building we live in, and the people  who know her, love and feed her, some of them say she is yellow and some describe her as brown, and some say she's  red, and yet she's the same fat lovely Cat. 

The pastor and I had coffee. And I feel this too , unexpected invitation offered to the whole church, was a part of the bigger plan for me. The discussions on life and god where important and thought provoquing. Making me think about what i have lived and where do I go form here. 

Writing this book, reading my own past- Its clear that I had experienced what could have been some dangerous situations- but I was always protected . Always looked after. Still here. 

"The storms will not stop now, you realise God is there,  they will keep coming, but knowing you are supported, make them easier to get trough"

 Most of the time though at majority of my important events, I jumped in with all the strength and energy I had, with my body, stamina, funds and knowledge, which is limited. Now that I have become open enough to hear in the words and promises made to man, written  down during the ages in the bible- what will happen if I try, instead of going at it all on my own capacity- if I invite the metaphysical, great source energy that infuses the universe , into my life, and plans. In fact instead of pushing for the things I want to achieve and breaking over them- being open to guidance to show me where I should apply myself, and my talents, which I enjoy using-  to serve the world and God next. 

I think I am there. 

When grandparents bless you form beyond the grave.

At this point in life, I am beyond being surprised at such events. I am always pleased when the worlds merge, and I receive a clear message from the invisible—that no longer has to prove its validity to me. It's not synchronicity or randomness—it's a message.

There are things hidden in the invisible, alive and magical, and incomprehensible. I suppose I was a materialist in retrospect when I needed to see with my eyes everything I believed.

I am no longer a materialist.

As free as I was when I was a child and believed in the possibilities of all kinds of magical things, through empirical evidence collected over the years, once again I know for certain there exist things magical. Witches do exist. You can sing to draw the rain, and we hear of prayers that part the seas, and the invisible contains plenty.

Dino, the dog, and I were walking by the sea. There's one of my favorite bits of coast where the walk is squished into a thin path between a steep hill full of agave, and the sea which, to my delight, most of the time is thrashing into the wall holding the path and splashing over me as I walk there. I walk there on purpose, getting this bit of sea baptism and thrill.

At the very point the sea hits the shore and sprays me with water, today I remembered the summer and again repeated my amazement to Dino. "I feel somehow that my grandmother is looking after me all this time. I wore her gold bracelet on my wrist for years, carrying her with me, and with it somehow she was looking after me. I lost that bracelet this summer right here in the sea, and then five minutes later my brother on the phone told me he is going to move out and leave Grandma's apartment to me. I now live in her apartment. He didn't know I had lost Grandma's bracelet right then. Isn't that strange?"

I asked Dino, looking for his confirmation, when an older woman who was walking near spoke.

"You are right," she said to me, "She is looking after you. And my grandfather is looking after me." The lady removes a necklace out of her jumper and shows me the silver antique pendant. "My grandfather is always with me. He looks after me when I wear this. This was a silver button on grandfather's suit. When I don't wear it, I feel naked, unprotected. I always take my grandfather with me, and he looks after me."

And she walks on.

"Did you notice that?" I asked Dino. "I always considered my grandmother is looking after me—perhaps that was my grandfather trying to tell me he is looking after me too," I joked.

There was no need to explain to him about the timing of this woman, who happened to find herself in earshot of my conversation about the lost bracelet precisely where I found I had lost it, and where the conversation with my brother happened, and where right there she too, spoke of her grandfather looking after her through a piece of inherited jewelry. It was no accident .