Beginning...
Part 3 of a 5 week series
I grew up with an invisible friend named Penelope.
And in our house, she wasn’t treated as imaginary.
There was space made for her at the table. Conversations that included her. A quiet understanding that, whether anyone else could see her or not… she was there.
I don’t remember what she looked like now.
But I remember her presence.
And somewhere along the way, without announcement or explanation, she simply faded.
—
Looking back, there were other small moments like that.
Moments that, at the time, felt completely ordinary… and only later revealed themselves to be something else.
By the time I was about sixteen, I was working after school and on weekends at my uncle’s antique store in Waterloo, New York. It was one of my favorite places in the world. Still is, really—any antique store feels a little like stepping into a conversation that’s already been going on for a hundred years.
My uncle was kind enough to leave me in charge one afternoon.
Which, in hindsight, may not have been his best decision. 😊
A man came in and pointed to an old pedal car hanging from the ceiling. It was worn, a little rickety, and full of character. He told me it probably wasn’t worth more than seventy-five dollars… and offered me one hundred.
I thought that sounded like a wonderful deal.
So I said yes.
It was the first thing my uncle noticed when he walked back into the store—that it was gone.
Even now, I can still feel that sinking moment of realizing I may have gotten it very wrong.
But he didn’t yell. He didn’t make me feel small. He was gentle about it, the way truly good people are when they know a lesson will land on its own.
What I didn’t tell him—because I didn’t have the words for it then—was that I used to pick things up in that store and just… know things.
Where they had been.
Who they had belonged to.
What kind of life they had seen.
At the time, I didn’t realize that wasn’t normal.
—
A few years before that, when I was around thirteen, I was at a sleepover with a group of girls.
Most of them were gathered around a dining room table playing with a Ouija board. I was in the living room with a few others when suddenly I heard them calling my name.
It’s spelling your name, they said.
It wants you to come in.
I didn’t really understand what that meant.
But I remember, very clearly, the feeling that came over me.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t panic.
It was just a very steady, unmistakable knowing:
No.
I stayed exactly where I was.
Even felt, in a strange way, like something was holding me there… not forcefully, just firmly enough that I didn’t question it.
I told them I wasn’t coming in.
And I never have.
—
It’s funny, looking back now, how much I seemed to understand before I had any language for it.
The presence of someone unseen.
The stories held in ordinary objects.
The quiet but certain feeling of when to step forward… and when not to.
None of it felt unusual at the time.
It was just… how the world worked.
And now, all these years later, as I find myself being drawn back to the very places where those early moments unfolded…
I can’t help but smile a little at that young girl who didn’t question any of it.
She didn’t try to define it.
She didn’t try to explain it.
She simply lived inside it.
And in many ways, I think she understood far more than she realized.
With love,
Mary Rose
PS. Happy birthday Poppy.
If something in you felt seen here…
you don’t have to carry it alone.
I sit with people in these spaces every day —
quietly, gently, and without judgment.
Most people who reach out simply felt something
they couldn’t explain…
and followed it.
If that’s you, I’m here.
