Like Sand To Pearl
My Story
Letter To Atheist Friend
Letter To Atheist Friend — Part I
Dear Jack,
My experience with the unseen differs from yours, but I agree with you about our planet's never ending history of, as you put it, “the brutal ruling the rest". I think that (generally speaking) many of the older souls, who have lived umpteen lifetimes on Earth and having sown their wild oats, are weary of it and have no desire to “rule the world”. In fact, they are too often apathetic, which is unfortunate for humanity. “Younger” souls, on the other hand, have an abundance of energy, and still burn with ambition.
I think most people would agree that humanity, collectively speaking, is one sick puppy. My nickname for this world is "The Dark Planet of Insanity". It is, in my opinion, a veritable insane asylum spinning in space. If not a literal receptacle for the criminally insane, then perhaps this is that mythical place we call Hell.
Merely glancing at the subject lines of emails in my inbox (such as from Change.org, PETA, or CARE2) on any given day, indicates to me that Hell exists on this plane. Titles such as “Puppy’s Ear Cut Off For Barking”, or “Annual Yulin Festival”, or “Pigs Spend Entire Lives in Crates” plunges me into a downward spiral that is very difficult to emerge from, imprinting my brain with images that I would pay to have expunged – if only I could!
Facebook is another landmine through which one hopes to find posts with funny cat videos, or old family photos that your Canadian aunt dug up out of her attic. You will find them, to be sure... but OOPS, now you've seen a photo of what some monster did to a camel in Pakistan, or to a gay man in Russia, or to a little girl in Florida – something so unfathomable that the only thing that could possibly alleviate the horror is if you were to wake up in your "real" world and bask in the blessed relief of knowing that it was all "only a dream”!
I get angry at “God” (it's easier to use the generic "God" than to run through a list of deities or synonyms), or frustrated, or hurt by Him/Her/It often, and I can see why one might choose not to believe in God (by which, I mean an intelligence that has created all that is). I start out many a Kat-to-God talk with "I wish I could love you, BUT... "
The fact is, I know that my soul loves God. I know this based on some spectacular lucid dreams that I had the good fortune of experiencing. I don't get them anymore, but until about 20 years ago I did have wonderful, but infrequent dreams where I was fully conscious in the dreams. I think the Prozac that I started taking around that time put the kibosh on my ability to experience nocturnal lucidity. I had taught myself how to “wake up” in them as a result of flying dreams I had in early childhood. I found it very disappointing that every “flight” that I was so sure was “real” in my dreams, ended with me waking up and discovering that it was “only a dream”. So I started telling myself that "If I'm flying – I must be dreaming!” Eventually I was able to bring that awareness to the flying dreams and have fun manipulating them.
The lucid dreams were indescribably glorious.. much more vibrant than "real" life.. more colorful, more exciting, more emotional! The pinnacle, though, was when I flew in them! And every time my astral self soared up over the trees, across vast landscapes of breathtakingly beautiful scenery, with a tangible wind on my face and a feeling of incredible aliveness – I experienced a euphoria that was above and beyond anything that even a Demerol drip, or the high of first love – could produce! But there was more… Accompanying my euphoric, lucid high was an intense LOVE that welled up in my heart and made my soul soar –
for God!
So I hang onto the remembrance of those blissful, lucid experiences of love for God – for reference. If not for my spirit’s unbridled love of the Creator, I would wonder if God is as evil as “He” is good. Or maybe even, that there is no God. I oft take umbrage with the Originator of this mind-blowingly insane reality. Every time I come across another horror in my inbox, I get angry. I plead with the Master Planner to end His gruesome experiment.
To be fair, I also think about the awesome beauty of this planet, and all of the exquisite creations – such as snow-covered peaks and balmy tropical islands, and pink flamingos and blue-eyed huskies, and crystal ice caves and innocent kittens – and I see a Force that is so creative and awesome as to defy comprehension. How can anyone look at the exquisite design and coloring of a Keel-billed Toucan and believe that life is a random “accident” with no planning or thought behind it? How can anyone look at the scope and precision of this universe and think “it’s just nature”. Say what?! (I laugh). Just what do you think “nature” is, anyway? Something far, far more intelligent than we are (times a gazillion) had to have planned everything from Quantum Physics to the vast cosmos and beyond.
Look into a microscope to find worlds inside of worlds, going smaller and smaller into infinity… and think about the possibility that OUR universe is a microscopic, quantum universe of a larger universe! “No God”, you say? As in “it’s impossible to think that there is a greater intelligence beyond humans, that put us here, that has a plan?”.
Do you know what’s crazier than the idea of a supremely intelligent purposeful Grand Designer? – The idea that all of this microscopic, macroscopic, infinitely vast and infinitely small, perfectly synchronized, extraordinarily beautiful and complex universe is a random accident..
Now THAT is absurd! (me, laughing again).
A Grand Designer – we can call it “God” because humans have a need to label everything – IS. We can’t even begin to define or comprehend IT. It is the source of everything. And It seems to be beyond even the ken of higher spirit beings as well. When a psychic clairvoyant or a person deep under hypnosis gleans information for us from non-corporeal intelligence, and you ask that consciousness about God, even they are unable to define God. They will tell you that God is Love, or The Source, or that God is the All That Is, or that everything is part and parcel of the energy of God. But none of them has actually seen God. They tell us that even the most advanced spirit consciousness that humans can access (thru various channels) is not of a high enough vibration to be able to approach God. It would decimate them. They, too, are on that long journey to raise their vibration. At some point, they will reach the Source — we all will!
I have read quite an array of books on metaphysical subjects over the span of several decades, so it annoys the crap out of me when someone says “prove it”. Oh. Okay. Like I can give you, in two minutes, what took me a lifetime to acquire and process?!
These intangible things (angels, spirits, reincarnation, psychic revelations, etc.) are not a part of most people's lives, but they are part of mine. I would have to be crazy to dismiss something that is as real to me as the keyboard I'm typing on just because the typical mortal, who spends no time delving into spirituality, shrugs it off as so much hooey. It would be like saying that there is no such thing as Ohio, if people who didn't live here didn't believe in the existence of Ohio, simply because they never saw, touched, smelled, or tasted Ohio … but since I'm living in it, I’m not about to deny its existence in order to please the non-believers of Ohio!
My metaphysical experiences pale in comparison to the NDE (Near Death Experience), and to the visions and spiritual downloads of skilled clairvoyants and mediums. Nevertheless, I have had some awesome wonderful experiences with the unseen, so when I have my moments of doubt, which everyone has when they are in a funk, I draw upon the memory of those experiences, and they wash away my doubts and reinforce my belief system.
Being human in a world where perception is largely determined by the 5 physical senses, I occasionally (when frustrated with my physicality or the suffering around me) question my beliefs, and wonder if I’m the fool that skeptical types assume me to be. But only for a moment, until I start to remember some of the many, many spiritual experiences that have graced my life, and I know that I am not a fool, and my spiritual experiences and connections are far from imaginary. People who chuckle and scoff at that which they themselves cannot see, and are too insecure to open their minds to (lest they be thought a fool) are the ones who are living in a fantasy world. Not to mention, missing out on an entire aspect of existence that is all around them if they cared to become acquainted with it.
I would like to share some of my spiritual experiences with you. They really happened, and I will relay them as I remember them, to the best of my ability. When one is open to Spirit and cares enough to want to learn more about it, they will start to have more experiences, and will become more and more adept at recognizing them when they happen. Too often, people dismiss communications from Spirit as “coincidences”. Resolute non-believers carry “coincidence” to a ridiculous degree!
Letter To Atheist Friend — Part II
The following are a few of the spiritual or paranormal occurrences that I have experienced — and may help to illustrate why it would be crazier for me NOT to believe in the existence of a spirit world than it is TO believe in it:
Crazy Eyes on North Avenue
I was 18 years old and on my way to meet friends in the Humboldt Park area of Chicago at around 5:30 in the morning on Memorial Day. We had rented a bus for a picnic excursion to the Indiana Sand Dunes. While walking East on North Avenue towards Artesian, I was motioned to come over by a blue-eyed blond, 30-ish male driving an older model green car. He said he was lost, and asked for directions to Western Avenue. I told him that Western was just up ahead a few blocks. "Can't miss it!" He feigned confusion, and wanted me to get in the car to show him how to get there. I politely declined.
As I continued on my walk, I thought I saw the same car circle around a couple of times again, out of the corner of my eye. Significantly near-sighted (and too vain to wear glasses) I couldn't be sure... but then I didn’t see the vehicle anymore and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Shortly thereafter, the directionally-impaired lunatic lunged from a doorway or storefront, and grabbed me! His arm was around my neck and I think he might have been holding a knife to my throat. He told me to "come quietly".
It was surreal! It was like everything was happening in slow motion. I just kept thinking “this isn’t real”.. as we got closer to his car in the alley. I was very naive, so the thought that I was going to be raped or killed (which is exactly what he had in mind, no doubt; I mean, nobody kidnaps a girl so they’ll have a partner for Bridge!) never occurred to me. Well, I wasn’t thinking about “Crazy Eyes’” plan anyway; I was in a daze.
An inner voice – not my own – interrupted my daze and told me to "scream". In my mind I answered the voice with “I can’t do that — it would be embarrassing". The voice reiterated "SCREAM!" So, this time, I complied. I mustered up a blood-curdling yell. Psycho dropped me like a hot potato and made a beeline for his car! I swooped up my shoe, which had fallen off somehow, and ran like the wind all the way to my besties' house. The “Voice” (aka, guardian angel) totally saved my life!
The actual alley where it happened:
The Cat, The Balloon, and the Christmas Tree
Circa 2009, Christmas morning. My son was away on a cruise that his grandmother had purchased for herself, her 6 adult kids, and all of their children. I was alone with my son's cat, Gary, in my condo, upstairs, asleep.
Something woke me up early. As a night owl, that's not a good thing. I instinctively knew it was my spirit guides or guardian angel. I don't remember how I knew, or what they did, but sometimes I can sense them, or even hear them, almost imperceptibly. That usually happens when I am still half asleep, but awake enough to be conscious.
I groaned, and mentally said "Aw, it's Christmas – let me sleep!”.
Suddenly, a green balloon appeared right in front of my (still closed) eyes and went POP! .. and jolted me right out of my hypnagogic haze. “O-KAYYY!” I said, out loud. "I guess I'm getting up now!"
I yawned, rubbed my eyes, and slowly, sleepily, made my way down the stairs.
Halfway down the stairs I heard a hissing sound. Then I saw wisps of smoke coming from the electrical strip that all the Christmas tree lights were plugged into. The cat had peed on the strip and it was sparking! If not for the “nagging” spirit guides and their balloon burst, my house and everything in it would have burned up while I slept, and me and the cat might very well have died!
Lost Soul
I took a moment to rest. I laid down on my bed and closed my eyes. A minute or two later, I heard (and when I say "hear", I don't mean out loud... it's kind of like a thought that you know is not your own thought, but is coming from an independent source) a distressed young male say "I hung myself!" (I pictured a belt)
Well, I didn't stick around to hear any more! I jumped right out of the bed, declaring emphatically that, “NO! .. No one died! Nobody’s dead!” (As in, ‘if I don’t acknowledge something it can’t be true, right?’) And that was the end of that... until, a couple of days later when I talked to my son who was away at college (I didn't have a computer back then and couldn't afford long-distance calls, so communication was a rare luxury). My son said "Dad called... Danny killed himself.”
Danny was my son's brother-from-another-mother, who lived on a reservation up north. He came into our lives when he was 16 because his mother was at her wit’s end after he totaled the family car (the final straw in a string of delinquencies), so she finally told him that the man he grew up thinking was his father — wasn't his biological father after all. It was at that point that he came down to spend the summer with, and get to know, his biological father.
I spent a couple of days with them after dropping my son off for a visit with his Dad. Danny was a beautiful, delicately framed young man with long dark hair and hauntingly ice blue eyes that told a story of sadness. He smoked a lot of weed and wrote incredibly beautiful, deeply moving poetry. He was also a card-carrying Satanist, who admittedly "used to" torture cats. "But", he said, he "liked" his Dad’s cat, Rambo, because Rambo liked him. That is, until the day that he saw me take a picture of my son holding said cat. As I snapped the picture I saw the look on Danny's face from across the room, and I had a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Nobody ever saw Rambo again.
... I hesitantly asked my son "Did he hang himself?"
“Yes", was the response. And that is when I knew that the distraught spirit who had tried to get my attention had been Danny.
(For the record, I did attempt to speak to him after that, to try and guide him to the Light, but I wasn't able to "hear" him again. I had a dream about him years later, that let me know he'd found his way home.)
This one is my all-time favorite!!
An Extraordinary Change of Plans
Once upon a time I had a sweet little condo in Westerville, a most delightful Northeastern suburb of Columbus, Ohio. There was a Tim Horton's café just around the corner that I frequented once or twice a day to address my coffee fix. On this particular gorgeous, sunny, summer day, I planned to get my usual small cup of java with the requisite cream and sugar, and then pick up a sandwich from the Arby's next to Tim Horton’s, and bring it home to eat. As I was getting ready to leave the house, I absent-mindedly thought I was going to the Half-Price Bookstore. Then I "came to" and thought "Huh? Why did I think I was going to the bookstore? Weird!”
I picked up my coffee and then, as if on auto-pilot, drove past Arby’s and headed up the street toward the bookstore. And once again I “came to” and said to myself "What the ??… why do I keep thinking I'm going to the bookstore?!… (sigh)... Okay.. I guess I'll have lunch at Panera Bread (next door to Half-Price Books) and then go to the bookstore!" Evidently, my Higher Self, or angels, or guides or whatever, wanted me to go to the bookstore.
I meandered thru the bookstore for a little while, still not knowing why I was there. I didn't know where or what I was supposed to do, but I knew that I hadn't found my reason for being there yet, and thus couldn't leave. What to do.. what to do… I almost left at one point, but then decided to check out the horror section to see if there were any Christopher Moore novels that I hadn't read yet. I love Moore’s books! I thought his kitschy vampire stories were the best – until I read “Lamb”, which was even better! Lamb, like most of Chris Moore’s fiction, was rich with his unique, somewhat offbeat, style of humor. It was a fictional account of young Jesus and His friend, Biff. The character is so fleshed out that it actually felt like I was reading about Jesus' childhood! But I digress…
In the horror section there were no new Christopher Moore novels, but I did see a slew of Laurel K. Hamilton books. I'd never read any of her books, which is surprising since I was heavily into vampires. But I did recall that another "K. Hamilton", a co-worker, once told me that I should read L. K. Hamilton's books because they are right up my alley.
The bookcase was full of K. Hamilton books — there were four or five shelves’ worth. I reached up and pulled one off a shelf at random. I opened up the front cover. The paper flap was covering all but the edge of a book plate. Ever the curious person, I wondered what name I would find on the bookplate. I lifted up the flap and let out a little scream right there in the bookstore! The name staring up at me from the book plate was ... MY OWN!
Lest you think it was a book that I had previously owned and sold to the bookstore — I assure you, it was not! It was my first and last (uncommon south of the Canadian border) name! What an incredible, inconceivable synchronicity! Also: the other Kat’s address was London OH. I was born in London ON (close enough!). AND it was the exact same bookplate design as the bookplates I had at home!
I bought the book, natch, and excitedly told the clerk about my unbelievably incredible experience. His eyes popped. "Wow! I never heard of that happening to anyone – that's like, a one-in-a-billion chance!", he said.
But, my adrenaline-pumping synchronicity high didn't end there!
When I got the book home and read the novel’s description, it turned out that this book was about vampires and fairies. Now, I knew that it was about vampires, as the author was a vampire novel author. But I did not expect it to include fairies! I had started writing a series of children's books a year or so earlier, about fairies and vampires. The reason for this entire ethereal experience was now clear: It was a very wonderful, creative way for my spirit guides to convey the message that I needed to get back to writing my stories. They had led me to a bookstore that I had no intention of going to that day, and influenced me to walk up to one specific bookcase, where I had the compulsion to pick out one specific book, where my actual name was inside the book! In other words, I saw my name in a book — like an author has their name on a book. Pretty clear message to Pick up a pen and start writing again!
Still holding this magical gift, I leafed through the book and discovered a bookmark that I had somehow missed the first time around. It was a lovely bookmark with an illustration of an angel on it. Someone had handwritten in pen on the bookmark: "Dear Kat, wherever you go, your guardian angel will always have your back" – or words to that effect. The bookmark included a poem about how angels are there to help and guide you through difficult times in your life. OMG.. Wow!
So, in addition to the nudge about my writing (by virtue of finding my name in a book – symbology that could not be more direct), that angel message was tailor-made for me. I had lost my dream job and career (thanks, NAFTA), exhausted my 401-k and severance pay, had uterine cancer and a full hysterectomy, my home was in foreclosure, my son had left the proverbial nest and was working overseas, and I was pretty damned depressed trying to deal with packing up what was left of my belongings after selling or giving away most of my furniture and many cherished items, to go live with a relative who was having her own problems and didn't want me there, to say the least. If ever there was a time to get a comforting message from my Spirit peeps, this was it! And what Spirit knew, but I didn’t at the time, was that life was only going to get worse before it got better. Eventually, there was light at the end of the long, dark tunnel, but it took a while to get there.
They are always there. Everyone has them. Sadly, most people don't know how to sense their spirit guides and angels, nor do they know how to recognize the messages that are all around us, especially during times of troubles, or when we need to make a decision or enact changes in our lives.
An Electrifying Message from the Grave
Some months after the death of my father, the subject of him came up when my sister and I were talking on the phone. She was angry about our last visit, where he had appeared to be more interested in the group of teens he mentored/took under his wing, than he was in his own kids.
We were at the Tim Horton’s café at the edge of Sidney Mines, Nova Scotia, gathered together to say goodbye before we all headed back home to the States. Dad sat with the Canadian kids on one side of the room while his own kids and grandkids sat on the other side.
I thought that was bizarre at the time, but I later realized that he had done that for 2 reasons: 1. He didn’t want his “surrogate” kids to feel unloved or unimportant as compared to his biological kids, and 2. His pain at seeing us leave was unbearable, so he was unconsciously distancing himself. There is no doubt in my mind that he “knew” that it was the last time he would ever see us. (And it was!)
During this conversation with my sister, I was shuffling through a box of my father’s papers and keepsakes. Suddenly, I found an entry in his journal that shed light on the subject of how he felt about us.
“Oh my God!”, I exclaimed, “Listen to this..!” I read, in his own handwriting, how much he loved his kids, who meant the world to him, and how it pained him to be separated from us by 2,000 miles.
As I read this to her, all of the power in my apartment went out, briefly. I groaned “Ugh! My power just went out!”
“So did mine!”, chimed my sister.
That was odd… She lived in a Northeastern suburb and I lived about 30 miles away, Southwest. Both of our power went back on almost as fast as it had gone off. I checked with my neighbors and she checked with hers… None of them had experienced a power outage .. no one but me and my sister!
Dad must have been so happy to see that his journal was able to address the burning question my siblings had about his feelings for us — and turning our respective power off and on was his way of confirming the information!
It Wasn't A Dream
I was a senior at the time, having lunch in the cafeteria with my friends.
Ziggy said that her boyfriend Joe had a friend who resided at the La Rabida Children's Hospital (due to ulcerative colitis), and he had asked her to give his friend's phone number out to any (nice/pretty) girl that might be interested in getting to know him.
I'm about the last person who would ever volunteer to cold-call a stranger, even if that stranger is a referral. I don't even like talking on the phone today, and back then I was even less inclined to meet new people. But something in the back of my mind said "you need to meet this guy".. so, impulsively, before I could change my mind, I verily watched myself blurt out "I'll do it!"
Everyone was surprised. I blushed, slipped the phone number in my jeans pocket, and secretly wondered if I would actually go through with it.
(But I did go through with it!)
Terry ...
Terry and I spent hours on the phone every night, always delighted to learn that we had one thing after another in common. We decided to meet the next time he came down to spend the weekend with his family.
We met on an idyllic summer evening at the steps of an interesting piece of architecture bearing the chiseled title: "Elysian Fields". I think it was an old theatre. There was an instant attraction and connection between us. We were holding hands within the hour — and before the day was through, he told me he was falling in love with me. He said that we were like two parts of the same soul. In fact, we often spoke in unison, like twins.
I didn’t get to see Terry as often as I would have liked because the institution granted him only short furloughs, but whenever we did get together it was always interesting. For example…
In light of my interest in metaphysics, Terry volunteered us to help an occult group from another state refurbish a spacious house they'd rented in Chicago.
They were called “The Process”.
A personable couple greeted us at the door. They, and most of the other members and neighbors, were attractive twenty-somethings, all happily going about the task of making the old place livable. My assignment was to scrub the back of a stove. Why on earth the back of an appliance that would always abut a wall needed to be pristine was beyond my ken, but I grabbed a scouring pad and bucket and went to work.
It was a grueling, impossible task trying to get the blackened gunk off that stove. The frikking thing looked like salvage from a fire. Terry, meanwhile, had been appointed the chore of chopping wood, which worried me because he wasn’t supposed to physically exert himself, for health reasons.
At some point I happened to notice a stack of brochures for the organization on an end table, and picked one up and began to read about their mission. “Oh shit!” This was no run-of-the-mill Goddess-loving pagan organization — this was a Satanic cult!
I tapped Terry on the shoulder and said “We have to leave .. now!”
As we walked down the lovely, Maple-lined street together on that glorious summer day, I told him that we had just helped out a Satanic cult. “What? No”, he argued, “they’re not Satanic, they’re witches.”
“Oh, really?”, I chuckled, handing him the brochure I had had the foresight to stuff into my purse before leaving. “Well, take a look at this!”
Stunned, he finally had to admit that he’d been wrong. (But we did agree that the Process seemed like a really nice group of people.)
Side bar: I never understood why anyone would want to be a Satanist, and I naturally assumed that they worship Satan, which has the connotation of evil, whether you believe in a devil or not. I recently googled Satanism and found that the Satanic sects vary in beliefs and practices. For example, one sect called The Satanic Temple doesn't even believe in a devil or Satan — it's just a bunch of rebels that eschew the hypocrisy of religions and of authority in general.. which is a good thing. But why then choose a name and symbol that will immediately turn everyone off and prevent the world from knowing what your true doctrine is? I am also a rebel against authority and religious ignorance, and I totally tout compassion and peace. But I assumed, for the past half a century, that all satanic groups were into blood and sacrifice and worshipped the Dark Lord. I'm sure some of them are into darkness, just as some witches are White-lighters and some are into the Dark Arts. But those who, like The Satanic Temple, purport to exist to rebel against the subjugation of humans by the Church and other authority figures, really are doing themselves a disservice by using a name that conjures up the antithesis of peace, truth, and freedom for all! As for The Process Church of the Final Judgment, I'm still not sure what their shtick was. But a google search disclosed that they have since morphed from a Satanic theme to a Christian theme, to an animal welfare organization.. Holy Moses.. could their path be any more diverse, lol?!
Terry loved to help, and was always looking out for me. The Process venture wasn't the only mystical quest he sent me on.
"Hey, I met these Wiccans and told them about you. They want to meet you", he announced one day.
Oy vey. I so totally did not want to socialize with complete strangers.. nor was I interested in their religion. I was happy with my own belief system and not in the market to seek out something new. But I wanted to make happy the guy who wanted to make me happy. I went to meet them.
It was a young couple, no more than 18 years old. I met them in their "temple": a harem-like canopied niche in the center of a dark, creepy furnace room. I don't remember their names or the name of their (markedly not Wiccan) cult. I only remember that they claimed to be the reincarnation of the infamous Aleister Crowley and Crowley's girlfriend, Rose. The guy was creepy melodramatic, and spoke with an exaggerated deep voice and never blinked. She just sat there looking pretty, nodding in agreement to every stupid thing this dude said.
The conversation is a blur to me today.. all except for what happened when I said I was leaving.
"You have to scream before you can leave", he said.
(Say, what?)
"What do you mean, I have to scream?", I asked, in utter disbelief.
"No one can leave the sacred space unless they scream first. This one chick didn't scream, and she died on the spot".
(Oh. Really.)
I won't pretend that didn't scare me. I didn't know these people from Adam, and they could have been psychos. But, I'm not screaming on command for anyone, and I sure as hell didn't believe that I would die if I didn't.
Despite my hosts' protests, I parted the silk curtains and exited the "sacred space" — and surprise surprise, I lived to tell the tale!
It was, however, the last time I ever let Terry send me on another wild witch chase!
All in all though, Terry and I were a happy twosome, albeit for a relatively brief period of time thanks to an (unpleasant, highly personal, so I won't elaborate) incident that I handled by shutting him out. The smart thing would have been for me to discuss my feelings face to face instead of putting words on paper (or I should say, several sheets of paper — both sides. Yes, I have “losing boyfriends by way of poison pen”, down to an art form). Nevertheless, we did stay on good terms, in part due to my friendship with his mother and sister. I even lived with them off and on over the next year or two.
Both Terry and I soon moved on to new relationships. His was with a girl named George.
George, a wispy sprite with a blonde Bowie razor cut, was a tough little cookie on the outside, to compensate for whatever was broken on the inside. He was her lifeline, and she, his .. and they were inseparable! They "tripped" the light fantastic (and I don't mean dancing) regularly .. and then were surprised and devastated when she miscarried early on in an unexpected pregnancy. He tried to get work to support them, but his medical condition (or was it due to their liberal use of drugs?) made it very difficult for him to keep a job.
A couple of years later, I was living in North St. Paul, Minnesota, when I got the letter from Terry’s sister informing me that her brother had taken his life. I think he was just 19. His beautiful young body was discovered too late, lying peacefully next to the stereo where the lyrics “I'm getting closer to my home..” played over and over in a loop. The explanation, if I remember correctly, was that Georgian had left him and gone back to her family home in Canada, and he just couldn’t bear the thought of life without her. It was just one more disappointment on top of many. His father had abandoned them when Terry was just a kid. His mother was chronically depressed, and they were dirt poor. And of course, there was the disease with its pain and frustrating physical limitations. It seems the prospect of life without his soul mate was the final straw for this heartbroken soul.
Sometimes life seems hopeless. I wish young people would just plow through those seemingly “hopeless” periods; it takes time, and yeah, it hurts like hell, but trust me — it passes! We weren’t put on this earth to live an entirely hopeless life. There are many meaningful people and events yet to come, if we just hang in there. Also, if you think life is painful here — you can’t even imagine the torment of a soul as he watches his family grieve for him, and be unable to console them or say “I’m sorry”! Surviving family members grieve a suicide for life, and many never recover.
A couple or so nights after getting the heartbreaking news about Terry, I had a significant dream. It was a lucid dream, meaning it felt as real as real can be. That's because it was real! It was the kind of “dream” where you are totally conscious of being there, and where the whole experience is so vivid, and so intensely physical that you can feel the air against your skin, and know while you're in it that "I am totally conscious.. this is REAL!" (sigh.. I love lucid dreams!)
I was sitting in Terry’s mother’s house — except, in reality, that is not what their house looked like. I know, because I had lived with them. But sitting there, I had the distinct knowing that this was their house. Terry sat silently and solemnly at the table in front of a fish aquarium that sat in the big bay window in the dining room. The obsidian night sky as seen through the windows served to emphasize the melancholy setting.
I was so excited to see him again, albeit in spirit! But .. he looked utterly despondent. He never smiled nor spoke. Assuming he now had access to the Answers to all of Life's Mysteries, I asked him if he could tell me something about my past lives, as that was a topic of great interest to me. In response he pointed, reprovingly, to his right hand.
There may have been more to the visit, but I would have to go through an impressive stack of papers and journals to try and find the record of this dream. But I do remember the gist, and the gravity of the nocturnal visitation.
When I told my mother — an ace dream interpreter — about my dream visitation, she told me that the left hand represents the past and the right hand depicts the now, and that his symbolic gesture was a way of saying "Don't concern yourself with the past — focus on your current life!"
That summer I went home to Chicago for a few weeks, and while there I visited Terry's family. They had moved from the old apartment to a new location. To my utter amazement, when I walked into the dining room, it was exactly as I had seen it in my dream! The bay window, the fish tank, the table.. everything identical to the setting in my lucid visit with Terry!
A few years later, the subject of Terry came up during a reading with one of Ohio's most notable and beloved psychics, Kay Frain. She said "He was in the darkness for a while, but he's in the Light now".
What that means is that sometimes when a soul transitions by trauma, such as suicide or violence, they relegate themselves to a period of reflection, which can range from a simple time-out to a kind of "hell". God doesn't send them to Hell; it's not like that. They, themselves, create a reality that corresponds to their sadness, guilt, or fears. It is temporary. At some point they will either ask for help, or will recognize help in the distance (generally described as a pinpoint of light that grows larger as it gets closer), and will know that its an angel and immediately find themselves back home in their familiar spirit realm, where they will be welcomed by their deceased loved ones and soul family.
Terry was very spiritual, and an older soul, so he knew immediately that he had made a mistake, and regretted it. He also understood that his unstable childhood home had not presented him the foundation he needed, and as such he veered slightly from his intended path. But it wasn't a wasted life. We glean a lot even in short lifetimes, especially if they are very challenging. Terry left the planet approximately 45 years ago, so I'm guessing that he is probably about 25 years into his next incarnation. I often wonder if he is someone that I know now, or have seen. But regardless of his current incarnation, a soul always keeps the majority of their energy in the realm of Spirit. That means that he can be a young man or woman somewhere on earth — but a large part of who he is — his soul energy — is still watching over his loved ones, and can visit with them in spirit, in dreams, or via a spiritual medium.
... and Mom
One example of a soul being here and there, is my mother. My mom died in 1981, but she was reborn as my niece in 1999. At least, that is the information I was given in dreams, meditations, and psychic readings. But despite all of the signs and readings, I was still reticent to accept it. "What if all of those things are just coincidences?", I wondered. Finally, I asked for "just one more sign".
I announced, to my spirit posse: "Look.. it seems you've given me many reasons to believe that (my niece) is my mother, reincarnated, and I appreciate that. But this is just too important a thing to believe about someone if it isn't true. I need one more sign please, and if you do that, I will finally accept it."
The very next day my sister is out shopping with my niece, and the little girl wants a novelty item with her name on it, from one of those merchandise displays that have personalized items (I don't recall what it was.. a keychain, perhaps, or a bracelet) with a different child's name labeled above each cubby. So my sister reaches into the cubicle marked with my niece's name, and pulls out the only item in that space. Lo and behold, it says "Sylvia"! Sylvia was my mother's (rather uncommon) name, and does not begin with the first letter of my niece's name. ... That was one swift response to my "one more sign" request — and what a response it was! Spirit doesn't generally give you literal answers (riddles and symbols are more their style), but this time, they literally SPELLED it out!
As the days passed, even more Sylvia-isms appeared. For one thing, my little niece went thru a phase where she named everything from her dolls to her dogs "Emma". Emma was the name of my mother's guardian, who died when Mom was 18 years old. She never really got over the loss of her guardian — the only person she ever truly felt unconditionally loved by. Emma was her lifeline, her ipso-facto mother. Emma rescued her from a life of abuse in foster homes, where my mother suffered for years after her own mom passed away. Mom's love for Emma was certainly one which could survive life and death transitions, even as a seemingly random name popping up from the subconscious!
I don't even know why my subconscious (higher self, guides, or whatever) would, in a myriad of ways no less, give us information about my mother's reincarnation into our family. Perhaps because we were all so devastated when we lost her (from breast cancer, at 50), and this knowledge was meant as a salve for healing. Or maybe it was just a kind of gift to a family that is uncommonly spiritually aware. Whatever the reason — it's always fun to get such insights from "The Other Side"!