My Haunted Childhood

Fhost1_1440x900

My childhood home was haunted…or at least we all thought so.

When I was about twelve or so, my family and I became convinced that our house was haunted. We had been living there for at least seven years with no ghostly manifestations, but right around my twelfth birthday everything began to change. Books jumped off shelves when no one was near them. Doors slammed even though there was no wind. Papers blew off desks and tables although the windows were all closed, and footsteps were heard climbing the stairs to the second floor, but when we looked, no one was on the steps. Radios and TVs became filled with static and snow, and electric or battery-powered clocks and watches either slowed or stopped (and sometimes, even went backwards).

It was my father who began noticing that these events most often occurred when I was around—especially the interference with the radios and TVs and the problems with time and clocks. But it was my mom who put it together. Maturing child + playful ghost = poltergeist. What else could it be? Since she was the one who had read all the books, we took her word for it; after all, she was the only “expert” we had. Therefore, what we had was a poltergeist, not a garden-variety ghost or goblin.

So, every few nights this poltergeist would thump its way up the stairs, stopping when it got to the second floor hallway. While every day my mother put up with being unable to listen to the radio in the mornings, and I would pick up the books and papers that ended up strewn about the various rooms. After a while it became so common place and routine that we no longer gave much thought to it when objects were moved or misplaced, when we heard strange noises, or when electrical appliances didn’t always function properly. It was just the way things were in our house. That is until the day the new neighbors came to visit.

My mother was a stickler for presenting the proper face to the world, and that included inviting new neighbors over for a friendly “get-to-know-you” chat. So, here it was a beautiful Sunday spring afternoon, and instead of playing outside or sitting in my reading tree with a book (one of my favorite pastimes) I was stuck inside trying to be nice to the new neighbor’s boring son. Listening to the stilted conversation of the adults, I could tell that even my father found these new neighbors stiff and pretentious. I watched him as his eyes glazed over as the pompous man droned on and on about his important job, and his expensive car, and his notable connections. My father was never impressed by that type of thing. Although my mother was (impressed by just those types of things), I could see that even she was having a tough time warming up to these people.

Suddenly, the piano, which was also in the front room, jangled discordantly. As startled gazes sped to the simple upright piano that held down the front corner of the room, tea cups rattled as guests hurriedly placed their services on the nearest table. My dad gave the guests a quiet, crooked smile, while my mother nervously made suggestions about the wind possibly causing the noise or the cat (we didn’t have) possibly walking across the keyboard. Although the neighbors nodded, they seemed unconvinced, and suddenly had another engagement that they needed to get to.

As the guests hurried to leave, I studied the piano and for the first time an inkling of understanding began to seep in. The poltergeist had never touched the piano before, but about the time that it had jangled to life, I had been wishing that the people would leave so I could at least practice my music. Wondering if what I was suspecting was true, I scrunched up my face and stared at the piano until my eyes watered. The closing of the front door, as the guests scurried away, broke my concentration. I turned away to see my dad put an arm around my mom and reassure her that it was okay, and that our reputation in the neighborhood would be fine.

I glanced again at the piano, wondering if mom would mind if I did my practicing and that’s when the piano plunked out half a chord. My mom jumped a little, then sighed. As she began picking up the cups and dishes, she suggested that maybe if I practiced a little that the poltergeist might quiet down again.

Needing no further encouragement, I scooted over to the bench and slid in front of the keyboard. As I started running scales, I let my mind wander. Understanding as to what a poltergeist really was began to come together for me like some weird jigsaw puzzle. A poltergeist wasn’t some phantasm, like a ghost or ghoul, that was linked to me and so using my energy to haunt the house. A poltergeist was the result of my unfocused emotional energy. I had “powers” (that’s how I thought of it…as if I was some sort of super hero), and I wasn’t controlling them.

Although, it seemed that these occurrences were random or happening due to some outside influences, they were really just responding to my own emotional needs and “outbursts”. Unable to express myself in any other way (such as when those neighbors were visiting), my emotions expressed themselves through my abilities. Even the thumping on the steps was my own emotionalism letting go. I’ve always had very vivid dreams and during that period of my life, parts of the dreams actually “came to life”, that’s all.

Now that I’ve grown up (although, sometimes I feel more childlike than ever), I look back and see how easily those odd events during those few years could be misunderstood. But as much fun as it was to think that our house was haunted, the only ghost was me.

 

Advertisements

Transitioning, again

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

I’ve been tran’zing again lately, and not easy ones, either. These transitions have been quite stressful. So stressful in fact, that I’ve been waking up almost more tired than when I went to bed. Usually, I look forward to sleeping and dreaming. Primarily because my dreams normally help me solve some problem or answer some question from my day-to-day life.

I’m sure most of us can think of at least one dream that has helped us resolve some issue or some question. I’m speaking of the types of problems or questions that prey on the mind, that keep you tossing and turning until suddenly you wake up one morning just knowing exactly what you need and want to do. You may not remember the dream details that prompted your decision (and some people will claim that never dream at all), but sometime during the night you gained the insight you needed to make the best choice for you at this particular time and place in your life.

However, the “dreams” I’ve been having lately are tran’zing dreams. (Tran’zing is what I call the traveling I do between planes—the physical plane and the astral planes; primarily the transitional plane, the astral plane closest to the physical.) Tran’zing dreams aren’t really dreams, though they do occur at night while my body is sleeping. But these are actually memories – little snippets of memory from places I’ve been and things I’ve done or said while my body slept.

Tran’zing is actually a type of out-of-body experience. The energy that is you (sometimes called essence, sometimes called a soul), travels at night. But even though it leaves the physical form and goes off on its own ‘adventures’, it still remains connected to the physical body. Because of this connection, the physical mind receives input as to what the soul is doing, seeing, and saying. However, not everyone is willing to accept this input. Some will block it completely (the same way they block all dreams). Some filter it so that it becomes very dreamlike and unreal (the information their mind receives is so far outside their frame of reference, that they eliminate those parts that they can’t accept). And others (like me) remember enough to know what we’ve been up to each night.

For many people, though, playing on the transitional plane is too frightening and so they adjust the information to something acceptable. This is fine; it’s the way everyone adapts and grows. As each person grows, life after life, they will filter this information less and less, until, like me, they barely filter it all.

What does that mean? It means that most of what I do when tran’zing is often remembered by me once I awaken. It also means that any problems I encounter, any stresses that I put on myself when out of body, are felt by my body even though it is sleeping. So, while I’m home asleep, I’m also off gallivanting around, which means I sometimes wake up unrested.

When I’m tran’zing, I’m helping other people cross between planes. Some of these people are dying, so I escort them from the physical plane and their dead or dying bodies to the astral planes where they can decide what it is they want to do next. Sometimes, I escort a soul from the astral planes to the physical. It might be they have a new body waiting for them, or it can also be that they have wandered where they don’t belong. (It’s not unusual to encounter ‘accidental travelers’ — people who have through the use of drugs, fever, or other non-intentional means — have ended up in the transitional section of the astral plane.)

Other times, I transition myself or others to the astral planes where we work on emotional lessons that we can’t do while in the physical world. It might be that someone chose to resolve an issue through violence, but they now realize how foolish that was. So, with my help they cross to the astral levels and we recreate the situation and they try to find other resolutions. This can take one night, or many, but each time I bring them across, I create the situation, I supply the participants, and we play out the scene until they feel they understand the full consequences and ramifications of every choice and every possible resolution.

All of these come through to me while my body is resting, and these super-emotionally charged activities drain me, so when I awaken in the mornings I feel as if I’ve had no sleep. But despite the stress, despite the tiredness that comes from all these midnight wanderings, I relish the opportunities to help all of these people. I relish the opportunity to transition ‘home’ and visit with my astral family.

In fact, as crazy as it sounds, I look forward to the day when I can transition and stay there. Then I can help people all the time, and not just during my sleep periods.

 

 

Where is Love?

wave washed heart and pink shovel_4500Where has the romantic gone?

How did she become lost?

Where is the lonely little girl who constantly poured her soul

Into a few choice words—laying bare her life, her heart, and her mind?

I have searched everywhere, yet she remains lost.

I see a form; it could be her.

Instead I am confronted with some glowering old woman

Whose sour disposition seeps forth from every seam of her face,

and every pore of her skin.

Like the odor of spoiled meat, it surrounds her in a miasma,

full of despair and dislike.

When she sees me, she grabs my sleeve

and demands querulously, “Where is love? Where has it gone?”

“I was a young woman once—in love with life and filled with joy.

Now, here I am dressed in these rags. My hair is coarse and my

face is wrinkled. I do not understand. How did I come to be this way?”

Her tears follow the runnels of her face

until they tumble free and splash against her shawl.

Her claw-like fingers still grip my sleeve

and I find myself patting her age-speckled hand.

Love is so fleeting, so swiftly fading.

With its departure do we lose our youth,

our beauty and our way.

Feeling her pain, I turn her toward the light.

Wiping away her tears, I softly explain

that love is there, in front of her.

For within the light all is joy,

and within the light all is music,

and within the light everything is love.

With a look of awe, she releases me

and reaches toward the light.

As she shuffles forward, her countenance changes.

Her face grows smoother, and her back straighter,

and as the glow surrounds her, somewhere deep

within myself I feel the tones of love resound.

Black Holes and the Art of Writing

blackhole1Wow, I can’t believe it’s been just over a year since I put anything new out on the blog. Forgive me dear readers for being so neglectful of you. I hope you will forgive me once you find out the reason for my neglect.

You see, I had dreams of writing another book (a novel this time), and thought that I could do that and continue my blogging, too. Unfortunately, I found that writing a novel is like getting sucked into a black hole. At first I merely crept up to the edge of the blackness and peered inside the void. I would gaze down into that dense blackness and wonder if I could actually fill enough pages to create a book. After all, I’ve spent the greater part of my life writing short, novelty pieces, how-go guides (which are by their very nature short), and short stories. (Do you see the pattern there? Everything is short…).

However, after spending enough time gazing into that black hole, I decided I was ready to give it a try. After all, how difficult could it be? I’d been writing my whole life, and if the story didn’t take off, well…no harm done, right? I’d simply back away from the black hole of authordom, and continue being the writer of short pieces.

So, I started writing—a paragraph here, a chapter there—but nothing that really interfered with my “real work” of writing (for my blog, for my paycheck, for myself). But after a while the little bits I had created started to come together into something bigger, something more than just a short story or a novella. Soon, I was caught up in the fever of the characters I had created. Their needs and their desires became all important; they began to run my life. Before I knew it, I was no longer standing on the edge of the black hole, I was falling into it. (And let me tell you, once you start falling, it goes on forever.)

Here it is, fourteen months later and I’m finally at the other side of that black hole. I have a completed book, I’ve written a rough draft of the second adventure for my characters, and I’ve done up an outline for book three. Wow! It’s like waking from a dream and finding out that it wasn’t a dream at all.

It may have seemed as if I fell off the face of the Earth (and in a way, I guess I did), but the results are worth it (at least to me). If nothing else, I proved to myself that I could survive falling through a black hole. But I also learned that writing a book is hard work, and writing the story is only half the job. There’s so much more to do and I may make a lot of missteps along the way, but you’re welcome to journey with me.

I assure you, the journey is mystical, mundane, mind expanding, and life enriching.

mysticjourney

What Dreams May Come…What Dreams Have Come

WhatdreamsposterA friend of mine invited me to watch a movie with her. She said it was something she had seen when it first came out and, knowing I hadn’t seen it, thought I would really enjoy it. That’s all she said. She wouldn’t give me the title, tell me who starred in it, or even give me a synopsis of the plot. Deciding to humor her (and wanting to spend time with her, anyway), I agreed to her “movie night”.

The movie she chose was “What Dreams May Come” starring Robin Williams. And to say I was surprised by the movie is an understatement. It was like watching my own book, “Escorting the Dead: My Life as a Psychopomp”, come to life.

The movie was based on a book by Richard Matheson, author of such books as “Bid Time Return” (which became the movie, “Somewhere in Time”) and “I am Legend” (which also became a movie with the same name). I had loved all the movies made from Mr. Matheson’s books, including this one that I had just seen, so I went to the library and got copies of his books.

Reading his words pulled at something deep within me. It waCover3s as if we were connecting on a soul level. It made me wonder just who was Mr. Matheson and how did he come to write these books; what was his inspiration. Did he have a near death experience of his own? Was his just a finely tuned imagination or was there some “secret” knowledge there?

What I found was that he wasn’t all that different from me in his beliefs and in how he built his spiritual foundations.

Fascinated by parapsychology, the paranormal, and metaphysics since boyhood, Mr. Matheson used his storytelling platform to explore and express his beliefs. Having read everything from Emanual Swedenborg and Harold Percival to Raymond Moody and Kubler-Ross, Mr. Matheson compiled his own spiritual belief system which he published in a book called “The Path”, a non-fiction account of his ideas and concepts.

That same belief system was used as the basis for “What Dreams May Come” but was expressed as a story; however, in an introductory note to the book, Matheson explains that the characters are the only fictional component of the novel. Almost everything else was based on research, and the end of the novel includes a lengthy bibliography.

Placing the material in a fictional, story-like format allowed Mr. Matheson to reach a wider audience with his ideas of how life (and death) works. His book explores a range of paranormal and spiritual concepts and puts forth his philosophy of mind over matter, that ideas are the basis of creation, and his beliefs that the human soul is immortal and that a person’s fate in the afterlife is self-imposed.

The book, which was originally published in 1978, received mixed reviews. However, Mr. Matheson considered it one of his greatest achievements and was quoted as saying, “I think ‘What Dreams May Come’ is the most important (read effective) book I’ve written. It has caused a number of readers to lose their fear of death – the finest tribute any writer could receive.”

That quote also fits me. I may not sell very many copies of my book, but that’s okay; because if my book can give even one person some comfort regarding their death or the death of someone they love, than that’s what counts. It’s really the reason why I wrote it.

So, in our own way, I guess Mr. Matheson and I do have a connection. We both developed similar belief systems and have tried to express those beliefs through our writing. It’s nice to have validation of how you think the world functions, and it’s even nicer when that validation comes to you unexpectedly and without strings.

Sleep Walking

dreamer2There’s a passage in one of Stephen King’s books where he talks about how his protagonist is avoiding life by burying himself in his writing. SK goes on to say that to the protagonist, the characters in the story he is writing are more real to him than the world and people in which he actually lives. I mention that because for a while I felt as if my life was that way.

I had been burying myself in a pretense of life to the exclusion of what was important. I went into work and I busied myself with how-to guides, indices and table of contents, images and tables. I scurried to meetings, and followed agendas, and answered phones, and all the time all I was really doing was avoiding life—real life.

Oh, I can see you going, “Whoa! Wait a minute; what you described is life.” But you’re so wrong. For me life has never been about creating a physical product or object, or going to meetings so I can listen to someone worry about whether deadlines will be met, or whether we should change the template of our how-to guides. For me life has always been more about why people act the way they do, care about what they do, or say what they do.

Seeing beneath the surface of the games and dramas that people participate in has always been easy for me. So easy, in fact, that I rarely got caught up in the dramas myself—at least not for any length of time. I think this is why, when I realized what I was doing, that it hit me so hard. Here I was, going through the motions of living every day and thinking that this was what it was all about, this was living; then suddenly realizing that what I was doing was really avoiding life.

I literally became a sleep walker during the days—I came into work, did my “thing” and then went home, never recognizing that what I was doing served little purpose but to occupy my mind and keep me from actually seeing beneath the surface to my real life.

I suddenly recognized just how much people do things out of habit. We’ve all been brainwashed into thinking that if we don’t have gainful employment that we’ll starve, if we have nowhere to live, we’re failures. Yet, look at how many people manage to do what they want and still get by. How many people are painting, sculpting, selling poetry, hanging out at the beach riding surfboards and just enjoying life?

There’s nothing wrong with any of those options, just as there’s nothing wrong with “working” for a living. I think everyone needs to make their own choices. It’s just for me, I finally recognized that what I was calling “working for a living: was really “hiding” from life. While I want to write, and I want to make money enough to support myself and my husband, I also needed to unbury myself from this false life and continue my search for what’s real—for me. And what’s real for me is understanding the BIG picture—who we are, what we are, and where are we going.

So, although I still work writing how-to manuals, and I still participate in “normal life”, I’m also spending much more time in the astral plane. In the astral plane I can interact with others like myself who are ready to know, who are ready to see what lies beyond. Then during the day, rather than lull myself back into a walking sleep, I study the people around me. Not in a disinterested, mad-scientist way, but rather as stranger to a unique and extraordinary world that I need to understand and figure out.

I see the world through the eyes of someone new; and, like a child, I revel in the beauty and simplicity of a raindrop, or marvel at the sound of bird’s call. I enjoy the fragrance of fresh brewed coffee, or the sight of someone laughing.

Every day is a unique and marvelous occurrence just waiting for me to experience, and experience it, I do. I no longer sleep walk through life, but instead I try to make each day something joyous and positive, even if all I am doing is going to work. Every day is a wonder, and every moment a precious gem.

Escape

panicEscape. I need to get away.

Frantic, I peer around searching for a way out.

Heart pounding, I know if I don’t move quickly, they’ll be on me.

In a panic, I dash for the darkened opening that leads who knows where certain that I’ll be caught any moment.

So who are the ubiquitous “they” who are chasing me? I have no idea.

I have no idea what I’m afraid of, where I’m running from or to, and who it is that is pursuing me. All I know is that each night for the past 2 weeks, I’ve awakened in a cold sweaty panic, as I try to evade my pursuers.

Sometimes, I’m with one or more other people and we’re all trying to escape, other times I find that I need to rescue a child or puppy from imminent death; but most times, it’s just me, the dark, and the panicky need to escape.

So just what it is I’m running from? Based on other aspects of the dreams, I’d say that there are situations that I don’t want to become entangled in, and there are people and situations that I really prefer to avoid. The biggest issue I face while awake, though, is trying to determine just what and who those situations and people are. It seems so clear to me while I’m dreaming, and yet when awake, the details of the dreams are muzzy and unclear, which leaves me wondering just who I need to avoid—is it someone at work? Or is one of the projects going to cause me problems and upheavals? Is it merely a lesson that I need to learn, or is it truly a situation that is best avoided if my life is to continue on the path best suited for achieving my soul’s goals.

OnDreamsCover_Smashwords_withtextWhile I’d like some more meaningful answers to help me decide just what I need to do or not do, I do so wish that nightmares would end so that I could get some restful sleep. I understand and appreciate when my inner self needs to communicate with my waking self; however, sometimes the messages just don’t seem to make sense. There are just some times when a different means of communication are needed, and this is one of them. The nightmares are doing little except creating havoc with my sleep cycles and leaving me sleepy and irritable. It would be so much better if my inner me could just whip out a pen and paper and write a note in plain and simple words that I could then read and act upon.

As it is, whatever it is my inner self is trying to warn me about, will probably occur simply because I’m too sleepy and tired to see it coming.