By Any Other Name…

I got into a discussion the other day with someone who objected to the use of the words ‘guide’ and ‘guardian’ (as in guardian angels). When I asked why, they said that there were no guides or guardians only essence doing what essence does.

Several others in the group disagreed and the discussion flowed back and forth with some agreeing and others disagreeing. As for me, I can see his point, but I also think that he’s not seeing the fuller picture.

Are guides or guardians essence? Of course, we all are. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that the essence that comes to us as a guide is our own essence (our higher self). Other fragments of ourselves (fragments no longer incarnate) can be acting as guides, as can entity mates, or even cadre or cadence companions. All would be in essence (especially if discarnate and astral), but they would also be guides or guardians.

A programmer is a person (or at least most of the ones I know are;-), but we don’t identify them as ‘person’, we identify them as ‘programmer’. In other words, we’re identifying them with the role they fulfill. To me it’s the same with guides and guardians. They may be essence, but if they perform the ‘job’ or task of guide, then that’s what I call them.

A guide, while some part of essence (yours or someone else’s), is still performing a specific function—they’re guiding you, whether it is through a particular challenging passage of your life or through your transition between physical lives. After all, if some piece of essence is helping you, providing dreams or other feedback in an effort to “guide” you along your path, aren’t they acting as a guide?

Sure the piece of essence might be part of your essence, but then we usually refer to that as your “higher self”; or it might be a different fragment of you (a fragment no longer incarnate on Earth). However, it could just as easily be part of your non-reunited entity (an entity mate). They are all essence, just as you yourself are; but each piece of essence doesn’t function as a guide.

While certainly no expert—I’m not sure anyone who is incarnate—I have spent a considerable amount of time in the astral planes (and not just on the transitional planes where most people go when they astral travel). Therefore, I feel somewhat protective and defensive of the term “guide”. I’ve “seen” (or maybe experienced is a better word) some of the different “jobs” that those beings of essence perform while in their astral phase of life. 

Sure, some of the “lessons” or experiences of the astral are more internal—reviewing the lives and choices they had and made while incarnate, or reuniting with all the other fragments of themselves and working through any residual links or minor imbalances with those still in the physical (which is usually done in the astral while the incarnate person is sleeping). But part of the experiences of the astral include acting as a guide for those either still physical or those transitioning between life and death (physicality and non-physicality). There are also those who offer advice, and others who simply monitor things—people, plants, animals, etc. So, it isn’t all just playing harps and floating around on clouds. Nor can it be wrong to call some of those non-corporeal beings guides—after all, it is what they do.

It isn’t just those who are discarnate, either, who function as guides in essence. I have also taken on that task during some of my nightly sojourns, as have others I’ve spoken with in the here and now.

I know one young woman who works on the transitional planes assuring those who have recently died (physically) that they are alright and that what they are experiencing is physical death. I’ve known others who work with those heading back to a physical life, helping them sort out all the various choices available to them as they plan the tasks and imbalances they want to complete or rectify.

As for myself, I’m what I call an EOCG—Emergency On-Call Guide. I take those “calls” from folks who are incarnate and seeking support and guidance, as well as those who have, perhaps, traveled to the astral (whether during sleep or an unplanned OBE) and are now “lost”. (This in addition to my “duties” in helping people cross over.)

Most of those I take calls from are entity mates, but I have also responded to cadre and cadence companions. Why do I do this? Because I chose to. I’ve chosen to do this through the past 7 lives. It’s to help them as well as myself. I look at it as a type of “on-the-job-training”. After all, it gives me a chance to learn more about how everything and everyone fits together in the overall scheme of things, and it helps me decide what type(s) of “jobs” or “tasks” I will continue with once I transition off the physical plane for good.

So, even though some people may not like the term guide, or angels, or guardians, I find that the term is quite appropriate in describing what some parts of essence are doing.


The Book of Knowledge

I was sitting on the grass, the sun warming my back while the trees murmured to each other. A gentle breeze caressed my cheek and the droning of bees filled the air. Although, I noted all of this on one level, I didn’t really notice it at all. The book in my lap occupied my complete attention, holding me, captivating me. Fascinated, I clung to every word.

It wasn’t a romance or mystery, not even a thriller or horror story–although, it did have some of all those elements within in it. No, this book was different, completely different from anything I had ever read before. It wasn’t put out through some regular publishing house; it wasn’t an e-book, or paper book. When I say this book was different, I truly meant it.

As I read through it, I felt rightness about the world and universe. It was as if each word only confirmed what I already knew. There was so much truth and wisdom packed into this thin, white volume, that I was amazed. How could this little book contain so much?

I couldn’t stop reading. Each word was a delight. Each sentence was a treat that filled my senses and teased my mind. Each page filled my mind with a million thoughts and ideas. They flooded through me, rolled over me, and barreled on past as I tried desperately to hang on to them. Every unique idea burst through me like a barrage of sky rockets, and I felt as if I were soaring high above the world.

My eyes moved down the page, and my mind continued to buzz and thrum with all the delightful insights that each sentence called forth from my being. Where had this book been hiding. Why hadn’t I found it until now? Everyone needed to read this book, I thought as I pulled my eyes from the page and smiled up at the butterflies soaring above me. 

I thought of all the people who could be helped just by reading any portion of this magnificent writing; of all the wars and other violent situations that could be averted if people would just read from this book. It was dumbfounding that more people hadn’t learned what I had simply from the few moments I had spent reading this book. Every person should have their own copy, I murmured to myself. Just think how wonderful the world would be if we all read from this book and were awakened to the knowledge and understanding of how things worked–a secret that hides within all of us.

Each of us carries the knowledge, the wisdom to do no harm. Yet every day we ignore that wisdom and go out and do as we please, regardless of who or what we hurt. Yet, I knew that if we all read even just a few pages from this book, that the rate of hurtfulness would drop significantly. How could it not? The information was all right here–all anyone had to do was read the first page and they, too, would see the truth, both within themselves and within the book.

I stood, my finger caught in the book, holding my place, and I looked toward the house. I needed to make as many copies of this book as possible, so everyone would have a chance to see what I had seen. As I glided through the grass toward the house, I suddenly awoke. Finding myself in the darkness of my bedroom, I cried out.

I sat up in the bed and searched frantically for the book I had moments before been holding in my hands. But, of course, it wasn’t there. It had just been a dream. There was no actual “book”, there was only the information that each of us carries within ourselves. Not that this makes the information any less valid, but it does make it harder to share. After all, a physical book can be copied, or given away, or read to others. But how does one share the information that is “written” only on their own soul?

Each of us carries within us their own version of this “book”. The “trick” is finding the key to unlock that information ,thereby making it available to yourself (and, if you like, to others). You see, everyone is different. While some people will never look inside and recognize that they have a copy of this “book”, others may see it and never “read” it. 

This book of knowledge is hidden away within the library of your soul, but the librarian is adept at inducing fear, because she doesn’t want you to know the secrets within this book. For some people, she is so fearsome that they will never enter the library, let alone check out the book hidden inside there. Others may sneak into the library and find the book, but then be frightened away by the librarian before they can figure out what the book says. Some others may actually get a glimpse inside that book and know that it holds great wisdom and truth, but still be too afraid of the librarian to stay very long. But a few, like me, will brave the librarian, proving to themselves that she is not as fearsome as she would like you to think; and in doing so, manage to remove the book long enough to read the entire thing–cover to cover. And once read, they will find that life will never be the same, because they have discovered something wondrous–about themselves, about the world, and about everyone they know.

Whichever one of these you may be is fine, because not everyone needs to seek out their book of knowledge, nor does everyone need to read every passage within the book. Everyone is different, and everyone is on different paths, so when the time is right, you will find your book and you will read whatever passage or page you need to in order to continue on with your life. But if you’re lucky (because I consider myself lucky to have read the entire book and to have remembered most of it), you too, will read and remember every morsel of that book, and you, too, will find your life changed because of it.

It’s a fascinating and enlightening read, and I hope each of you gets the chance to at least sample some of the writings in your own book of knowledge some day.

Sleep, Perchance to Dream…

Everyone dreams (even those who claim they don’t, do—they simply don’t remember their dreams). But not everyone can say that their dreams come true, at least not with any regularity.

I, like the character in the television show ‘Medium’, however, do have dreams of events that later occur in my life. However, unlike Allison Dubois in ‘Medium’, the events I dream have never included murder, and the only deaths I have dreamed of are usually those of family members. Usually, though, my precognitive dreams are of much more mundane matters, those typical day-to-day events that make up normal living.

When I was a child, my dreams were filled with the banal—I would dream of a conversation taking place between one of my teachers, and one or more of the students, and the next day that exact conversation would occur. The conversation wasn’t anything Earth-shattering, or even anything all that interesting. It might be that one of the students would ask a question regarding the Battle of 1812 and the teacher would then launch into an answer—as I said, not all that interesting. Yet, my nights were filled with these types of ‘revelations’.

It became so commonplace for me to dream of the next day’s events, that sometimes I wondered what the point was of getting up and going to school just so I could go through it all again. After all, if you’ve heard the conversation once, why hear it again?

When I went on to Junior High School, one of the classes I had to take was typing. The first day of typing was horrible. I couldn’t figure it out. The finger placement seemed totally alien, and the whole rhythm of the typing itself was like some foreign music that I simply didn’t understand. That night I dreamt of nothing but my fingers flying across the keyboard and the words magically appearing on the paper. The rhythm was no longer foreign, but seemed a part of my soul.

The next day when I stepped into typing class, my heart was racing, and I was sure everyone would be laughing at me again, as my fingers stumbled over the keystrokes. Instead, when the teacher told us to start typing the exercise, I was the first one done, and with absolutely no mistakes. I couldn’t believe it. Then I remembered the nightlong dream filled with typing, and realized that this time, my prophetic dream was actually an astral visit where I taught myself how to type—literally overnight. That’s when I began to see some use to these dreams I kept having. If I could teach myself to type while dreaming, maybe I could ‘memorize’ the answers to the tests in a dream and save myself from having to study.

As much as I would have liked to have ‘learned through dreams’, that wasn’t to be. Instead, my dreams took another giant leap forward in a different direction. Now, I started dreaming of what was to happen to my friends, and family. But these dreams weren’t just for the next day. In fact, they were usually weeks, maybe months, into the future.

I remember seeing my father decked out in his uniform and being handed some official-looking piece of paper by an officer while surrounded by others from his department, and they, too, were all dressed in their formal uniforms. It was all filled with a lot of pomp and circumstance and I kept seeing the letters SGT.

Well, about a month later, my dad announced that his captain had selected him to take the sergeant’s exam. I told my dad that he would do great, and he simply gave me an indulgent smile. He knew that I had no idea how difficult the exam was, but then my dad didn’t know what I did, either—that I had already seen him being awarded the promotion.

As I said at the start, the dreams of death aren’t often, and they usually pertain to someone close to me—uncle, aunt, grandparent, etc. The most memorable dream I had in this capacity involved my uncle, Uncle M. He was one of my favorites, being a scholar-cast artisan, we got along quite well. He taught me all about photography, and nature, he let me spend hours sitting in his workshop while he turned ordinary pieces of wood into beautiful guitars.

One night when I was 14, I saw my uncle walk out of his front door and down the walkway toward his car, which was in the driveway. It was early morning in the dream, and he turned and gave a little wave to his wife (my dad’s sister). Then, as he turned back toward the car, he blew up. There was a flash of flame, the sound of an explosion, and then nothing. I sat straight up in bed, panting, and overwrought.

It took me several hours to calm down, and when I finally went back to sleep, I found myself dreaming of my uncle again. This time he was in his uniform (he worked for one of the large airlines as a chef—this was at the time when they still served real meals on air flights), and for some reason he was walking across the tarmac toward one of the large jets sitting there. I saw myself running after him, yelling for him to stop, but he didn’t seem to hear me and continued walking away from me. Just as he reached the stairs going up to the plane, the plane exploded killing my uncle.

Again, I sat up, but this time I turned on all the lights and refused to go back to sleep. I watched the clock as it the time crept toward morning, all the while dreading the news that I was sure would come with dawn. But dawn came and the phone remained silent, and nothing happened.

Each morning for the next two weeks, I would awaken early and wait, dreading the news that I was sure would come. And for two weeks, nothing happened. Finally, I convinced myself that it had simply been a dream, and everything was fine, and I stopped hovering near the phone at the crack of dawn.

2 months later, I came home from school to a saddened household. My mother told me that Uncle M. had died that morning as he was leaving for work. He had gone out to the car and had a massive coronary—his heart had literally exploded—killing him instantly. I was horrified. I hadn’t said anything to anyone about my dream, because it seemed so silly. Yet, at the same time, I had believed in it enough to wait for that horrid phone call every morning for 2 weeks. Now, I kept wondering if I should have said something—after all, maybe I could have prevented his death. Maybe if I had said something, he could have seen a doctor, gotten a magic pill, or one of those operations that people had when their hearts were bad. Instead, I had done nothing.

For the longest time, I refused to allow myself to dream. I didn’t want to know what was going to happen—good or bad. I mean, what good was it, when I couldn’t stop good people from dying? As for the good news, well, most of the time is wasn’t all that good, it was simply mundania from every day life.

After about 3 years, though, I realized how cut off I felt. It was as if part of me had been imprisoned. There was vital information out there that I wasn’t getting because I wouldn’t allow myself to, and I realized that I didn’t like the feeling. I needed, and I wanted that information—no matter how mundane it may seem. Somehow, those dreams kept me in contact with the whole world, with the universe at large. Without those dreams, I was deaf, dumb, and blind in a world full of sharp edges and unexpected pitfalls.

By allowing the dreams back into my waking life, I’ve allowed myself to link up with and interact with many more people than I would have ever had the chance to meet here in the physical world. Because by allowing my waking self to remember my dreams again, I also allow myself to remember all the astral visits I make.

I’ve also allowed myself to remember those prophetic dreams again, and even though they may not allow me to stop things from happening, they do give me ample ‘warning’ so that the choices I make in response to the events aren’t made strictly through emotions. There’s a bit of thought and contemplation behind those choices, which helps me stay on the best path for me.

I’ve warned myself when I’m entering a new lesson, or when someone else has made a choice that I wasn’t expecting and which is going to affect me, and they have continued to alert me to those around me who are going to die. But that’s alright, because you see, I’ve come to understand that death is just another aspect of life, and everyone has to experience both sides of that coin—life and death. Knowing about someone’s choices ahead of time, simply lets me be a bit more prepared, that’s all.



Rings expanding outward,

dancing in rippling waves,

they move closer to infinity.


Light moving forward,

glowing in shifting bands,

it becomes another reality.


Man soaring upward,

searching in futile ways,

to prove he is important.

A Planer’s Date With Death

I’m a planer. I move between the physical and the transitional planes, usually to help other souls along the path of becoming. That’s our way of saying moving along the path of life, because everyone is always becoming something—some are becoming physical beings, others astral beings, but we’re all becoming something different than what we are at this moment.

I live in the physical plane, but as a planer, I spend a great deal of time in the transitional plane—mostly at night while my body’s sleeping.

As a planer, I’m more than just a “traffic cop” for souls. I’m also an advisor, guide, and magician. I say magician because as I help other souls on their way to becoming, I create “worlds” and situations in the transitional plane for them. These worlds or situations help ease the transition (hence the name transitional plane) between the astral and the physical or between the physical and the astral. For instance, if someone is shifting from life in the physical (or as you all so quaintly put it—dying) and they expect to see all their family waiting for them (mother, father, grandmother, etc.), then I create that for them.

You see most of the time, the souls they are expecting to be waiting to greet them on the “other side” have already moved on to other things. I mean, just because you’re no longer physical doesn’t mean there aren’t other things to do and see, so most souls don’t just hang around waiting for other family member to join them; it just doesn’t work that way.

Anyway, it’s up to us planers to make sure that the transitions from one existence to another is relatively easy, so many times that means creating “worlds” or situations or even realistic entities (family and friends). Sometimes I even have to transform myself, taking on the image of someone who is still Earthbound or is extremely special to the soul that is transitioning.

Whatever it is they need, I weave my planal magic and create for them. It’s what I do. I do the same for those moving from the astral to the physical. Only in those cases, I usually create a way for them to see and hear their soon-to-be new family. This helps them become comfortable with the personalities of the family they will soon be joining, and helps ease the transition between astral and physical.

So, I’m a planer, and last night I crossed over to the transitional plane to meet with a “client”, but instead, I ran into my old “friend”, Death. I’ve been very careful about crossing the lines since he tricked me into marrying him (see Death is a Polygamist), but my luck ran out last night.

When I turned to greet the person I thought was my client, I found myself facing Death instead. I told him I was in a hurry and didn’t have time for a chat, but he wasn’t put off. He gave me his sly smile, and held out his hand waiting for me to put mine into it.

“You can spare a moment for a light supper, can’t you?”, he said softly.

I may know some magic, but he lives in the transitional plane. He can do things I’ve never even imagined. Knowing I wasn’t going to be able to evade him, I sighed and reluctantly placed my hand in his.

Suddenly, we were in a fantasy evening. We stood in the entryway of a ritzy, lush restaurant at the top of a towering building overlooking a twinkling cityscape. The stars and city lights were like sparkling gems. As we stepped down into the restaurant proper, the subdued lighting and quiet atmosphere surrounded us. The plush carpeting, and ring of crystal and china spoke of luxury.

I glanced down and realized that I was no longer in the jeans and t-shirt that I had arrived in the transitional plane wearing. Instead, I now had on a midnight blue Dior gown with a gilding of gold and diamonds glittering at my neck. And on my feet were the most comfortable high-heeled sandals I had ever worn.

As we strolled to a table near the edge of the dance floor, I realized that there was something missing from this fantasy “date”. It was cold—not the temperature of the room—but in the overall feeling of the place and people in it. It felt sterile and without warmth. I realized that while he had created a beautiful fantasy, he had no way to add any emotional warmth, which what was needed to give it life—but then, he was Death, not Life.

At the table, he ordered for both of us, then insisted on dancing while we waited. The band was excellent, playing mostly music from the 1940’s and 1950’s. And while I do enjoy dancing, the remoteness and the sterility of the atmosphere began to wear on me, and I was relieved when we finally returned to the table.

Death is actually quite personable, and, if given half a chance, quite witty. However, when all is said and done, even charm is nothing but illusion and eventually all charm palls. So, it was with great relief when the evening drew to a close.

As we again stood on the threshold of the restaurant, Death asked if he could take me home. I knew what he was really asking, and I shook my head while mouthing the word “No.”

I turned to leave and he darted his head forward and snatched a kiss. His lips were rough, almost chapped feeling, but as lifeless as he was. I pulled back, and pushed him away. He laughed, and shivers ran down my spine at the sound.

I pushed through the door and found myself back in my t-shirt and jeans standing exactly where I had been when Death first approached me. Shaking my head, I realized that I had only a few moments before my client arrived. As I waited, I rubbed a finger across my lips where Death had kissed me, and I knew I much preferred the kisses I received from my physical life husband. The warmth, the love, the life they conveyed was much more fulfilling than anything that Death had to offer.

Death is Polygamist

Did you know that Death is a polygamist? It’s true; I just found out last night.

I was helping someone cross over as I have done now for nearly 2 decades (I’m a planer, it’s what I do–see A Planer’s Date With Death). The woman had stomach cancer and was in a great deal of pain, but last night she reached out and I went to her. When I floated in she was sleepy, and not too happy about being awakened. I knew someone else was hovering nearby, but I couldn’t quite see who, so I put it out of my mind and reached down and took the woman’s hand. We floated out of the room and into the transitional plane.

The transitional plane is the crossover point between here and the astral plane. It’s sort of a way station. It’s a place where anything you want can become real; where any emotion you bring with you becomes exaggerated; where people, places, and events can be recreated; and where endings can always be happy if you want them to be.

The woman, who before had lain crumpled on a hospital bed, wasted, old, and emaciated, now stood next to me a healthy and smiling younger woman. Her hair was light brown, softly curled, and her eyes shown with love, happiness, and remembrance as she looked at the rambling, gray, frame house in front of us. 

With her to my left, the presence who had stayed just out of sight before now stepped forward on my right. He was an ordinary looking guy, tall, stocky, with a buzz cut of graying blond hair, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.  While a very small part of me felt uncomfortable around him, for the most part, neither the woman nor I seemed inordinately upset by his presence.

The 3 of us looked at a large memorial garden that had been planted in the front yard. White stones laid in a heart shaped outlined the garden, and a calliope of colored flowers were planted throughout. In the center was a simple white, stone marker. As the woman read the stone marker, she became upset that the “wrong” name had been used on it. I hugged her and told her it was alright, and soon she agreed. (The family had used her full birthname rather than the name she was most often called.)

As the embrace ended, I found myself taking part in a wedding. (Many times, when a person transitions, they relive those moments of great happiness or sadness before finally moving on. In her case, she chose to relive some of her happiest memories.) A large barn like structure was filled with people sitting on folding chairs, and sunlight spilled through openings up near the ceiling. The woman sat next to someone I took to be her husband, and they beamed up at the wedding couple–me and Death.

I looked down to see that I was wearing a traditional white wedding dress, while Death wore the traditional black tux. I stared at Death a moment, and my stomach flip-flopped. An inner voice gave a warning, but the look on the woman’s face overrode it, and I continued to play the part of the bride.

While the ceremony played out, Death whispered to me that if we did this I would truly be married to him. Again that voice of warning tried to speak up, to tell me that what he said was true, but again I ignored it. Death also whispered that he had many brides and brides-to-be, some he had already taken on honeymoons and some he was still waiting for. I felt myself shudder, but the dream-like minister finished speaking, and we were surrounded by the woman and her family all smiling and happy on our behalf.

The scene shifted around us again, and now we were in a smaller, more suburban garage, where stood 3 bicycles. The woman with stomach cancer sat on one, a shine in her eyes and a huge smile on her face. She waved to me and to Death and rode out into the sunlight, moving slowly down the driveway. Death pulled on a helmet, and smiled at me. “Will you come with us?”

I looked at the third bike, then at Death, and shook my head.

“Are you sure?”

There was an allure, I’ll admit it, but again I shook my head.

With a devilish smile and a wink, he rode toward the woman, and they turned right onto the sunny suburban street. As I watched them ride away, I thought about what I had done. Somehow, I knew that by marrying him I had agreed to leave with him, and not just in a vague sometime kind of way, but soon. But I wasn’t frightened or upset. I’ve been helping so many others make the transition that by now I’m very comfortable with the thought of moving across on my own. In fact, there are days where the idea absolutely intrigues me–much like an explorer seeking the next great adventure.

Instead, what intrigued me now, was the realization that Death was a polygamist. How many wives did he already have? And how many fiancees just waiting for him to come and sweep them off their feet? But most of all, I had to laugh, because I truly felt sorry for someone with that many wives and wives-to-be. After all, my husband says that he couldn’t handle anyone else because just dealing with my mood swings makes him absolutely crazy, so I don’t know how Death can be happy being such a polygamist. That poor, poor “man”.