The Painted Universe - tales of a technicolor life
A wonderfully humble and wise accounting of Anna Barlowe's life...what she has learned...and how she is handling the presence of a lover from a previous lifetime.
You might want to read Jake and I – Friendship Beyond the Veil before you read this part. It will make more sense to you.
The next day the four of us met in my livingroom again. We figured it was where Jake found us, and that would make it easier for him to find us again.
That morning, Anne and Sharon had made some phone calls. Anne had called the the Canadian Army base in Calgary (later called the Canadian Armed Services base), telling them that she was looking for a WW2 soldier named Jake Siemens with the 14th Tank Division.
The reply was that there was no one named Jake Siemens with that Division, but there was a Jacob Peters. They said he had been killed in action in 1942 and buried in France, since no one had been listed as next of kin.
Sharon had called the City records office and tried to pin down if a family named either Siemens or Peters had lived on Memorial Drive in Calgary…the address Jake had given us in the previous session. She found out that there was a man named Blair who was living common-law with a woman named Ilse Peters, but it listed a different number on Memorial Drive than the one Jake had cited.
We decided that it must be hard to remember details like that after being passed on for so long, although you would think that Jake would know his last name at least. The regiment and the approximate time were right…so we took the rest on faith. Most of us, including me, were still skeptical, but we were willing to give it a shot.
I got comfortable on the couch and the others took their positions around the room. Sharon asked if anything was happening. I was very relaxed and fighting against falling asleep, but as far as I knew, no one was there. I said as much.
There was a disappointed silence, then Sharon started talking very softly. She had a voice that was both persuasive and healing, and we had unanimously appointed her the person to talk to me and/or Jake.
“Jake, are you there?” she asked. “You were in a frantic state of mind yesterday, and we’d all like to help you if you’ll let us.”
“We wouldn’t think of hurting you, Jake,” Sharon continued. “We’d just like to help if we can.”
We all waited. I wiggled my toes a little to get more comfortable. That’s when I “saw” him in my mind’s eye. “He’s here,” I said.
“Good,” Sharon said. “Ask him if he would like us to help him.”
I did and Jake indicated that he didn’t know how we could help him but we would try. Sharon asked him to tell the story.
“I don’t know where to start,” Jake said, and I got the impression that he was very nervous. There was a jittery feeling in my mind and I was pretty sure it wasn’t me. I wiggled my toes just to be sure.
“Tell him to start at the beginning,” Sharon suggested.
Jake actually heard that directly and I didn’t need to relay it. The connection was picking up.
“It was 1939,” he told me, and I relayed it along as he spoke. “My mom had married this bloke, and I hated his guts. I wasn’t really a ’nice’ guy, but I wasn’t a jerk either. I even went to church when I was a kid.” He groaned.
Apparently that was part of the problem. He had a good Christian conscience, and it was tormenting him with what he thought he had done wrong.
“This guy, his name was Blair, was really rough on my mom. Me too, but I could take it. Mom couldn’t.” I was almost in a sort of a trance now, and Jake was speaking through me.
Blair would beat her, and Jake couldn’t stand it, especially when she didn’t cry but waited until he was gone and then would sob as she cleaned herself up. One night, Jake couldn’t take it anymore. He went over to her after Blair had slammed his way out of the house.
“Why do you let him do this to you, Mom?” Jake said gently. His mother jumped and whirled around.
“Oh, it’s you, Jake,” she said and turned back to applying a cold cloth to her newly bruised cheekbone. “He’s too big…I can’t.”
“Then leave him, Mom, before he kills you.”
“Where would I go, Jake?”
The house was in Jake’s father’s name. The deed hadn’t been changed over after his dad died. So, his mom didn’t really own the house, and the tax bill was sent to the Estate.
Blair had got himself appointed executor or trustee or something. He had taken the house over, lock, stock, and barrel, and Jake was eaten up inside with rage and frustration. It took him another two years of taking it and growing increasingly enraged. Finally, on his 18th birthday, Jake decided to get out of the house. He didn’t want to leave the city because of his mom, but he just couldn’t watch her being hit like that anymore.
His mom found him packing and sat down beside him. “Where are you going, son?” she asked, eyeing the kit bag with a kind of sickness in her eyes.
“Leaving,” Jake replied shortly. “You know why.”
“Yeah, Jake, I know why. And I don’t blame you, honey. It hasn’t been any kind of life for a kid like you.” His mom put her arms around him and rocked him a little.
At that moment, the outside door banged open.
“Joe’s home,” his mom said in a whisper.
“Just stay in here for a while, Mom,” Jake said. “He won’t go looking for you here.”
But Jake was wrong. Suddenly, his bedroom door opened and Blair stood in the doorway, scowling. He yelled at Jake’s mom to get off her lazy ass and make him some lunch. He swore at her and shoved her through the door after she meekly got up and tried to edge past him.
Something snapped inside Jake. He could feel his breathing speed up, along with his heart rate. For the first time in his life, he realized what the term “seeing red” actually meant.
He jumped to his feet. “Don’t you push my mother!” he yelled at Blair.
Blair turned around fast, then hesitated for just a moment, as he noticed, possibly for the first time, that Jake at 18 was tall, and had worked out for a few years to make himself muscular and fit. Then Blair laughed. “And what you going to do about it, boy?”
“If you touch my mother ever again, you will be sorry. I’ve warned you.”
Blair laughed again. Jake’s mom had come into the room to find out what was going on, and Blair had grabbed her.
“You mean like this, boy?” he sneered and smacked Jake’s mom on the side of the head. He probably thought it was a playful swat, but he must have hit one of the older bruises because she started crying…while Blair was still in the same room and watching.
Jake roared with rage and charged the older man, who flung Jake’s mom into the corner. What happened next was kind of a blur for Jake, but he eventually became aware that he was hitting Blair over and over again, crying and swearing at him.
He stopped and got up, staring at Blair’s unmoving body. Blood was running out the older man’s nose and mouth and his face looked like a slab of raw beef. Jake had a sinking feeling the man was dead.
He turned to find his mom and comfort her. He didn’t see her in the room and searched the whole house for her. She was nowhere to be found. He came back to his room, taking another look around, and that’s when he found her crumpled up on the floor beside the dresser behind the bed. He couldn’t accept that she was dead too.
That’s when his mind broke under the pressure. The next thing he remembers clearly was that he was on his way to Camp Borden in Ontario for basic training.
“So that’s why you wanted the help and said you were a bad man?” Sharon asked.
“No,” Jake replied. “Blair deserved what he got. I grieved for my mom, but Blair got her in the end, the way I knew he would. I should have beaten the son-of-a-bitch up earlier, instead of waiting until I was 18. Still, I was in rough shape and tried not to think about it.”
“Well…what…uh…how can we help you then?” Sharon said, confused.
“That part comes later…in England,” Jake replied. “But I gotta go.”
“Can you come back tomorrow?” Sharon asked.
And that was the first part of Jake’s story. I couldn’t imagine what he’d done that was so bad he thought there was no salvation for him. We’d find out the next day, I hoped.
- Jake and I – Friendship Beyond the Veil (lightworkersanonymous.wordpress.com)
My friends and I did experiments with ESP. Understand that this was the ’70s and ESP was a dirty word. Not many people believed in angels or life after death or communication from beyond. If they did believe in it, they kept their mouths shut. So what my friends and I were doing was quite against the mores of society at the time. We did it anyhow because we were hungry for knowledge. We wanted to know how all this worked.
This one month we were experimenting with communicating with souls who had passed on. Anne and I had gone to a séance once and it had scared the liver out of us. But I was positive that there was a better way than that. I’d had some success with automatic writing…well, not exactly automatic writing…I moved the pen myself, but I wrote down what came to me in a free-flowing sort of association. The five of us were in my livingroom, sitting relaxed and open-minded. Everyone was pretty sure the soul would come through me, and Sharon thought she could be the one to ask the soul questions. I was a little nervous, yet determined to carry through with it. I’d had this sense of urgency all day and a feeling of someone really needing help and asking for it.
We didn’t close the drapes; we didn’t put strange music on; we didn’t burn candles or chant meditations. We were just a bunch of housewives, trying to find out what we could about ESP and its auxiliary abilities. I did some deep breathing, closed my eyes, and waited. It wasn’t long before I heard footsteps in my mind. Sharon, a very sensitive woman, said out loud,
“Is someone there?”
I was the one who answered since whoever had made the footsteps didn’t really want to talk to Sharon. I got to be the go-between.
“Someone is here,” I said. “I’m not sure who, though.”
“Ask him,” Sharon urged.
I did. He told me his name was Jake Siemens and that he was a soldier.
There was a stunned silence in the room, and then Sharon said, “Ask him what kind of soldier.”
“Whoa, whoa,” Sharon exclaimed. “Let’s not make him think we are interrogating him. Why not just talk to him like a conversation, Gail? The rest of us can send Gail energy and light.”
Everyone nodded and I returned to the conversation in my mind. It was interesting. I almost had a picture of Jake in my mind, a young soldier – not more than 21, I figured, with light brown hair and a pleasant smile.
He said he had lived in Calgary. There had been some unpleasantness regarding his stepfather and he had joined the army at the Mewata base in Calgary. After basic training, he had been sent to Camp Borden for more training as an overseas unit and then shipped to England for tank training.
I relayed this to the gals, and Sandra said, “Ask him if he remembers what year.” Anne added, “What did he do while he was in England?|
Turning back to Jake (I was calling him this by this time and told him that my name was Gail), I said my friends were interested in finding out a little bit about him and relayed the questions to him in my mind. There was nothing for a long time. I was afraid I had offended him or, worse, that he had left. Finally he said, “I won’t forget the year I joined the service. It was 1940. Went to Camp Borden the following year and to England later that same year.” He was silent again for a moment, then laughed. “I was sick as a dog on the voyage over.” More silence.
“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, Jake,” I said comfortingly. I picked up a lot of agitation from him…then the answer came in sort of a jumbled mess. “I want to answer. I need help. Oh god, I am a bad man. Please help me.”
I was a little shocked and told him of course we would help him. But there was no response. It seemed like he had gone. I told the gals what had happened and that I thought he had gone.
“Tell him we will be back tomorrow at the same time, “Sharon instructed. “Hopefully he can hear us.”
I did as I was told, never expecting what would happen the next day.
(Watch for Part II of Jake and I next – find out what we found when we
searched Canadian military records – and why Jake needed help..)
So many people seemed to enjoy ”The Cat Came Back” that I decided to share this experience of reincarnation I observed with the full brother of my own dog.
Patches bounded into the room, dropped a yellow rubber squeaky at my feet and backed away, eyes shining, his tight little body wriggling in anticipation. When I ignored the toy, he edged back a couple more feet, front paws down, rump in the air, ready to spring should I change my mind. When I still ignored the toy, he drooped momentarily, then brightened. Surely, the fault lay in the toy rather than the concept. He dashed away to find another, more enticing squeaky that would guarantee my willing participation.
He was right. No one could resist such optimism, as he quivered with anticipation. I picked up the squeaky and threw it across the room in approved throw-and-fetch fashion. Patches wheeled after it as if he were chasing a particularly fractious lamb, grabbed the toy before it hit the floor and was back at my feet in micro-seconds, eyes alight with love of the game. Dropping the squeaky at my feet, he backed away and waited for me to throw it again. His enthusiasm never wavered through endless repetition of the squeaky throw.
Patches was the 14-year-old dog of my roommate, Rosemarie. A pom-border collie cross, he was an outstanding personality with a playful spirit and decided opinions. The bond between Rosemarie and him was extraordinarily strong. They had been together for 14 years and were more like old friends than dog and mistress.
The habits and quirks Patches had acquired over his 14-year lifespan clearly distinguished him from any other dog I knew, as witness this short list:
- He loved playing with soft rubber dog toys that squeaked (aptly christened squeakies by Rosemarie).
- He hated being disturbed after he had gone to bed for the night. If you said softly, “Goodnight, Patches,” you would only have to wait a few seconds for his low growl of displeasure.
- Getting Christmas presents was his special favorite. Rosemarie would wrap the presents and pile them under the tree. After she showed him which pile was his, she would tell him firmly that he couldn’t open them until Christmas. He understood and would lie under the tree with his nose pressing against his particular pile of packages. His little body trembled with excitement, but he refrained from opening them. On Christmas Eve, Rosemarie would tell him, “Okay, Patches, just one present,” and he would nip under the tree and pick out one present, tearing the wrapping off with his teeth in delight. Once he freed the present, usually a squeaky or a doggy treat, he would toss it up in the air triumphantly. On Christmas Day, Rosemarie would let him open all his presents while we opened ours. He would dart in under the tree and grab one from his pile, tear off the wrapping, nose it briefly, then dash back again for the next one, until all his presents were opened.
- His biggest sorrow in life was the fact that he was slightly too short to put his paws on the back door window, which was set in the upper half of the door frame. Consequently, he had to jump countless times in order to see out this window, which was the only place he could view the backyard from inside the house. You could tell from the way he stalked, stiff-legged and glaring, away from the door after one such fruitless exercise that he hated this state of affairs.
All the time I lived in the house, Patches had a great life. He was never sick, never indisposed, always up and ready to play. One day, however, we noticed he wasn’t eating. We took him to the vet, who diagnosed throat cancer. The disease spread rapidly within a few weeks to the point where he was soon unable to breathe without help. Rosemarie took him to the vet on that last day to have him put down, so that he would not have to suffer anymore. Afterwards, we brought him home and buried him in the backyard that he loved so much, secure in his little basket, with all his squeakies around him.
Rosemarie was devastated. Her friend and companion of 14 years was gone, and the house echoed emptily without the sounds of his happy yelps or sleepy growls. Rosemarie swore that she would never have another dog…it hurt too much when they left her.
I had been studying the field of parapsychology and reincarnation for a number of years. I wasn’t 100% sure, but it just seemed logical to me that, if humans reincarnated in order to learn at different levels of consciousness, so then must animals. And animals evolved same as people did – on a different level. That was the only way I could explain such anomalies as my beautiful cat Devil Child who was stupider than dirt – and the extra-clever and intelligent Patches, who communicated better than many humans I have known. Rosemarie wasn’t certain if she bought this theory, but it was immaterial to her. She insisted that she would never have another animal. I threw out another thought: “What if it was Patches, and he came back to help you once again to enjoy life and to learn and grow spiritually as well.” She didn’t know.
A few months went by. Rosemarie rarely spoke of Patches. I bided my time, letting the grieving process play out to its conclusion.
Then one day, after reading the pets for sale column in the newspaper (which she never did), Rosemarie announced out of the blue, “I have a feeling to go to the place advertised here and have a look at the puppies.”
Surprised, but feeling hopeful, I nodded. Off we went to have a look at them. The puppies were kept in a cold garage…nine of them altogether – a cross between Airedale terriers and highland collies. They were barely 5 weeks old.
Immediately upon our entering the shelter, a brown and white puppy, inarguably the runt of the litter, waddled over to Rosemarie, plumped himself down, and gazed up at her with large, brown, soulful eyes. She didn’t bend down to him just yet but watched him carefully. While the other puppies gamboled and played all over the garage, the little runt sat quietly, waiting for Rosemarie to make up her mind.
I noticed another puppy that I really liked. It hadn’t been my intention to get a pup, but Rosemarie was adamant that she wanted the little brown and white one, so I took the little black and white one. We brought them both home – full brothers from the same litter, growing up in the same household, with the same two handlers.
We named the pups Charlie Brown (Rosemarie’s dog) and Schroeder (my dog) after Charles Schulz’s wonderful cartoon characters of the same name. The two dogs were the best of friends, sleeping, playing, eating together in the greatest spirit of camaraderie and tolerance. As they grew, they developed distinct personalities, quite different from each other, despite the fact that they were not only litter-mates but housemates as well. The most amazing thing soon became evident: Charlie Brown’s habits and personality traits were much more similar to Patches’, a dog he had never known, than to those of his own brother, Schroeder:
- Charlie Brown loved Italian and Chinese food – Schroeder could take it or leave it.
- Charlie Brown loved playing with his squeakies (as well as teddy bears, which we introduced to them when they were both young). Schroeder didn’t actually like the sound of the squeakies and played exclusively with his teddies.
- Although Charlie Brown wasn’t quite as grumpy as Patches had been after he went to bed, he didn’t like being disturbed and usually went away from you if you bothered him after he went to bed for the night, usually settling in a spot where it was difficult to find him. Schroeder, on the other hand, actually enjoyed being wakened because it meant more petting and more attention.
- Although both dogs enjoyed getting Christmas presents, only Charlie Brown would lie with his nose touching the packages and would quickly open them up when given permission. Schroeder had a lot of trouble opening them, needed help, and ultimately lost interest in the Christmas thing. Charlie Brown never did lose interest.
- We figured Patches got smart. Charlie Brown was just big enough to put his paws on the back door window and look out. He loved looking out that window and spent a lot of time at that spot. Schroeder didn’t care much about looking out that window and much preferred to sit on the couch in the living room and look out the large window in that room, which overlooked the front yard.
The most telling thing of all, however, was the eyes. Charlie Brown didn’t look much like Patches, other than the fact that both of them had some collie in their background. Charlie Brown looked more like a highland collie with the gold, tan and white coat, whereas Patches had more closely resembled a border collie with a dark brown and black coat with sparse touches of white. Charlie Brown was also slightly bigger than Patches, although considerably smaller than his brother, Schroeder. However, Charlie Brown’s eyes, although larger and lighter in color than Patches, had the exact same sparkle, the same look of glee, in them. When I looked into Charlie’s eyes, I saw Patches. Rosemarie agreed. She said it was what first drew her to Charlie Brown the day we went to look at the new pups.
At first, Rosemarie thought it was just because she had missed Patches so much that it seemed like Charlie Brown was him. After time went on, Rosemarie became convinced that Charlie Brown was the reincarnation of Patches. There were too many similarities that couldn’t be explained any other way – i.e. if it was the household or the people that influenced the two dogs to behave in similar ways, then Schroeder should have been the same as Patches/Charlie Brown. But he was not – he was a totally different character, with different likes, dislikes and characteristics. The list goes on.
- Charlie Brown loved going for car rides with Rosemarie, same as Patches had when the two went exploring together. Schroeder hated the car and would only enter a vehicle under extreme protest.
- Charlie Brown was quick-witted and clever, same as Patches. Schroeder was slow to learn and slow to discern.
- Both Charlie Brown and Patches were nimble and trim, in appearance and in action. Schroeder was large, ungainly, and clumsy. His only moment of grace was when he galloped across the yard.
- Charlie Brown was social and enjoyed the company of other dogs in the yard, same as Patches, who made friends with other dogs easily. Schroeder was shy and aloof.
It’s hard to remember all the similarities between Charlie Brown and Patches now – that was so long ago – and to recall the many differences between Charlie Brown and Schroeder. The three personalities made a mark in my life, however, and I won’t forget them soon.
In addition, it was an excellent way to study the dogs and the situations. The conclusion was inevitable. Patches came back in the form of Charlie Brown – and he came back to his beloved mistress Rosemarie and spent another satisfying life with her. Charlie Brown passed on at the age of 12, having fulfilled his contract with love and compassion. Schroeder passed on a couple of years later after enjoying a respectable and peaceful old age.
Do you believe in life after death for pets? I do. Here’s why.
Some years ago, my best friend’s cat, Paiwackett, gave birth to a litter of kittens. Now Paiwackett was a cat of extraordinary wisdom. She seemed to know things before they would happen. If something was going to fall from the cupboard unexpectedly, for instance, she would scoot out of the way a few seconds before the items dropped. She knew instantly who, in the room, needed healing and would stroll regally over and twine herself around the sufferer’s leg. Next thing you knew, he had lifted the cat into his lap and was stroking her absent-mindedly, while Paiwackett wore a contented expression, knowing full well that the sufferer was being healed stroke by stroke.
Soon Paiwackett went the way of all unspayed cats and gave birth to an extraordinary bunch of kittens. All kittens are beautiful, but these were extra-specially blessed. Everyone in our little social group wanted one of Pai’s kittens. I looked them all over carefully and chose the most beautiful one – a lovely creamy white cat with two black spots between her ears and one black stripe on her tail. I promptly named her Devil Child.
Just one cat remained to be claimed, a striped tiger kitten. One of our young friends went for him and named him…Alice. Then the young friend got a chance to travel overseas and asked me to look after Alice until he got back. Of course, I would.
Devil Child and Me and Alice Makes Three
I lived in a basement apartment, that had a pony wall in the living room. Both cats used the pony wall as their personal highway to reach the window (which was at ground level) and gain freedom of the great outdoors. It was a quiet neighborhood that I lived in, and I didn’t think any harm would come to them. The cats and I lived in quiet harmony for a while. I learned that Devil Child was as stupid as she was beautiful. I decided my shallow values needed some re-examination, but I loved her all the same. Alice, although common-looking as only a bland tiger-striped cat can look, was brilliant and responsive…so easily trained and so affectionate. He would come in from outside, walk along the pony wall, jump up onto the top of the hanging cupboards in the kitchen, walk all the way around the kitchen, then gracefully leap from the kitchen cupboard across the doorway to the hall and land on the pony wall on the other side, pad softly along the pony wall to my chair, and finally jump into my lap. He would purr and let me know how glad he was to see me. It was a very peaceful and bonding time. I grew to love Alice greatly.
One night, neither of the cats came home. Usually, they were home by 6, shortly after I got home from work. They always wanted their share of food and loving. Anxiously I waited…no cats. I went out and searched the neighborhood…no cats. I was devastated. Finally, at 4 o’clock in the morning, I heard a funny sound in the living room and went in to investigate.
The Resurrection of Devil Child
There lying on the floor was Devil Child. At least I thought it was Devil Child…it was hard to tell, since she was covered from ear tip to tail tip in black greasy oil and tar. She was making the most horrendous sounds of distress. I phoned my friend who had Paiwackett, she came right over and advised we needed to get the tar and oil off DC right away as it was soaking into her skin and poisoning her. I couldn’t imagine where she had gone to get into a condition like this.
After we finished cleaning her as best we could, my friend suggested she take DC with her, since she was going to need to go to the vet the next day and would probably need constant nursing. I agreed, since I had a demanding job that didn’t look kindly on anyone taking time off. She wrapped DC in a blanket and left with the cat.
To make a long story shorter, Devil Child ultimately revived. She was never the same again, and we believe the poisoning affected her mind. She had never been an Einstein to begin with but now all she wanted to do was to follow Paiwackett around, or sleep in the sun. I decided to leave DC with my friend on a semi-permanent basis because she would be much happier there than in my small apartment, cooped up for most of the day. DC agreed, and fortunately so did my friend.
I mourned the loss of Alice. He didn’t come back. After a couple of months, I gave up on him. I had found out where the cats had gone. The City road crew had overnight started repairing one of the main streets near my apartment and had dug up some of the pipes under the street. The work area had tar and oil all over the place. I examined the site and surrounding area thoroughly, but no Alice.
One night, I was quite tired, sitting in my usual chair trying to read. However, the loss of Alice was weighing heavily on me. I tried not to cry, but I missed his affection and wise, happy nature. As I sat there thinking, I felt a small disturbance at the window. I didn’t SEE anything but I felt the presence of something. As I watched the spot where I felt the something, my heart gave a lurch. It was Alice. The feeling was so like him. The feeling moved after a few moments, as if Alice had oriented himself back to the apartment. I felt him walk along the pony wall, up onto the cupboards, around the cupboards, across the doorway, along the last little bit of pony wall, and…
There was a definite plop into my lap. I actually felt the weight of Alice as he jumped from the pony wall onto my lap. The love radiating from him was enormous. I could hardly catch my breath. I just sat, enveloped with the feeling. Then I heard thoughts in my head that I knew were not mine.
“Don’t grieve,” he said. “I am well and happy. I was just with you for a while to help you feel good. If you ever need me again, I will come.”
He left me feeling happy and loved. The waiting and not knowing were over.
The Cat Came Back…Again
Fifteen years later, at one of the lowest points in my life, I heard a meowing at the back step of the house I lived in. It sounded somewhat familiar. I opened the door and there was an older kitten, female. Her purring was very loud, when I picked her up and cuddled her. I took her into the house, fed her and put her into a warm pet bed with a litter box nearby. She slept for two days. It had been a long trip back. No one claimed her, and I kept her for ten years. She helped me the same way Alice had. You can draw your own conclusions.
However, I have more stories about animals that you may find interesting down the road.
When I was about seven, I loved the series of Oz books. I firmly believed in magic and knew that everyone had that magic in them. I didn’t know how to make it work, but I did try different things. There were two things I longed to have in my life. I thought they were the pinnacle of girlish beauty, and I also thought they would make me popular. They were…dimples…and naturally curly hair. I had neither.
I didn’t know how to make my hair curly, but I thought I might get dimples if I poked a finger in the center of either cheek. I would sit like that for hours, then peer into the mirror to see if it (the magic) had taken effect. It hadn’t. For some reason, that didn’t deter me, and I kept on trying. For most of my adult life, I had neither dimples nor naturally curly hair.
After decades of living without either treasure, I think I had subconsciously given up trying, or at least wishing I had them; I had learned to accept myself the way I was. Recently, I looked into the mirror and smiled. Lo and behold, there were dimples! Not only that, but I realized they had been there for a number of years. I thought they might have come when I gained a considerable amount of weight after quitting smoking, but no, after a large weight loss, they were still there. And my stick-straight hair was now naturally wavy…not real tight curls, you understand, but wavy enough to curl under. The shock nearly knocked me to my knees when I realized my hair had been wavy now for quite a few years. I had never stopped to take stock. I noticed both phenomenon with part of my mind, but life kept me so busy, I didn’t realize the implication. Two of my major (to me) goals had come true, and I hadn’t even realized it.
Some years ago, after the birth of my daughter, I was having trouble seeing with my glasses on, which I always wore. I had read that once a person reaches their thirties, their eyesight slips more quickly and it had been a couple of years since I had seen an optometrist. During that time, I had joined a meditation group that practised various self-healing methods. One of them was to use the energy of our spirit as directed or focused by our hands. My eyes bothered me a bit so I regularly used this healing technique on my eyes. I didn’t notice any big improvement; in fact, I was a little discouraged when I had trouble seeing with my glasses on. So, I went to an optometrist. He took his time testing my sight, both with and without my glasses. Finally, he came back into the examination room, shaking his head. My heart sank a little because that usually indicates bad news.
“So, what’s the verdict, doc?” I asked, trying to hide my nervousness.
“I don’t understand,” he said with a frown. “Usually, as person gets older, their eyesight deteriorates somewhat.”
“Uh huh,” I said encouragingly.
“But you…” He stopped, turned, and looked straight at me. “Your eyesight has improved…a significant amount.”
“How much?” I wanted to know.
“One whole diopter in one eyes,” he said, “and half a diopter in the other eye. Your glasses are way too strong for you which is why you are having trouble seeing through them. You’ll have to get a weaker pair.”
So there was another case where I hadn’t realized I’d reached my goal, which caused me some discomfort for about six months before I did something about it.
I could go on and on about the various times in my life where this happened in one form or another. However, you probably get it, most likely being a lot smarter than I was at the time.
Having these abilities is as normal as breathing, but they are a whole lot easier to use if we know how to use them. First step is soul-searching and complete honesty with self. How many times have you achieved a goal (a) without realizing it until some time later; and (b) there seemed to be a magic to the way it happened? As I so often point out, everyone is psychic, but in order to use it to your own benefit, you have to know how to do it and then realize that you’ve done it. The two above stories are actually reversed. The latter one should be first (know how to do it) and the first one should be last (realize that you’ve done it).
There are many worthy organization and intuitive practitioners that can help you learn…yes, right here at WordPress (Powered by Intuition is one that comes readily to mind). My job isn’t to teach you – it’s to make you aware of what you have inside you, so that you can develop it and enjoy the fun and joy of your true birthright. Aren’t you itching to find your teacher(s) now?
An accidental psychic is what nearly everyone is. Some folks know they are psychic and know how to make it work for them. The rest are accidentally psychic, or intuitive as some call it. Let me ask you this. What use is being psychic if you can’t make it practical in your life? Not much good, is it? It doesn’t even make good parlor tricks if you can’t make it work for you when you want it to work.
Yeah, there are some who pretend they are psychic but they don’t really think they are. They pretend it so that they can tell gullible people what the people want to hear. The sad part of this is that the ones who are pretending really ARE psychic…and so are the people that go to them. It’s just that they don’t know how to make it practical. Fortunately for us, a number of lightworkers (people who work with energy for healing…people, events, the planet) have arrived on the scene and are doing considerable good in the areas of healing, teaching, encouraging people to explore their own potential.
As a very wise man once said to me, “You are what you think, not what you think you are.” This means our thoughts control us. But who controls our thoughts? If we can attune our thoughts to the highest possible source, whatever we conceive that source to be, then we can start being the success in life that we were born to be.
Maybe I should start at the beginning. Or what I remember as the beginning. My father was a federal game warden for Wood Buffalo Park in the Northwest Territories (now called Nunavit) in Canada. It was an isolated post, 52 miles away from the nearest town, and our only neighbours were buffalo, wolves, antelope, and squirrels. I was five years old. I had no one to play with, except my little black part-husky puppy which I named Ruffy.
My dad was often away in the Park, doing the things that game wardens do, which left Mom and me alone in the big house by ourselves. We had a wood stove, a wood furnace, an outhouse in the summer (and a chemical toilet in the basement in the winter). We had a Delco plant in the summer for electricity and Coleman gas lamps in the winter. At 50 to 70 below 0 (Fahrenheit) in the winter, everything outside froze solid. It may sound glamorous and rustic now, but to me it was just a lot of hard work. Dad (or Mom when Dad was away) would chop wood for the fires, and I would throw them down into the basement, then stack them inside. The adults would chop through a few feet of ice at the river in the winter to haul in water for drinking and cooking. We would melt tubfuls of snow for a bath.
Mom was busy all day long, cooking, cleaning…teaching me my lessons from the material sent by the Dept. of Education. But mostly I was alone. I had a tremendous imagination and invented playmates (or so I thought). They were very real to me, and I loved them…all seven of them. We would play ring-around-the-rosy and hide-and-seek. It was great fun. When I told Mom about my playmates, she was wise enough to not tell me I was crazy; she simply smiled, nodded her head, and murmured, “That’s nice, dear.”
One night close to Christmas, I was restless in my bed. I had a gable window that looked out into the frosty sky and I watched the stars twinkling. Then I heard the most beautiful singing…like an angel choir. For some reason, I thought of my grandmother thousands of miles away, and I wished she was there. As the singing continued, the sky lit up with the most glorious colours–like one of my toy kaleidoscopes. I breathed it all in, enchanted by the display, watching and listening until I finally fell asleep.
The next morning, when I came downstairs I told my mom a little crossly, “You and Dad had the two-way radio up too loud last night. I could hear the singing all night long. Mom gave me a strange look.
“The radio has been broken for a couple of days, dear. Dad’s bringing the parts to fix it when he comes back from town.”
I told her about the bright lights as well, but she just brushed them off as the Northern Lights. I wasn’t convinced, but didn’t think too much about it then.
Dad got back in time for Christmas, but it was an unusually somber time. It seemed hard to get the fun and laughter going that year, but I guessed it was because we were missing my grandparents and the abundant Christmases we had together. Christmas Day came and went and Boxing Day was so cold it couldn’t snow and I couldn’t go out and play with some of my new toys. Dad was tinkering with the radio, and finally we heard the tinny crackling static and a man’s voice talking to Dad
”It’s fixed, Marge,” he called to Mom, and we both went over to listen. What we heard made Mom and I both cry. My beloved grandmother had passed away three days ago. Mom consoled me, Dad consoled Mom, and I hugged both of them. After a while, Mom said to Dad, “Three days ago…that’s when Gail had that experience I told you about.”
That was the first inkling that I was psychic. Well, it would have been an inkling if I had any idea what being psychic was. It was just something that I thought happened to everyone and I didn’t think too much of it. After all, I was five.
In the next article, I will tell you about how I died and what I saw. Watch for it