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Dying Is More Fun Than a Barrel of Buffalo

February 16, 2011
Wood Bison in Wood Buffalo National Park

Image via Wikipedia

The day I died dawned clear and bright…a beautiful summer day.  I was five years old, Dad was home for a change, and I wanted to go swimming.  Little Buffalo River was about 100 yards from our house, and the bridge that went over it led right into Wood Buffalo National Park in the Northwest Territories.  The buffalo used to come right up on the bridge and stare across, but they never came over.  My dad was federal game warden for his section of the park, which was huge.

Dad had a million things to do: chop wood, bring water up from the river, fix the Delco plant…again.  But I convinced him it was a great day to go swimming.  He agreed and took me down to the river.  The only place anywhere near our house where the water was deep enough to swim was under the bridge.  As I shucked my shoes, Dad warned me:

“The current is pretty bad here, Gail.  There may be tow currents as well.  Whatever you do, don’t try to touch bottom.”

I swam like a fish so I wasn’t worried.  I jumped right in and swam across the river in the soothing shadow of the bridge.  It was glorious.  Dad stood on the bank in his bush jacket and heavy bush boots and watched.  As I swam, it suddenly occurred to me…every time an adult tells you not to do something, it’s usually because the forbidden object was fun or good to eat.  Almost without conscious consent, I tried to touch bottom…

…and sank like a rock.  Within seconds I was drowning.

The odd thing was, I didn’t feel like it.  I felt like I could breathe and that I was floating, or, more accurately, drifting.  I felt free and happy…and like I had the wisdom of an adult and beyond.  I seemed to know the answer to every question I had ever had…and more.

Reaching for the light.

Reaching for the light.

Up ahead some distance away was a man, bathed in white light.  Beyond him, I could hear people singing.  The sound washed over me and drew me forward.  It didn’t take me long to reach the man.  I couldn’t really see his face…the light was too bright…but I could hear his voice.  I longed desperately to join the people who were singing; I was flooded with love:  for the man, for the people, for myself and everyone I knew.  The man exuded love.  When I got really close, he spoke.

“Go back, Gail,” he said.  “It’s not your time.”

Terrible disappointment overwhelmed me.  I wanted to stay so badly.  He spoke again, “You have much you chose to learn.  Go back, my dear.”

Despite the disappointment, I knew inside that he was right.

The next thing I knew I was coughing and choking and there was a terrible pain in my chest.  Dad, dripping wet, was kneeling over me.  “Thank God,” was all he said.

My father

Jack Taylor

Later, I found out that it had been touch and go, that Dad thought he had lost me, that my heart had stopped beating and I had ceased to breathe.  It took me some time to recuperate, which gave me the time I needed to think about what had happened and relegate it to my precious memories.  I didn’t tell my parents what had happened, knowing instinctively that they wouldn’t believe me.  I didn’t want that kind of pressure around this beloved remembrance.  It saved my sanity many times in the future and prepared me for a life of psychic (spiritual) discovery.

My poor father, who had jumped into the river, bush jacket, heavy boots, and all, to perform what he must have considered a desperate, but heroic, act never did understand why I was so angry at him for saving me, not speaking to him for three days.

P.S.  If you want to know what it was like, in some respects it was similar to Sam’s (Patrick Swayze) death in Ghost, except none of the black things appeared, thank goodness, and it wasn’t as detailed as Sam’s experience.

3 Comments leave one →
  1. February 17, 2011 9:16 pm

    Hi AiT-
    I really enjoyed this post. I love how you describe what you experienced when you “died.”
    I read your first post too. I can relate to that very well. I had experiences as a child that I knew were psychic – even before I understood what that meant.

    Keep writing! I’ll be back.
    Angela Artemis

    • February 17, 2011 9:42 pm

      Thanks for your comment, Angela. I had a feeling you and I have had similar experiences from time to time. I checked out some of your previous posts and you seem to be a savvy lady with a lot of knowhow 🙂 I look forward to your coming back.



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