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Archive for December, 2012

The Sirens and Other Past Events Brought Forward

I hate the sound of emergency vehicle sirens.

Police sirens aren’t a problem. They’re not going to stop where I live because nothing is happening there to warrent it.

But fire trucks. They inspire an interesting jolt of panic. It can really grip me tight until the siren has passed far enough for me to know the problem isn’t on my block. Where I used to live that was easy. Houses were spaced and if it was far enough down, you didn’t have to worry. The house next door did, but not a house four or five down.

An apartment complex was a concern. The dryer could catch fire in the basement and you could come home to find half the building gone. Or worse. Or if the fire was on the top, the ones below would all have water damage. You were out a home regardless where the fire was.

Here where I am now, you don’t have houses that are five or ten feet apart or twenty feet with a big yard between. They are rows of one house against another, five, eight across, two or three apartments each.

Up to 24 dwellings in one row. Times how many people in each? That is a lot of accidents waiting to happen. That’s a lot of dead, dry christmas trees waiting to flame up and burn the entire row down. And it happens. A fire starts at one end and the entire row is wiped out that fast.

If a truck stops too close, I have to know where it stopped and what’s going on. There was a fire a block or two away and I begged my husband to please go find it and be sure.

Where does this intense fear of fire come from?

I have deduced that it came from a previous life. I have no memory of it. No recurring dreams, as with other things I’ll tell in a moment. I am left with this unexplainable, paralyzing fear and no origin. I accept that it’s there. I don’t think it a horrible fear to have. I think it’s damned smart to fear fire. To respect it utterly…and to be prepared to deal with one should it happen. I remember lying awake nights as a child afraid a fire would happen in our second floor apartment. Outside my window there was a sheer drop to the parking lot. Nothing to stop my fall. I, at the age of seven or eight, was fully prepared to hang from the window and drop and break my leg in order to escape.  I had plans for every place I ever lived in. Maybe I died in the Triangle Shirt Factory fire, or something similar.

Another comes with a dream. Until I accepted that this was in fact a past life experience brought forward, I had this recurring dream that I’m walking in a garden dressed in appropriate English Renaissance dress for a noblewoman. A bee is on my hand and it stings me. Sometimes it stings repeatedly. The dream goes black and ends. I surmise that I was allergic to bees and died of a bee sting in a previous life.

Some of our worst phobias may have very real roots in who we used to be in another life. It was very real then and was carried forward into our current life.

Doesn’t mean we’re crazy. It means what we experienced then was so traumatic that the energy of our soul remained more cohesive rather than splitting apart into the swirl of energy around the planet. Remaining more cohesive, it carried over into this life. If we can get over it in this life, perhaps it won’t be carried forward into the next.

I work really hard to be rational about my fear of fire and stinging insects but still maintain that they’re really not all that bad of fears to have! I don’t mind so much if it keeps me safe.


Feeling the Pain

I don’t mean an emotion. Sensing emotions is easy. We can look at a person’s face and determine their emotional state.

I mean physical pain.

I can look at a picture of a wound and feel how that felt when it happened. I can see the scars from burns still healing and know how horrible that experience was. I can feel the panic and the fear and the shock when it happened.

I feel their pain as if I was living it. Real pain that can double me over sometimes, or make me wince. When I see someone limp, I can feel where the pain is most of the time.

Waiting somewhere, I saw a woman stand tall and stretch her back and knew she and I had the exact same back problems.

This is something that developed and deepened over time. As a kid, I could watch any medical procedure being done. But the day I saw a boy getting an operation to put pins THROUGH his stubby club fingers to stretch them, that was done.

Another reason to stay away from crowds most of the time. For places where it’s intentional (like if I go to an SM party), I’m fine. Those people want this done to them, so it’s different.  I seem mostly to feel things that are unintentional. The accidents.

I recently saw a video of someone who had been pushed onto the tracks of a subway station with a train coming in. This fucker with the camera KEPT SHOOTING (over 40 pictures) rather than running over to try to help the man out of the pit. Personally, I don’t know how the guy taking pictures can live with himself (unless he got paid for shooting a man’s death).

The panic of that poor man trying to jump up out of the pit and NO ONE running over to help him.


I can feel that bewilderment. SOMEONE HELP ME!!!

I can feel that helplessness. NO ONE IS HELPING ME!!!

My soul aches to help. I’d have put my own life in danger to at least try.

There was another incident some years back, but not a physical death. The death of a soul in side the body. There was a little girl kidnapped and he took her into a convenience store. There’s video footage of this poor child walking around like a zombie and looking up at the adults around her. Clearly terrified to say anything (probably warned that he’d do something horrible to her mother if she said anything to anyone) and her eyes just begging someone to SEE HER!

Ask me if I’m okay!


No one paid any attention. They walked right on by her as if she wasn’t there. I understand the pain in her soul those moments. I recognized that misery.

Just the same as seeing physical pain, I feel it. The grip of a hand around my heart giving a brief but painful squeeze.

Even though I try to go out as little as possible, the images invade my home through the news on the television. I have tried not watching the news, but they promo the big stories ten times a fucking hour. You can’t get away from it unless you watch your own videos or go to cable channels that don’t have news until the news is over.

For an hour. After that hour, they’ll start promoting the same stories for the 10 or 11 o’clock news.

There’s no end to the bombardment.

The Christmas Tree

A very long time ago, when I was young and newly married, my Grandfather lay in a hospital bed waiting to die. The family was called twice, on consecutive Sundays, to keep vigil and wait.

The third call came on a Friday. And we all knew this was really going to be it.

Problem was that much of our family was spread around. One cousin lived four hours away and my mother lived an hour and a half away. They’d made this trip twice before and it wasn’t an easy one to make.

My husband was working third shifts at the time, and was so dead dog tired. Yet he drove me to the hospital for the third time to be there when my Grandfather finally passed.

A long day it was, with each of us taking our turns sitting on the edge of the bed holding his hand and telling him it was okay to go. He didn’t have to wait for his grand daughter. He didn’t have to wait for his daughter. It was okay.

But he wouldn’t go.

Finally, my husband said he just had to go home and go to bed. He’d been up for over 36 hours at that point. So I told my mother not to let Grandpa know I’d gone. Let him think I was still there.

My husband in bed, I went to the grocery store to get things for supper. I started cooking supper, and decided to put up the Christmas tree. It was a couple weeks before Christmas, and the time I would normally put up the tree anyway.

I was sad for my Grandfather, but he’d have wanted me to put the tree up. Christmas had always been his favorite holiday. All the family that could come would and it was a happy day for him. I remember they always had a small white tree with red ornaments. One day I will have one also, in his memory.

I finished the tree and sat down to eat my supper. I bundled up and went down, intending to return to the hospital. The car wouldn’t start. Not a sound and not a spark. It would not start. Reluctantly, I woke my husband and he came down to see what the problem was.

There wasn’t a problem.

He tried every trick he knew to get this car going. Ether spray in the carburetor, checked all the wires, checked the starter, everything.

There was NOTHING wrong with the car.

I called the hospital (because this was before the age of cellphones) and told my mother the problem. She asked if I wanted someone to come get me. I told her no. What I didn’t tell her was that I didn’t want to be the reason someone else wasn’t there. I couldn’t live with that guilt. I could live with my own choice not to be there, and to this day know I made the right decision.

My husband ate some food, unable to go back to bed. I had baked chicken.  A few minutes after 9pm, my mother called to tell me Grandpa had passed.

“I have to know” my husband said and we went out to the car. He opened the door but didn’t get in. He just past the steering wheel and turned the key. No gas pedal pump, no nothing.

Damn thing fired right up. First turn of the key, he roared to life and ran strong. We just looked at each other a moment in disbelief.

Someone had decided for me that I should not be at that hospital to see my Grandfather die. I’m okay with that.

Now, my new family has a new tradition.  Every year (barring unforseen circumstances), we put our Christmas tree up on the day he was buried. I feel him around us every year, and make a point of talking about him while we decorate the tree.

Spirits Are Restless

The curtain in one window became a picture of a long strapped purse during the night. For some reason, the spirit who showed it to me is concerned about her purse. She can’t continue her journey yet. She has to find her purse.

The other window, which had been a bony hand stretching up, was turned into a long-stemmed flower by a different spirit last night. She was rather pleased with herself that she could make me see it. I told her it was lovely and sent her on her way.

Blinds in a third window were lines and lines and lines of writing. I couldn’t read them, but this was shown to me numerous times during the night. This was from a man, and he felt a need to wake me every time to show me.

I’ve been out of bed for three hours and want to lie down and take a six hour nap!

Why So Weary?

I had a two night respite.

Two nights in a row I fell into a coma of sleep and slept through the whole night until my usual waking time. But I wasn’t rested. I wasn’t refreshed.

I was just as tired as when I’d gone to bed.

Then the spirits came back again. Several of them, in different places.

Our old landlady (who died in the apartment downstairs) is forever coming up to our door. Repeatedly, several times a night, night after night and sometimes during the day. She won’t go no matter what I try. She’s so tied to this building that there won’t be any getting her to move on for a long time. I’ve given up on her and just let her come and go as she normally would.

Someone else is playing with the curtains now. Sometimes there’s one looking through the books and cds in my bookshelf.

I go to sleep at a reasonable hour. At least I try to. But being woke up so many times every night, coupled with the vivid dreams I have, means I wake up just as tired as when I went to bed. Sometimes more tired.

I’m thinking of instituting a regular nap time two or three times a week to see if it would help. I don’t know what else to try and do. It’s not like getting more sleep at night would help. I’m already in the 8 – 9 hour range as it is.

Some people call themselves empathic because they sense an emotion from people now and then and happen to be right sometimes.  There’s so much more to it.

Once you open that door wide and lay your soul bare, there’s no closing it off again. At the time, we don’t understand the price we will pay for our services to our planet.

I can’t say services to our people. It’s not hte people I serve, but the planet itself. I’m helping the flow of energy keep moving. I’m getting slow moving energies to hustle it up a bit so they can mix with the others and be ready to come down with the next rain.

We had a cold rain the other day. I didn’t feel rain falling around me. I felt energies returning to the surface of the planet. Energies coming down to feed plants and rivers and continue to renew the world.

Because of what happened last week, it was rather a sad rain, as though the Earth had taken the energies of the children I sent along and put them on a fast track back to being reborn. As if the Earth knew they’d been taken far too early and it had to put them back at once.

A cold rain. A sad rain.

But I didn’t mind.


12 – 21- 2012

We make fun of the whole end of the world thing that some one a long time ago invented. We joke about Dick Clark being dead so we can never celebrate New Year’s Eve again. We laugh about the end of the Twinkie. We make light of the whole thing, as we should.

But some people are not laughing.

While you are laughing about it, remember that for some people it really will be the end of the world today.

Their husband or wife is going to die. Their mother is going to die. Their child will die.

Their house will burn down. They will lose their job four days before Christmas.

For some people, the end of the world doesn’t mean a big explosion.

It means a moment in time when their world will come to a screeching stop, and when it starts again will never be the same.

Weary Cavalier, Installment 2

The Babies

Many years ago, I had a baby. During my pregnancy, it seemed that I had a particular connection to infants who had died during birth or in the womb.

I remember many times waking up on my stomach or side with my arms wrapped around the pillow and a wriggling baby in my arms instead of the pillow. Some didn’t move much, either because they were unborn and underdeveloped when they died or they were plain exhausted.

One little girl (most of them were girls) was missing most of her face. I think she had a birth defect that was discovered by sonogram and she was aborted. She was very small.

Night after night, at least once a night, for months on end. I don’t remember them all but some stand out.

Once, I had the baby in my arms and lifted my head to look over the end of the bed and there was her mother, exhausted and dead and lying on the bench there. They had both died during the delivery. You’d think that doesn’t happen in this day and age, but it does. Not every soul that comes to me lives around me.  Energy doesn’t understand those kinds of limitations, so a soul can come to me from anywhere around the world.

I don’t have to know the language it spoke in life. We all speak the same language in death. I don’t have to know or understand the culture they came from. We’re all going back to the electromagnetic sphere of the world. The Source.

One time I remember waking up in a panic, sitting up and frantically searching the blankets at my feet for a baby trapped and in distress. When I uncovered her, she was kicking and laughing at her tricking me in this very fun game of hide and seek. Little shit. She laughed and went merrily on her way. I’ve never forgotten her.

Some were afraid to go through the portal. Confused and scared, and I had to reassure them they would be safe. They would be reborn and given next time to a family that would love them absolutely, so they would know all the love they didn’t get this time. I would hold them while thinking these things, kiss their little foreheads and pat their arm, shoulder or leg. Eventually they would be ready and go on through the patiently waiting portal and I could go back to sleep.

How do I know I wasn’t dreaming? I would often get up and go to the toilet, get a drink of water and return to bed. I’m not prone to sleep walking.

Another I always have remembered was hundreds of years old. I had seen a documentary on an extinct culture and society in Central or South America. The people would sacrifice someone, mummify them in a crouched and sitting position and put them up on top of a mountain. Centuries later, this mummy was found. It was a boy. I forget his age but he wasn’t more than ten or twelve. The scientists concluded he’d been sacrificed.

That night, he came to me. He hadn’t known he could leave the mountain. He thought he was supposed to stay there forever, so he had stayed in order to protect his people. He knew his sacrifice was very important to his people and was at peace with it. He had been willing to serve his people in this manner.

On his way to me he took a look at this new world around him, and he didn’t like it. He was perplexed by the strange, loud machines belching their poisons. He was confused by the strange customs of these people who wore such odd clothing. By the time he got to me, he was glad to go through the portal. He wanted to stay in that peaceful place he was going to and not be reborn. I assured him he didn’t have to be reborn if he didn’t want to be. He could wait and see and make that decision later. He was glad to go and leave this horrid world that was killing itself by stripping itself bare and poisoning everything.

I had never met a soul so young and at the same time so at peace with itself.