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Yesterday was the day we are supposed to mourn the deaths of 3000 people. I do not shed tears over that. Today I find myself in tremendous pain for a single life lost and a single little girl who knows she did it.

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You poor baby. I feel for this little girl so deeply it brings tears to my eyes. She will carry this with her for the rest of her life. She will never be the same. Not ever. It will take years for her to have a single day during which she doesn’t remember the feel of that gun in her hands when it kicked back and then the instructor was on the ground with blood and brains spattered.

She will never forget the day she killed a man, and none of it was her fault.

It’s her parents’ fault. They should have thought for two seconds that GEE, maybe we shouldn’t put this powerful weapon into our small daughter’s hands. It is the fault of the instructor for not saying GEE, we really don’t like to have children under the age of __ (insert appropriate number here) handled the extremely powerful firearms. It is the fault of the facility itself for not having that policy in the first place.

The one person who is blameless is the one who will be paying the price for this stupidity. She will pay for it for the rest of her life.

I feel for her, knowing very well the pain she now carries. Pain no child should ever have to carry.

SHAME on her parents for not having the common sense to take her for a pony ride instead.

And bravo to the children of the instructor for their understanding of the terrible situation she finds herself in. Their message to her was as brave a thing as I’ve ever seen. Good for you.

Little Voice

Last night as I was sitting on the sofa, my husband left the room to use the bathroom.

As he was walking into it, I heard a little girl’s voice. Not sure what she said. My husband paused in the doorway and said¬† What?

He had heard her too.

We had both heard the same little girl voice at the same time and we were alone at the time.

In My Curtains

Some months back, I told the story of my former mother in law appearing in my curtains. She finally left and took the Newtown kids and teachers with her. And then all was quiet in the curtains except for the odd curious spirit.

Night before last, however, someone took up residence. Not sure who it is yet, but it’s male and very insistent and annoyed. It’s showing me all kinds of things to get my attention. The skeleton hand in the folds of the fabric, a face that is familiar and I know it at the time but now cannot remember. It’s even stretched halfway over the ceiling.

Whoever he is, he’s making quite a fuss. First he shows me an image, and if I dismiss it and lie back down to sleep he gets upset and tries again with a bigger, darker image. Almost like he’s trying to shout at me or lambast me into recognizing him. That doesn’t work.

I realize who they are when I realize it and shouting at me certainly isn’t going to help.

I figured out who it was.

Roger Ebert.

Figured it out last night before bed. He had started coming to me the day before he died. Since I recognized him, he didn’t bother me yesterday. He was so ready to go that he didn’t wait for his funeral like so many of them do. I recognized him and he went through.

In an Instant

A mother and her daughter trapped in the flames…

And in that instant, the fear and the grief of two people who can do nothing to prevent their deaths envelopes me, bringing with them whatever souls are attached to them.

A hurricane of the wailing of souls,

Titanic was on HBO last night.

I’ve always liked the first half, the interpersonal story of Rose trapped in an engagement and the very rigid society in which she lived.

But once the berg hits, I have to stop watching. If I don’t, all those souls who went down in the water see their deaths over and over again. Yes, it’s a movie. But there are very real people being depicted.

People who died a horrific death.

Seeing the second half of the movie, I can feel them flock to me to watch and grieve all over again. I feel the sadness, the fear of nearly 1500 people who died more or less in the same few minutes. I feel the cold of the water a they drown.

I feel the impact of fifteen hundred deaths. And they stay with me that night as I sleep.

So I enjoy the first half of the movie and turn it off when the boat hits the berg.

Other movies I cannot watch include the recent one about the Tsunami that killed over 200,000 people. If a movie is rather difficult, then words cannot express how deeply I felt the loss of life caused by a wave. At the time, I couldn’t watch anything on the news about it. I couldn’t see the faces.

If I see the faces, their soul will come to me. That’s how it always works. How many pictures of how many people were on the news? And for how many weeks?

The wave of wailing souls that washes over me may as well be the Tsunami that killed them. The sudden burst of tears from my eyes isn’t because I am sad personally. It’s the release of the grief they bring to me. Tears from the eyes are the pressure valve that lets it out when it is too much for me to contain.

I don’t watch movies about earthquakes that have happened. I don’t watch movies about hurricanes that have happened. I can’t.

Documentaries are easier because it’s a relating of facts and theory. I still get connections through them but it’s not as intense.

Titanic 3D is soon to be released. Masses will go to see it.I never will.

I’ve already lived those deaths with those people on that ship. I don’t need to live it again.

Clairvoyent Dreams

Since my teenage years, I’ve had dreams that come true. Sometimes the next day, sometimes a week or two months, or even half a year later.

It’s not that I have a dream and keep track of it.

As I’m going through my day or a particular event, I’ll suddenly realize that I dreamed that moment or that event.

Entire movies I’ve never seen before. I dreamed all of the first Underworld movie. Troy. Most recently, the Cirque du Soliel movie. I realized about 3/4 of the way through it that I’d dreamed nearly the entire movie not long ago.

Was I remote-viewing while the movie was being made, perhaps? Maybe. But since a movie takes months to make, unlikely. Might I have remote viewed while someone was watching it during editing? Maybe.

How they come into my dreams remains a mystery I really don’t try to figure out.

But it can get very scary.

I remember a particular stretch of about two weeks while I was about 14 or 15 years old. Every night I had a dream that would come true the next day. Every damn night. Sometimes more than one. I remember feeling exasperated that so much of what was happening through a day was a deja vu moment.

At the end of that two week period, I had a dream of nuclear war. In the dream, it happened while I was walking to my weekend bowling league, then I was trying to escape to a safe place and ended up in the hills somewhere.

The next day when I woke up, I dressed and left for my bowling league. As I was passing the park, I looked up to the sky and saw exactly what I had in my dream. It’s a frightening moment, for a 14/15 year old girl, to realize how many dreams have come true in the last two weeks…and then have a deja vu moment that happened in a dream about nuclear war.

Took me a few weeks to get over that.

My daughter is still pre-teen, but she frequently tells me that she has this moment or that moment come true from a dream. I don’t for one second disbelieve her. Instead, I’m preparing myself for the day she has a really bad predictive dream and I have to help her through it.

I don’t remember exactly when mine started but I’ve shared with her the stories I can so she knows that I do understand.

Seems it runs in the family — or at least this vine of the family.

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.