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Posts tagged ‘psychic’

Visitor for a Month

One of the best visitations I’ve ever had lasted a month.

Every night, this entity would appear in my bedroom curtains. I could see him clear as day. He would try to show me different images that he thought would frighten me. Demons and monsters from movies. Once it even tried to scare me with Darth Vader.

He was completely perplexed as to why I was not frightened by any of these things; why I would smile and say hello. Or laugh.

He didn’t understand why I was completely accepting of his presence in my home.

Well, he wasn’t really harmful. He was just curious. I could sense his emotions. I could read his body language. He didn’t pose any thread. I had chosen to indulge his curiosity.

One day, near the end of that month, my then 3 year old daughter asked if she could take pictures around her room. I gave her the digital camera, told her to have fun.

Amid all the perfect pictures of her toys, her bed, her stuffed animals in nets on the wall, all the things precious and important to her…was this:


I very clearly see a face with glowing eyes and the shape of the head with the mouth. I see a heart in the roundness of a chest. I see the chi center at the pit of the belly.

Those things in the background look nothing like anything in her room. The camera never did anything like this ever again, and I had it for at least another three years.

For whatever reason, the Visitor showed himself to my 3 year old.

And then he went away. He’s not been back since.



The Anguish of Ancient Sites

Here I am, in my own home, watching television, and I paused in my work a moment to watch a documentary about Pompeii. It’s a newer analysis of the site, including extensive excavations and a new look at the figures that have been cast from the places where people died.

For anyone no familiar with the history of Pompeii beyond the fact that a volcano erupted and people died…some of those people were completely encased in the hot, burning ash of the pyroclastic flow. They were incinerated, leaving behind empty spots in the hardened ash. Those cavities were used as a mold, filled with plaster to take a casting of that person.

Those castings show the position of an actual person, their facial expressions the instant they died, reaching with an arm to crawl away and escape the inescapable. They are all bald and naked. Because hair and clothing would have burned off their bodies, probably before they died.

This is the moment of death for every single person a cast was made of.

Two of them seem to be clutched/huddled together. Who they were is the subject of much speculation. Were they a mother and daughter? Friends? Or did one fall and die and the other tripped to her own death beside the first and they were relative strangers? We can never know.

I had to turn to another station. I cannot ever watch this particular documentary.


Because I don’t enjoy feeling the anguish, the fear, the confusion, the desperation…helplessness and hopelessness…of a person in their last moment before being overtaken by a violent death. I don’t enjoy seeing through their eyes as it happens. It’s exhausting because I see it over and over and over again, and will for the rest of my life.

Being empathetic means being able to put yourself into someone else’s shoes and live their life for a moment. It means never forgetting those sensations because they’re imprinted on me like my own memories. They are my own memories now.

I will always remember what I felt and saw when I saw those two women who died next to one another. I don’t need to know their life story to see the story of their deaths.

The last moments of life for the people of Pompeii are beyond horrific.

But yeah…tell me again how tired you were after going to brunch with friends.

Empathetic Isn’t About Socializing

So many things I see assigned to people who think they are empathetic, when they are the meres surface of what “empathetic” really means.

“Empaths are tired after socializing and need quiet to recharge.”

Being tired from being in a crowd and needing to recover from that has nothing to do with feeling the emotions of others. It has to do with the fact that you are a person, and socializing is a darned difficult thing that uses up physical and mental energy.

Everyone is tired after a party. Everyone is tired after a long night socializing. Everyone needs to rest in the quiet. You’re not special.

“Oh all those emotions are soooooo hard to cope with.”

What emotions do you think you’ve experienced? Laughter and humor when someone told a joke? You think you’ve experienced the emotions that person did, experience it through them? No, you experienced laughter because you found the joke funny.

You didn’t shed a tear during the sad story because you’re empathetic, but because tears are like yawns. One person does it and those who see it also have the urge to do it. We don’t call it being empathetic when someone yawns after another person has yawned.

In my experience, most everything ascribed to people who think they are empathetic is easily explained away simply by being human and experiencing the human condition. It is explained away by a lack of emotional and mental maturity, recognizing boundaries, and an inability to control one’s self and impulses.

If you want to discuss the draining and exhausting experiencing of the emotions of others, feel the tidal wave of grief, fear, confusion, panic, horror, terror that slapped me the instant I saw the image of an 8 year old girl who died in Manchester. She brought with her everything from everyone in that stadium, brought it to me many thousands of miles away in another country. It happened in a split second and I experienced it all in that split second. Sensations that cannot be unfelt. Thoughts that cannot be unthought. Sounds that cannot be unheard. Bewilderment of the masses.

I feel the sadness of the nursing staff who knows that her unconscious mother does not yet know her daughter is dead.

Be unable to watch even a single minute of news stories about it because you can feel surges in the waves of those same emotions all around you when it comes on the news.

Or look at it in your Facebook feed, because it connects all those same souls who died once more and they return in that instant.

Talk to me when seeing those images connects you to those dead and that night your ceiling is full of orbs floating around and they continually wake you through the night.

“As if a million voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced.”

Those who are empathetic really do deal with that.




But you go on talking about how hard it is to have a relationship with a single person and go out with friends.


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!

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.

The Weary Cavalier, Installment 1

The most common definitions of the word cavalier include arrogance, overbearing, proud, haughty, scornful.

The lesser known definition is an escort, usher, chaperone, protector, guard, warden. This is how I use the term.

 I am a Cavalier of Souls

I usher them, positive and negative alike, old, young and unborn, from this world into that one. My home is a safe place for them to rest after the exertions of death, before undertaking the last leg of their journey.Believe me when I tell you dying takes a great deal of effort. Some come to me so tired they can barely move.

My home is rarely unoccupied. Sometimes I can feel the population grow, souls gathering to wait for someone important to come for them and take them to where they are supposed to be.

Pope John Paul II was at least four months late in his passing. During that time of waiting, hundreds of souls were gathering. So many they were nearly visible to the naked eye in daylight hours. When he finally arrived at my home, the night after his funeral had taken place, he took them all with him. The atmosphere in my home was tangibly lighter.

But why are you weary? you might ask.

What I do is exhausting, physically and mentally.

Most people lie down in bed and go to sleep. They enjoy a coma-like restorative rest. I rarely ever get that. I will be awakened at any moment, sometimes several times, by spirits who are ready to go or who want my attention for some reason. Some will take me days or weeks to figure out who they are so I can send them on their way. I don’t know why, but for whatever reason, certain spirits want me to recognize them before they will go through. Once I’ve recognized them, they depart and go to wherever it was they needed to go.

My most recent example of this was my former mother in law. She and I never really got along well. Not a hate, but more a case of taking her baby boy away from her and he never really was able to cut the umbilical cord. She had a terrific martyr complex. Well, I’d been having this spirit coming to me in the curtains of my bedroom for about a week. One of them is tied and the shadows look like a hand extending up. A bony arm and wrist with bony fingers. Night after night there it was, waking me at least once a night. Then I learned that she had passed about two weeks earlier and it made sense. She had wanted me to know it was she.

Why the Pope would come through an Atheist and a former mother in law would seek out the daughter in law she never really liked is beyond me. But it is what it is and I don’t question it much anymore. I’ve largely accepted that this is what I do now and let go the why.

Then one night she showed me the hand with a fourth finger instead of three. Next to it was a panel in the middle of the window with a sword standing straight up in a hand, and then bottom portion of a third panel I couldn’t make out. She was saying something was going to happen when the third panel filled.

Now and then, spirits attempt to frighten me or manipulate me. Seeing this was what she was probably doing, I just gave a mental laugh and turned my back on it so I could sleep.

Sometimes these visions are predictive of an event. In this case, it seems it was predictive of Newtown. I can never know what event is coming. I never know where. So I cannot tell anyone “Hey, there’s this really big thing that’s going to happen, but I have no idea when or where. But you better be on the lookout!”

Yeah, I’d really rather not spend Christmas in the psych ward. Thanks anyway.

So this horrible thing happened. And all my friends are posting this lovely saying and that touching picture, and sharing this story and that story of this person and that person…and I cannot look at any of it.

If I do not comment, it’s not because I don’t care. It’s not because I don’t feel anything. It’s because I care too much. Because I feel too deeply.

It’s because if I see their picture and look into their eyes, the connection will be made and they will come through me. I’d really rather they went through someone else this time. Unfortunately, I cannot pick and choose who comes to me. I’ve dealt with the sweetest of imps and the most vile of demons. When something like this happens, I know it’s coming and can’t do anything to stop it. The most I can do is delay it a couple days.

You know that scene in Star Wars Episode IV, when Obi Wan feels Alderaan explode and it takes his breath away and he has to sit a moment? He heard millions of people crying out in sudden terror and suddenly silenced.

Yeah, I’ve felt that. But it was 200,000 people and a tsunami.
Yeah, I’ve felt that. It was a child named Nixmary Brown.
Yeah, I’ve felt that. It was children and a teacher in an Amish school.
Yeah, I’ve felt that. From a place called Newtown.

I feel it every time I get a glimpse of a picture. I know that’s a child who died there. Every time I see the smile of a teacher, I know what she did to save her children. And YES, in that moment before she was shot, they were HER children just as if she’d given birth to them. She knew she was probably going to die for them and she still lied to him and said they were in the gym. She may not have given them their first life, but she most assuredly gave them a second life.

I’m still feeling it right now as I type this, reliving with the teachers and the children every second of the last minute of their lives. Every time I see a picture, see that touching verse, I relive it with them all over again just as surely as I was standing in the room.How can I do that? It’s called remote viewing, and I’ve done it all my life. I looked through the eyes of a little girl during an earthquake out in Oakland/San Francisco during a World Series. I do it with quite a number of my dreams.

From this distance away, and no I won’t say where I live, I can feel the grief of the families. I can feel the fear of the children who died and the ones who lived. The ones who lived are the ones still touching me.

Such an intense fear a child has.  I know because I’ve known it personally in different ways. Intense, soul-changing fear. The one place other than home where they are supposed to always be safe is no longer safe. And in there eyes, never will be. Every noise that doesn’t belong will be the bad man come back. My inner six year old cringes with them, holding hands and shrinking down to be very very very small. Very very very still. Very very very quiet.

And hope the bad man passes us by.

I can feel them shaking together.

I feel the fear of the teachers and the bravery of the ones who protected their children and died for it. I feel the gratitude of parents whose children are alive because those teachers took a bullet for their kid.

We complain sometimes that teachers don’t get paid enough or are paid too much.

You tell me something: Is your teacher paid enough to take a bullet for your kid?

Maybe. Probably not.

But she’ll do it all the same.

Who am I? Nobody important. I’m just the person who opens the gate and ushers the souls through. I see them on their way and close the gate behind them.

As they pass, the teachers are holding the hands of the little ones, helping them walk double file just as they would in the hallway if they were going to the auditorium or to lunch. Little ones bewildered, not understanding what happened and why they are in this strange place. Teachers being the diplomats they’re always supposed to be and getting the little ones to the proper place.

If being a bit tired all the time is the price I pay, I can live with that.

So please forgive me if I say I’m really not up to going out dancing. I’ve had a busy week.