Syncing without Trace, but Czeching

I wish I could trace them – the tracks of my synchronicities.

Sometimes they feel like cross-hairs gradually coming together, to home in on the target, but it’s far more complex than that.  There are many strands and they cross and recross, ricocheting off one another in an apparently random mess, until gradually and subtly they begin building up a pattern.  Finally, with no clear idea how I got here, I find myself standing at the centre of an amazing piece of sacred geometry and the whole thing is laid out clearly for me to see, like those transit patterns the planets make with each other.

(Is that how astrology fits in?  Is it sacred geometry working out at a macro level??  Maybe Pluto or Uranus are not ‘influencing’ us – they’re just making the patterns of the synchronicity working through our lives visible.  Sorry: digression.)

So once I’ve had the ‘Aha!’ moment, I can try to work back to how I got there.  What was it that pushed me to open this file or buy that book?  I think – if I were the kind of person who could create such things – a diagram or flow chart would work better.  Alas, all I have at my disposal are strings of words, so they must suffice.  The process is not linear, but this attempt to unravel it will be, since that’s the way writing works.

  • Phone, Communication, ConnectionI publish a post on here which includes this image.
  • Someone comments on it and directs me to an interview with Stan Grof.
  • I become intrigued and read a book referred to in the interview.  At this point the lines of synchronicity are shooting off in multiple directions; one even points at synchronicity!
  • Grof intrigues me and, like my grandfather, he is a Czech emigrant.
  • The book tells of psychiatric regressions, with patients picking up ancestral stories from their bloodline, which were later authenticated.
  • In a quite different part of my life, I am buying a piece of Moldavite for a friend’s birthday.  I don’t know why.  I simply have a very strong feeling that this person needs Moldavite, now.
  • Intrigued again (being intrigued is a very strong indicator for synchronicities at work, I’ve found) I begin researching Moldavite.  I discover it comes from the site of a meteor impact, many centuries ago, and is only found at this one place on Earth –  in The Czech Republic.  ‘There it is again,’ I think. (Repetition/dêja vu is another indicator of synchronicity.)
  • While I’m musing on that, I start exploring that country, trying one more time to locate the village my grandfather came from.  I’ve tried on many occasions.  I knew its name from the postmarks in his stamp collection, which I inherited, but the German language forms of many border towns’ names were eradicated after WWII and I didn’t know the Czech equivalent.
  • This time, though, I find it.  I’m delighted and make a mental note to explore some more when I have time.
  • After an exhausting and rather frustrating day, I decide to have a quiet evening watching TV.  I select a film called The Secret Life of Bees, a rather sugary tale of life, death and the civil rights struggles in the American deep south in the sixties.
  • Incomprehensibly, I find myself weeping uncontrollably throughout the entire movie.  I’m identifying so strongly with every aspect of the story line and characters.  It feels personal.  It feels as if I’ve been there and experienced that and the pain is still unbearably raw.  Yet I haven’t.
  • By the end of the film, I’m a red-eyed, snivelling wreck, with a mountain of soggy tissues beside me.  ‘It’s just been a hard day,’  I tell myself.  I need to go and do something enjoyable.
  • I head for the computer and go back to researching the Czech connection.
  • I find the village my grandfather came from on Google Map.  I wander through its streets and peer across the mountains he grew up in.  I even find the post office where my ancestral relatives sent the letters whose stamps now lie, old and yellowing, in his album.
  • I read other sites, with histories of the area.  They tell how this once prosperous mining town, with rich seams of silver and agate crystals was ravaged by the Thirty Years War, fell into decline, was subsumed by the Austro-Hungarian empire and the native Bohemians persecuted and viciously suppressed.  This continued for decades.  The young men faced compulsory 10 year military service in their oppressors’ army.
  • So that was why my grandfather fled to England!  He died when I was a young child.  My father was embarrassed to talk about his origins while I was growing up.  Bohemia had become part of Czechoslovakia by then and was part of the feared Eastern Bloc during those Cold War days, so Dad pretended he came from Austria.
  • Finally, I feel I understand my heritage.  I know why the Bees film affected me so deeply.  I accept that ancestral memory still travels through my consciousness.  I see why dissolving prejudice has been such a huge part of my life.
  • I turn away from the computer – and stare straight into the eyes of my grandfather, whose pastel portrait hangs on the living room wall.  I pass it a hundred times a day, but at this point I really see it.
  • And he is smiling slightly.
Advertisements

The Book of Caw

Book, Story, Fairy TaleI was woken this morning – as I am almost every day – by Caw.  And I knew, suddenly, that the Book of Caw needs to be written.  Maybe by me, maybe by someone else.  Who can say?  All I know is that the image of The Book of Caw is lodged in my mind now and the only thing that will move it on is for me to start writing.

So what is Caw? I imagine you asking.  (And why are sentences – proper ones – so elusive this morning? I ask myself.  Probably because the words are coming from somewhere where punctuation doesn’t hold sway.  I’ve visited that somewhere quite a bit recently, which would explain a lot.)

OK.  An easy way out of the definition conundrum would be to say something like, ‘Caw is Oneness, or All That Is’.   That, though, is so all-encompassing as to be almost devoid of meaning for us – a bit like asking someone to imagine an infinite universe…  Fortunately, Caw can be explored in many ways, and each of them helps us to discover more of the truths behind the truism, and to apply them to what we know of our own existence.

Say the word aloud, and you will immediately have one of it’s aspects – Caw is core.  It lies at the very heart of every facet of existence.  It’s the point we come back to, after our little forays into the game of materiality.  We have Caw strength at the centre of our existence.  It’s unmoving, solid, steadfast and entirely dependable, yet it will flow with us, wherever we go.  (Yes, there’s a paradox there – the first of many.  Always think ‘and’ rather than ‘or’ with Caw.)

If it were an acronym, CAW could be formed from, perhaps, Consciousness Applying Will.  In that sense, it is placing intention into consciousness – or vice versa – in order to manifest or create.  That, after all, is how our miniverse here is fabricated.

Animal, Beak, Bird, Black, Claw, CrowLet’s stop metafizzing, briefly, and bring Caw into our familiar material world.  As I said at the start, Caw wakes me each morning.  It is the sound of the corvids – the rooks and jackdaws and magpies that restlessly circle  my cottage, squawking to one another, playing some complex aerial game of tag and scattering black feathers in my garden.  I won’t even begin to delve into the folklore that surrounds this family of birds, but it’s found all around the world.  They are mysterious, intelligent, cunning and wise.  Certainly not light and fluffy.  They have a gravitas that commands attention and respect, verging on fear at times.  Caw is all that.

Chess, Rook, Castle, Piece, GameCaw is the rook on the chessboard, too.  Sometimes hiding in the corner, biding its time; sometimes castling – not afraid to reveal itself in order to protect what is of the most value.  Then, when the time is right, striking suddenly – covering vast distances in a dead straight line to get to the core of the action.  Caw is that too.

Caw is gnosis, knowing, deep knowledge that comes from a point of insight and certainty.  It is not born of opinion or consideration.  It is not gradually acquired through study.  It is our direct link to the Akasha and it comes in instant flashes.  Once recognised, we know – absolutely and with utter certainty – that this is right.  It cannot be any other way.

That is in no way an exhaustive account of Caw.  Other aspects will occur to you, and they will all be valid, but I will let that serve as an introduction.

 

To work with Caw, we need to dispense with a few sacred cows.  We need to try to rid ourselves of:

  • cause and effect
  • common sense
  • rationality

There is, of course, nothing wrong with any of them, except that they only work in 3D.  They only apply to the mechanistic model of the universe we built for ourselves with our cosmic construction set.

To work with Caw, we need to put aside that much-loved toy and move into reality.  It is Caw that will lead us there.

 

When Worlds Collide

People, Bus, Commuting, Public TransportA three hour coach ride passes so much better when you find yourself seated next to someone interesting to chat to.

My neighbour yesterday was, it emerged, travelling to London for a brief, bittersweet half day with her daughter.  It was the girl’s birthday.  She’d booked herself into a posh hotel in the West End.  They were to have champagne, then lunch somewhere luxurious.  The daughter would unwrap her presents then – ‘a comfort sack’ with such items as a thick duvet, pillow and covers, hand warmers, hot chocolate mix…  Tomorrow the young lady will take all her spoils and return to Greece, where she works for the UN, caring for the refugees.
“It’s so desperately cold there, Mum,” she’d told her mother. “Just so desperate”.

Lesvos, Island, Mytilini, GreeceI wondered how it felt for that young woman to move between those two quite different worlds – her opulent English lifestyle and the squalor and tragedy of the transit camps.  How must the smells, the sounds, the sickness and pain feel to someone who has grown up in such a different culture?  How, indeed, must it feel for the inhabitants of the camps, wrenched from their lives in such violence and terror?

 

“And you?” my neighbour enquired.  “Why are you going to London?”

“Oh,” I said, with a slight smile, “I’m probably going to enjoy a few hours in the British Museum.  And I might be meeting a friend.”

Well it was a long journey, so gradually my story came out too.  If we did meet, it would be no less shocking and difficult a transition for my friend than her daughter’s move to Greece had been.

Sport, Exhausting, To Clench TeethJust as the refugee camps would seem overwhelmingly disgusting and sickening to us – their sights, smells and emotional charge far beyond what we feel able to cope with – so our world is, for people like my friend.  For him, and so many other super-sensitive people who live with autistic spectrum perception in its many and amazing forms, our world – in all its raw, visceral physicality can be almost too much to cope with.  Their senses are easily overwhelmed by what, to us, would seem trivial.  Their anxiety never sleeps.  Their fears grapple constantly at their throats with sharp, threatening fingers.  Small wonder so many would prefer to remain in the insular, relatively safe surroundings of the worlds they have built for themselves.  Why – given the choice – would they venture out into the uncertainties of our unfamiliar and terrifying world?

The answer is the same as for the young lady working for the UN – compassion, humanity, generosity of spirit.  They want to help us.  They want to build bridges.  They want to reach into our world and show us their perspectives.  If they manage it, we will be so much richer for it, but if they don’t, we have no right to criticise them.  Every single day, they struggle to do what they can to reach into our world.  And there will be days they just can’t.

When I reached London, he was still at home, holed up in an agony of indecision.  If he managed a meeting, it would be the first for many years.  The least I could do was to make it as easy as possible for him.
‘No rush,’ I messaged.  ‘I’ll head for the museum. Text me later if you feel able to meet somewhere.’

An hour later I was a stranger wandering in the world of the Abyssinians: huge bas-reliefs of Kings and courtiers.  ‘Spirit helpers’ with the heads of eagles and small handbags held objects like oversized pine cones against the backs of the humans’ heads.  Why?  Pineal gland connection perhaps?  What was in the bags?  What favoured realm had these beings descended from, to help their human counterparts?

Then my phone pinged.

‘I’m going to come.  I’m in central London.  Shall I meet you at the British Museum or elsewhere?’

‘The museum’s crammed with people,’ I told him, when I’d had a moment.  ‘Let’s meet in one of the squares nearby.’

On my way out I paused to stare in awe once again at the Rosetta stone, that magical jigsaw piece that had given the modern world a way into the world of other races at other times.  For me, at that moment, the stone became a talisman, allowing my world and my friend’s to come together for a short while.

Seat, Iron, Metal, Bench, Seat BenchBloomsbury, like much of London, has many lovely, peaceful squares – small oases of calm and greenery amidst the hubbub of traffic and commerce.  I selected a calm, pleasant open space where I felt he’d be most comfortable, sat on a bench and waited.  I sat at one end and placed my bags beside me, knowing he’d need more body space than most would consider normal for lifelong friends.  I remained seated when he arrived.  No exclamation of delight, no bear hugs or grasping of hands.
“Alright?” he said simply.
“Yes,” I said quietly.  “And well done.”

Old friends.  Old friends.  Sat on a park bench like bookends.
Paul Simon’s song echoed in my mind from another of my distant worlds.

I’d written much of what I wanted to say on paper.  He finds the written word easier to handle than speech – less unpredictable.  So for the first few minutes he sat and read in silence.  Then we talked.  He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead; body language and facial expression are confusing for him, so it’s easier if he cuts them out.  Still there were deep discussions and moments of humour, with both of us laughing out loud.  There were connections and shared memories of times when we’d spent so many days and hours together.  It was wonderful.

And because I know he finds transitions difficult, I made the decision on when to leave.  Or perhaps the weather did, as the rain that had been threatening all afternoon eventually began to fall.

Neither of us said, “See you soon.”  Who knows?   And what does it matter?  Our worlds had come together for that short while without any explosions or disasters and we are closer for that experience.

You the Creator

Algie and his device

Algie and his device

Four or five years back, when I wrote that book about Life, I called the final section Creativity and Creation.  It began thus:

What have you made lately – a model; a cake; a piece of furniture; dinner; a mess…?  I’ll bet you’ve done quite a bit of creating over the last week or so.  And how did you do it?  You got some stuff; you changed it in some way – maybe shaping or cutting, heating or cooling; you probably mixed it with, or joined it to other stuff and carried on changing or modifying it until your creation was complete.

OK, so you might be protesting that all you did was take a ready-meal out of the freezer, pierce the film lid and put it in the microwave, but you still created a hot, steaming meal out of a frozen lump.  You created something by changing stuff.  Hold that idea.  Hold it nice and tight.

I knew – at an intuitive, rather than an intellectual level – that creating ‘stuff’ was important.  Not just important, but vital.  I also knew that it didn’t actually matter what you were creating.  It could be a painting or a compost heap, a symphony or an ad on eBay.  It was the creative process that mattered.

Thimble sized machines

Thimble sized machines

That idea came back to me a few weeks ago, when I was engaged in my latest hobby – creating  miniature Steam Punk characters and their equipment from up-cycled dolls’ house dolls, wire, watch parts and the like.

Bella: 6 inches/15 cm tall

It takes ages.  I completely lose myself in the process and come as close to absolute happiness and satisfaction as is possible when I hit technical problems and find ingenious ways to overcome them.  There’s a kind of excitement bubbling up inside me as the transformations take place.  Yet that’s been tempered by a mocking voice from my rational mind:

“Why waste so much time on something this pointless?  What use are they?  Shouldn’t I be putting my energy into something more ‘worthy’?”

Amelia - before and after

Amelia – before and after

Lars

Lars

So the internal dialogue has been going.  I can’t deny the rational thoughts.  No one needs a 1/12 scale Steam Punk figure.  Yet at some very deep level I have known that the process of creating them – battling with the limitations of the materials and my skills – is hugely important to me.  I have felt the same as I did when renovating my dilapidated cottage – an initial mental image of how I want the finished product to look, a moment of doubt when I compared that idea to the reality of the items strewn around me, an intense fixation on the eventual result, an unshakeable belief that it would all work out perfectly and – finally – jubilation at having created the end product.

Henry: yes, they're very small

Henry: yes, they’re very small

It needed a mind and voice more finely tuned than my own to put the importance of ‘You the Creator’ into its true perspective.  I found these words in The Afterdeath Journal of an American Philosopher:

It is the tension between the search for fulfilment or perfection and the actual performance possible in the physical world that promotes creative acts as they are understood.  For true creativity always destroys limitations and increases the mental, spiritual, psychic or physical areas of expression open to man.

That’s it.  It applies as much to the time warping experiments I’m engaged in with William to the little figures I’m building in my study.  It applies to every creative process you are engaged in, too.

 

I think therefore I am;  I create, therefore I am The Creator – and so are you.

 

The Symptoms of Normalism

Distribution, Normal, StatisticsNot easy, but I’m trying, for a moment, to look at my tribe – the people who regard themselves as ‘normal’ or ‘neuro-typical’ – from the outside.  I’m trying to see us from the perspective of those Version 2.0 people who are wired differently.  (I’ve reverted to my ‘Version 2.0’ label because not all of them are on the autistic spectrum as it is normally described.  Many are – but there are others, variously called ‘sensitives’, or ’empaths’ or those with various diagnoses or descriptions of differentness, and I wish to include them all.)

Disclaimer:  I use the term ‘Normal’ throughout this article in a somewhat ironic sense.  I personally consider terms like ‘normal’ and ‘disordered’ to be chauvinistic and symptomatic of what is wrong with common assumptions in our society.  Also, I am a person with ‘Normalism’ and I love words.  I can’t imagine life without their richness and beauty.  This post is just a thought experiment, okay?

 

Probably the most difficult aspect of Normals to comprehend is the disparity between what they say and what they actually feel or think.

“No, it looks great on you, honestly.”

(‘It would actually suit someone twenty years younger much better, but I understand you’re going through a bit of a mid-life crisis and if it makes you feel good to wear it, that’s fine by me.’)

“Oh it’s nothing.  Really not worth reading – just something I scribbled off last night.”

(‘I poured my heart and soul into these words, but I’m terrified you won’t understand and will dismiss them as trivial or stupid, so I’m pretending it’s not important to me in order to shield myself in advance from any critical comments you may make.  Anything hurtful you say will still upset me deeply, though.’)

“Well who’s the teacher’s pet, then?”

(‘I feel envious of the praise you received for that assignment and my inability to produce anything that good.  I am therefore attempting to make you feel uncomfortable.  It is my hope that my negative reaction to your success will encourage you to try less hard in the future, thus letting me gain more approval from the teacher.’)

Professor, Mathematician, Scientists“It’s important for you to get an expert opinion.”

(‘You are inferior.  You are incapable of reaching a satisfactory answer, due to the prejudices and fixed ideas lodged in your brain.  There are far better individuals than you whose prejudices and fixed ideas come for other individuals with letters after their names.  These people know what is best for you, despite not knowing a great deal about you.  I know this because I learned it from experts.’)

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

I’m aware as I write this that I live in southern England, an area particularly renowned for this kind of double-speak.  Northern Brits, Americans and Australians, for example, would readily assert that they are far more inclined towards plain speaking, calling-a-spade-a-spade and otherwise using spoken language to express what they feel.  Really?  Try, for just one conversation, to avoid any sarcasm, any ironic aside, any well-meant but artificial compliment, any indication that you sort-of agree, despite the fact that you don’t, or any self-depreciating statements that are not in total resonance with what you feel.

Silver Leaf, Lunaria, SilberlingYou’ll argue, perhaps – you Normals – that without such social niceties, speech would be brutal, hard and cold.  People would be offended.  They might take against you.  They might (this is the greatest fear) not flatter and praise you in return.  Normals require an almost constant drip-feed of approval.  Without this, paranoia sets in.  That’s why Normals struggle in their contact with the other tribes.  The Asperger guy is not going to tell you that you look good, that it’s great to see you, that he’s glad you came.  You’re there; he’s there.  No more to be said.  Normals are needy, though.  They want that stuff.  They’ll cheerfully relinquish honesty to get it.

In a previous post I mentioned the 7 year-old Version 2.0 child who came to me distraught after a quarrel with his friend.  “She told me she was sorry,” he said, “but I can see into her heart and that isn’t the feeling that’s there.”
It wasn’t the quarrel that had upset him, but the fact that his friend didn’t respect him enough to share her heartfelt feelings. She insulted him by feigning an apology.

If the Version 2.0 people can ‘see into someone’s heart’ (all this is explained far better in the previous post, written by The Snacking Sage and in Suzy Miller’s important book ‘Awesomism’), nothing but honesty will do.

The small child who asks, “Why are you sad, Mummy?” and is told, “I’m not sad, dear.  I’m fine,” by a mother who attempts to conceal the truth because she doesn’t want to worry him will – obviously – worry all the more if he knows he’s being lied to.

Looking Up, Hope, Black White, PortraitThere are more of these Others – these Non-Normals – than might be imagined.   They are way-showers.  They can teach Normals – if we’ll truly stop chattering and listen to their silence – to discard the fake conversation and to return to the openness that is a natural by-product of telepathic communication.

Yes, I can see that there would be difficulties and challenges, but ultimately, aren’t we all yearning for greater transparency?  Aren’t we, after all, sick to death of being lied to and cheated by those in authority, by multi-nationals who mislead us for their own profits, by those who claim to be acting in our ‘best interests’?  It’s worth considering that there are many individuals who are similarly sick of the lack of honesty in ‘Normal’ social interaction.

This is only a personal viewpoint, but I suspect the ‘shift’ that occurred around 2012 involved a fundamental change of mindset amongst humanity – a desire to move beyond ‘them and us’ towards a fairness and openness based on personal responsibility, not the imposition of rules by a corrupt leadership.  That could work, if only we could communicate heart to heart.

 

Looking at Light

7:56 in the morning.  I turn on my phone and a text message arrives almost at once.

English: 5D virtual 7x7x7x7x7 sequential move ...

I get a few normal texts – the ‘C U at 3.30’ type – but not so many.  Most of the texts I get are more like this one.

‘Earthman will soon discover that he is not a unique, independent creation but one of many forms of intelligence fashioned out of multi-dimensional light.’

I’ll call the sender Lucy, because it means light and she is full of the stuff, and light is what we were discussing when she came round yesterday.

She arrived clutching The Book of Enoch, a white primrose plant and a couple of custard tarts.  Within the space of ten minutes, she had given me the plant, eagerly seized one of my spare copies of The Words of William (“I just opened it at random, and he’s talking about something that links to this…”), shared the cakes, and settled down with a cup of herbal tea for one of our long, rambling discussions.

Ideas bounced and ricocheted around the room like cosmic ping-pong balls.  For about three hours, we quoted books, dreams, visions and images.  We spoke of life, death and everything between; we spoke of other worlds and dimensions, paranormal experiences and what-it-all-means.  It was exhausting and invigorating, all at once.

We’re not walking the same path, Lucy and me; we’re not even heading in similar directions, but we are finding enough synchronicities and similarities on our routes to make discussion well worth while.

Then, this morning, that text, followed half an hour later by another, insisting that

…it is important to teach the scientists that matter is generated from Light…

I’d been telling her about my thoughts, you see, about our Selves (I mean the whole divine holofractalgraphic  – Nassim Haramein’s word! – Selves) as beings of Light creating physical human selves and the matter around them.  I couldn’t say how, exactly.  I was describing this great stream of white light consciously and intentionally moving through something like a prism, or a rainstorm… the ‘veil’ perhaps? … and separating into a spectrum of rainbow colours.  I get lost in physics, and need analogies to help me find my way.

Aura, Chakra, Color, New Age, CenterSo now I had the Light Self vibrating into these different frequencies – very high vibrations up at the purple end and lower ones down at the red part.  Could that, I wondered, be where we get the idea of the subtle bodies from – the ones nested inside each other like rainbow-coloured Russian dolls?  Was that what the chakras were – aspects of our shining Light, stepped down so that we could spend a while experiencing physical life on this planet?

Not, of course, the only way that Light could be separated out: she spoke of other types of being our Selves could try out. Our imaginations conjured star beings in dimensions overlapping ours, glimpsed as orbs or flashes of light or quite unseen by us, but quite real and solid to themselves, just as we are to ourselves.

The conversation made perfect sense to us.  To others?  Not so much, perhaps.

I’m lucky to have friends like ‘Lucy’.  I’m lucky that conversations – and texts – like that are part of my everyday life.

 

The Muse Refuses

Blarney Stone, County Cork, Ireland

Blarney Stone, County Cork, Ireland (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Does every writer have a muse?  I like to think so.  There are times when inspiration comes – the drawing in of a breath (that’s what inspiration is, after all)  – and my writing flows with words that come through rather than from me.  He’s called Liam, my muse – of Irish extraction, I believe.  I suspect he’s one of my ancestors on the Celtic side of the family, one who has kissed the Blarney Stone.

If you’re imagining a lovely, jovial gent who sits at my shoulder, muttering ideas in a gentle, lilting, Terry Woganish way, though, forget it.  He can be harsh, uncompromising and – as I discovered this week – utterly ruthless.

It all started when I decided to begin work on the new book:  working title ‘After Life’.

In my sixty-something years, I’ve had perhaps more than my fair share of encounters with people in and around the After Life experience.  By that I mean people who were ‘dying’, bereaved and – in one or two cases – already departed.  I’d written quite extensively about it in various places and from various angles.  All these writings were safely stashed on my computer, in neat little Word files.  So surely, I reasoned, if I loaded all these into a master file, did a bit of editing to bring them together and fiddled around with the style, I’d be well on the way to finishing the book.

Liam, however, was not (forgive me) a-mused.

He started with the gentle mumblings in my ear…

This is old stuff.  You can do better.  Draw on all those experiences, but not the words…

On he nagged, and I wasn’t listening.  Believe me, it doesn’t do to ignore your muse.

On Wednesday, I went to open a document.  A mysterious dialogue box appeared.  I clicked to ignore it and with an insolent ping, Word vanished.  I tried again.  Same box.  This time I tried opening it.  Another ping.  Another blank screen.

My computer skills extend to, ‘If it isn’t doing what you want, turn off, count to 20 and try again.’  I tried that.  Much bigger, scarier dialogue box told me I had a critical error.

I won’t bore you with the range of things that went wrong that afternoon.  Suffice it to say, the machine was finally reduced to a gibbering wreck which, when turned on, insisted I was a ‘guest’ on my own computer and did some pathetic little loop of rebooting a few meaningless files continually until I switched off the power.

Phone call to techie son.  Deep sighs from the other end of the phone line, followed by very calm instructions about what to hold down when and so forth.  Nothing changed.  He gave up eventually and told me to get it fixed.  Or sling it.

Long consultation with lovely Paul-from-the-computer-shop.  He might be able to fix it, he said, but it would mean <lots of long words>.  He’d probably be able to extract most of the files.  It was up to me whether I gave it a try or bought a new computer.

A tiny but rather wonderful thought was beginning to creep into my mind (inspired, of course…)

I’m a hoarder, you see.  Everything I write, I keep.  That poor old machine had every lesson I’d planned for classes and private students, going back a decade or more.  It had more half-written books than I could remember.  It had a mysterious file called ‘thoughts and messages’ and of course, it had all those scattered pieces of writing I’d been trying to cobble together for After Life, lodged with me useless.

English: Oilseed rape crop, near Cerney Wick T...

I crawled off to bed, exhausted, battered, yet wondering.  I was prompted to draw an oracle card – something I barely ever do these days.  Clear Your Space it told me.

Next morning, my head was clear.  I ordered a new computer, disconnected the old one and stowed it behind the sofa.  Yes, I could have taken it down to Paul, to get the files out, but my muse had inspired me.  I would try, I decided, to start from scratch.

So here I am, typing on my new machine with something akin to amnesia.

The book, if it happens, will be written as the muse intended.  May I be truly inspired.

Just Beyond Your Mind

Inferno Canto 1 spirit guide

It was there again.   I hadn’t felt it for quite a while – that slight but insistent pressure against the top-back of my head. It tells me when to go with the hunch that’s niggling in my mind – the one my logical brain is telling me I should probably ignore. So I trusted the hunch.

It was a delightful day; a group of like-minded people had gathered at my home and we’d talked for hours.   One, though, was quieter. I’d not seen her for several years and was saddened to find her confused, anxious and somewhat tongue-tied. She’d travelled many miles and across several countries to be here. I asked her what her heart wanted.

Her face coloured slightly and she looked down, shy at becoming the centre of attention. Then she spoke:

“I want to reach my Guides!   I want to receive help from them – to know what to do next. I left my job because I knew it was not where I should be, but I can’t find what I should do now. I knew I should come here to Glastonbury now, but I still don’t know what it is I’m here to do.”

That was when the pressure against my head started.

“Me?” I asked it, silently.   “Is this what she’s here for?”

“Yep,” said whatever-it-was. “Get over to the computer.”

It was my turn to look slightly embarrassed now.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the others. “Do you mind? I think I need to do this now.   I’m being told to help here.”

They all nodded, somewhat bemused, and I invited the friend who had spoken to sit beside me. I clicked the machine on and loaded a word processor, sat to steady myself for a few moments – to ‘connect’ as they say – and typed:

Can we help C to reach her Guides today?

Then, as I’d done countless times before, I picked up the carnelian dowsing pendulum that always sits beside the computer, held it balanced in my left hand, between the G and H at the centre of the keyboard and waited for it to move.  A distinct diagonal swing upwards and to the right.   I allowed my hand to follow and waited to see where it would settle and circle gently: Y.  Typing that with my right hand, I returned the pendulum to the centre.  It twitched up and left this time: E.  I smiled.  There was a slight gasp behind me and as I’d expected, the next movement was over to S.  When I returned it to the centre that time, it simply circled gently where it was – the way my pendulum indicates that the word is finished.

“Tissues?” I asked, hearing the sobs and gulps beside me.   My friend nodded gratefully. I sent another friend off to find her some as I tried to explain what was happening.

Pendulum, Quartz, Chain, Alternative“I discovered this way of communicating with Spirit many years ago, when a friend who had passed over needed to communicate with me. I used to use a semi-circle of letters written on a sheet of paper, but this works just as well and it means I can keep a record of the conversation as I work. I’ve run workshops to show people how to do it. It works for a few people, not for others. I use it now to talk to my own Guides. Sometimes I’m able to reach guidance for other people – not often.   I felt today your Guide wished to use this method to communicate with you.”

 

By now my friend had composed herself and had questions galore to ask her Guide. We worked together to discover her Guide’s name.

“Where are you from?” she wanted to know next.

FROM A SPACE JUST BEYOND YOUR MIND

came the reply.

She asked how she could speak to her Guide, and was assured that she already did so. We all laughed at that. We knew her real question was about how they could have a two-way conversation, but Spirit responds to our questions in very literal ways. We refined the question and she was told she would feel the responses in her heart.

“Yes,” she said, in a very small voice, full of wonder. “Now I understand. For so long I have been listening for something speaking inside my head or to see some sign… I hadn’t trusted to feel.”

I often find this kind of channelling quite tiring, but today pressure was building up inside my head.   I was sensing the frustration both she and her Spirit Guide had been experiencing as they tried to make contact.   Now the floodgates had opened!

Many questions followed and wise, beautiful answers were given. She was told what sort of job to seek and assured that a suitable position would become available to her. She was shown how her own unique blend of skills and attributes would help her in this work.

Finally she asked, “Is my Guide a ‘he’ or a ‘she’?”

I grinned. I’d asked just that question of my own Guide when we’d first made contact, all those years ago. I knew exactly what the answer would be and could feel warmth and humour from this beautiful being spreading through me as I received the reply.

CALL ME WHICH EVER FEELS MOST COMFORTABLE TO YOU

“Your Guide doesn’t have a body,” I explained, “and so no gender. He or she will answer to either.”

She smiled and nodded, expressed her thanks, which I duly typed and all that was left to do was to print out the message for her to take home and treasure.

Banner, Header, Candle, Star, Christmas

We talked on then, all of us, far into the evening, with candlelight twinkling around the room.   We discussed our feelings and intuitions, told stories of the times we’d followed hunches and where they’d taken us.   We expressed our gratitude that such wisdom and guidance is so very close – just beyond our minds and sometimes pressing against our heads or hearts.

The Proof is Out There

IMG_20151205_070812A very quick post script to my previous post.

The book arrived and was printed just the way I’d hoped it would be.  I’m feeling so grateful that the whole project has worked out exactly as I hoped it would.  Back to expecting and receiving miracles.

Life really is magical when we allow it to be.

The Words of William: Volume One is now available on at least some Amazon sites.

So for anyone who enjoys short but deep paperbacks filled with musings on metaphysics and psychic phenomena, written from within the wonderful world of autistic spectrum perception, it is available:

here in the United Kingdom

and here in the United States.

(You can click on the links above to go straight to the book’s sales pages on Amazon.)

 

Also still available in Kindle format.

 

Thinner than Blood 2: Waiting for Proof

That’s what I’m doing – right now.

I’m sitting in my little cottage in sleepy Somerset, waiting for the proof to arrive.

The proof I speak of is a slim, modest paperback proof-copy of William’s words.  It’s travelling from the United States and should – the publishers assure me – be here today.

I’m excited – quite stupidly so.  I know The Words almost by heart now, having formatted and reformatted them so many times.  They are words I collected and saved over nearly twenty years – childhood scribblings and conversations, strange visions and apparent prophecies delivered by a puzzled adolescent boy, emailed articles and comments sent by a young man cut off from most other contact by the anxiety that now surrounds his life.

Formatting

Formatting

As explained in a previous post, I had the idea of collating many of his words and presenting them to him as a birthday present.  Then I asked if he’d like them turned into an e-book and made available to others.  He wasn’t sure.  He needed to think that through.  Did the most private person you can imagine want other eyes poring over his thoughts and ideas?  After what felt to me like an eternity, he decided.  Yes.

Thus the Kindle edition of The Words of William was born.  To begin with, he was cautious about the whole enterprise.  Within a few days, though, my texts telling him another copy or two had sold received an instant response:

“Where?  Which country?”

He became fascinated by the thought that people were buying and borrowing his little book around the world.  He started to keep a tally.
“So that’s 1 in Spain, 4 in the UK, 6 in the US, 1 in Canada..?” he would text.  “Have I got all those right?”  and eventually, “I’m certainly happy with it and thank you for my birthday present.”

Every kind comment and wish from readers of this blog, the five star review on Amazon’s Spanish site, the messages from friends who had enjoyed it were duly passed on to him, and I could feel his confidence, self-esteem and trust in others growing by the day.

Result!

Christmas present wrapped with a gold bow and ...

Now how on Earth was I going to match that success with a Christmas gift?

Then it came to me.  “Would you like your book turned into a paperback for your Christmas present?” I asked.  “Several people have said they’d rather buy it like that than as an e-book.”
The reply was instant: “Yes please.”

Sorted.  I emailed a friend in the States who had recently published a book with Amazon’s Create Space service.  She came back with a host of useful hints and tips.

I can’t pretend it was easy.  The formatting and cover had to be totally redone and there were contentious bits like the ‘About the Author’ page.  William strongly disliked my first attempt at that, but then amazed me by re-drafting much of it himself.

So now, I sit and wait.  Within the next few hours, the proof will arrive – proof that The Words of William are out there in print, and I simply couldn’t be more proud 🙂

 

 

Hopefully, within the next week or so, the paperback edition of The Words of William – Volume One will be available here and on Amazon in the US, UK and Europe.