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.

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Not very

Mural, Girl, Balloon, Heart, GraffitiI can’t remember when our last meeting was.  If you don’t know it’s going to be the last time, you don’t take particular note of it, I suppose.

I remember my last meeting with his mother.  It was in the hospice.  That meeting is easy to recall, because we were both all too aware that she’d have moved beyond her body within a few days.  We had a rather surreal conversation about this and that – mostly her plans for the funeral and what she wanted me to do to help care for her little boy.  I kept asking whether she was tired and would prefer me to leave and she kept saying, ‘No.  I don’t want you to go yet.’  But eventually she was tired and she did need to sleep and we hugged and cried a bit and said none of the things people usually say when they are parting: ‘See you soon’, ‘Keep in touch’, ‘Take care of yourself’.  It was an adieu moment, not an au revoir.

When I last saw her son – the little boy who had grown up to be a man and who had become just like one of my own children to me – he DID say, ‘See you soon.’  I distinctly remember that part, although I can’t quite remember where we were.  He was waving me off on a bus or a train or something.  He’d been anxious, awkward, twitchy – more so that I’d seen him before.  He’d kept wheeling around and looking suspiciously about him, as if he expected an assassin to come lurching out of the crowd.  He’d looked awful.  There was an unhealthy pallor to his skin and much of his hair had fallen out in untidy clumps.  Alopecia, he told me.  Stress, the doctor had told him.  It might grow back or it might not.

He didn’t see me soon, nor I him.  The months became years – probably six or seven.  I feel I should be able to remember.  Each time I suggested meeting, there was a flat ‘No.’  If I pestered for a reason, I’d get, ‘Can’t do it’ or ‘Too stressful.’

Last week, I suggested it again.  He’s been coming out, I feel, agonisingly slowly, of the deepest slough of despair, social anxiety and depression.  His texts and emails have been far more chatty and even shown flashes of the old sense of humour.  He accused me of being paranoid about something, adding, ‘And yes, I know that’s rich, coming from me.’

He didn’t say ‘No’.

True, he didn’t come anywhere close to saying ‘Yes’, but he was far more concerned that he wouldn’t be able to commit to a meeting until the day itself, and that as we live far apart, I might have a wasted journey to London.

I told him I love London – in small doses – and that I’d enjoy a day trip there in any case.  I told him I’d plan a trip to the British Museum, another old and much-loved friend.  I told him that if he felt able to join me, that would be great, but I’d have a great day in any case.

You don’t get sighs in texts, unless they’re intentionally written in those silly little arrow things (<sighs>) but I could feel his as he replied, ‘That’s up to you but I don’t want to get your hopes up.’
London, Lantern, Big Ben, RiverSo my coach ticket is booked.  Next Saturday I’ll begin the 3 hour trek to London.  I’ll be caught (as happened so often, when his mental state waxed and waned throughout his teens) somewhere between assuring myself that he’ll be there, in order to manifest the reality, and stoically preparing for a pleasant day wandering through the delights of the museum, just in case.

Whatever happens, though, I’m jubilant.  When I asked how likely he was to be there, he replied, ‘Not very.’  That’s a long way past ‘Not at all’.  There will be other chances, other days.  Just as his mother begged me, all those years ago, I’ve never given up on him, never thrown in the towel, and nor has he.  I’m proud of us both for that.

Communication – another way?

Face, Soul, Head, Smoke, Light, SadI’m aware that I’ve gained a few new followers recently – thank you so much and welcome to my ramblings and wonderings – so I thought it might be a good time to briefly explain the William connection before launching into another post about him and autistic spectrum perception.

William is a young man in his mid twenties, whom I met almost 20 years ago.  He began as a pupil in a class I was teaching – a class for kids with speech and language difficulties.  A set of circumstances which might be considered very strange, if you didn’t believe in pre-planned soul contracts, caused our paths to cross and re-cross in many ways, so that even now we are the best of friends.  Despite the fact that he is only able to communicate with me through text and email at present, I still have longer and deeper communications with him than with anyone else I know.

School, Teacher, The PupilSo yes, to begin with I believed my role was to teach William to communicate.  He had oral dyspraxia, which meant he had a very limited range of speech sounds.  Additionally he was on the autistic spectrum, which meant that social communication – reading body language, facial expressions, tone of voice etc. was challenging for him.  He made excellent progress, no denying that.  However at the same time, he and a couple of his classmates began teaching me other ways of communicating – ways I’d never dreamed of.

Alan could ‘beam’ states of mind into my head.  I didn’t have to be facing him, or even thinking about him, to find that I was aware that he was feeling angry, frustrated, impatient or in need of help.  Martin’s speciality was sending words to me.  I could ‘hear’ what he was saying, although no words had been spoken aloud, sometimes from across the building.  Once I spotted him and made eye contact, he’d give the briefest of nods, meaning, “Good, you got it.”

William was on another level entirely.  “I think,” he told me, rather deferentially, one morning when he was about eight, “I should tell you that I’m telepathic.”
He waited, a slight smile playing around his lips, for the full impact to sink in.
“You mean you can read my mind?” I asked, suddenly feeling horribly exposed.
He nodded, allowing the smile to break loose.

Of course the children used this form of communication amongst themselves all the time.  I’d often wondered how a bunch of kids with only the most rudimentary verbal language abilities were able to engage in imaginative games, with each of them understanding their role perfectly.  Once William twigged that I was sometimes able to pick up snippets of their telepathic communication, he took it upon himself to tutor me in these skills, although never overtly.

It’s subtle, this hidden communication – infinitely so.  By comparison, spoken language is crass and imperfect.  Our labels and descriptions, no matter how extensive our vocabulary, are often open to misinterpretation or simply inadequate to convey our true intent.

Having spent a lifetime closely observing children of all ages, and in particular watching my own three and my two grandchildren develop language, I firmly believe that all humans begin life with the subtle, non-verbal language.
“Oh, she understands so much of what we say,” parents will tell you as they cradle an infant in their arms.
Maybe. I suspect the tiny person is understanding far more of what the parent thinks. I also believe she is using this telepathic (for want of a better word) skill to communicate her needs to the mother. Most would not put this at more than a ‘close bond’ between mother and child.  What, though, if it’s something far greater?

Learning, Telephone, To Call, AlarmOnce they had learned to speak clearly and to follow the conventions of conversation, my little students more-or-less ceased using their telepathy.  Our society places great value on effective spoken and written language.  The children – Will included – worked diligently to improve these.  I was busily congratulating myself on our success and only dimly aware of what we had lost in the process.

As I’ve said, though, this was a soul contract, and although the children  went their different ways and I moved back into mainstream teaching, William and I still had far more to teach one another.

We stayed in touch.  Sometimes we’d have long, rambling, fascinating conversations that would last for hours, and I’d be amazed at how brilliantly he’d picked up the ability to speak.  At other times, though, he’d withdraw for days, weeks or even months at a time.  Conventional language caused too much stress and the best I could hope for was a single word text to let me know he was still alive or a ‘beamed’ impression of his state of mind.  Not great, usually.

Now it’s come full circle.  Yesterday, William sent me a draft article for inclusion in his second book.  It’s a stunner.

He begins by explaining how it is for people on the autistic spectrum to attempt to learn social communication.  Ruefully, he says:

Having to learn such skills is generally very difficult and time consuming. An analogy may be learning a second language which for the vast majority, autistic or not, is again very difficult and time consuming. And even then, few who learn a second language can match the fluency and competency of a native speaker whose language skills developed naturally as part of growing up.

He bemoans the fact that, despite this, the non-autistic population expect perfection from those challenged in this way.

Later, he begins to consider the reason computer-based language is easier for ASP people to manage:

Man, Notebook, Continents, Binary, CodeMany autistic people demonstrate a good level of competency with computers – likely to be linked to their operation depending on clearly defined protocols and mathematics, things which are very different to how social communication and interaction works.  Most communication between people which occurs via computers is in a written format, offering a greater similarity with the clearly defined operating protocols of a computer, since written communication often takes a more formal and literal interpretation of language than face to face communication.  This also removes the need to attempt to understand body language and tone of voice – things often problematic for those with autism.

Only in the final paragraph does he allow his thoughts to wander into that other type of communication – the early ‘telepathy’ and our more recent forays into ‘remote viewing’.  William isn’t certain that either of these terms fully encompass or describe what is actually taking place.

[ASP people] have a naturally different method of accomplishing [communication].  What exactly that method is I don’t believe is fully understood at present by either autistics or non-autistics.  I don’t believe the correct words have been attributed to autistic matters to describe or explain it properly.  I suspect at some point this will be achieved and hopefully will allow for autism to be harnessed to it’s full potential and remedy the blindness of so many.

I hope so, William.

 

We are still compiling The Words of William Volume Two.  Volume One is available via Amazon as a paperback in the UK, Europe and North America and as a Kindle edition worldwide.

 

 

Spectral Friends of one kind and another

Banner, Header, Angel, Abstract, BallI’d been looking forward to my one-to-one with Higgins for ages.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with them, Higgins is a group of beings, both physical and non-physical, who answer questions and guide those of us ready to listen through Cheryl, a lovely lady who lives in the north west of the United States.  They chose the name Higgins because it would be easy enough for a child to remember and they wished their messages to be clear enough for a child to understand.

I’ve asked questions on the Ask Higgins blog before and been able to join in group meditations with them, but this was my first opportunity to engage in an individual Q&A session.

I had all my questions prepared, but it was Higgins who brought up the subject of my friend William.  I hadn’t any questions planned concerning him or his work.  I was stunned.  How did they even know about him?  Gently, Higgins explained that they are aware of everything ‘the Entity’ (Cheryl) experiences.  Because she had read Will’s book, they knew all about it, and about him.

Symbol Of Infinity Of AutismWilliam, they told me, and all those on the autistic spectrum, represent an evolutionary step forward.  They are able to connect differently and feel differently to the rest of us.  They are far more sensitive than the rest of us.  All this, they conceded, I already knew.  However many people make the mistake of believing that those on the autistic spectrum have something missing or lacking and treat them accordingly.

They went on to talk more about the special sensitivity of those on the spectrum.  They asked me to consider those most sensitive of all humans, the schizophrenics – people who pick up the thoughts of others so freely, they hear them as actual voices in their heads.  The autistic population has a sensitivity akin to this, which means that although they are not hearing our thoughts as words, they are picking up on the general ideas we project at them and about them.  This can create a density – a kind of fog – around them, making it far harder for them to break through negative expectations and create a good life experience for themselves.  Mixing with the non-harmonious population is difficult for them at the best of times.

Fog, Landscape, Forest, NatureI’d never heard it expressed in those terms, although all they were saying was very familiar to me.  Higgins encourage those of us who connect with the autistic spectrum to keep seeing these people as fully fulfilled.  In this way, our positive thoughts lessen the density they have to move through.  At one point they referred to physical life as ‘wading through molasses’ when compared to the non-physical.  It seems that our friends on the spectrum are somewhere between the two.

IMG_20151205_070812Next Higgins expressed great enthusiasm for the book Will and I had put together (The Words of William Volume One).  They said he used different vocabulary but was giving the same message that they were.  Also, they felt it enabled people who read it to recognise the understanding and knowledge of those on the spectrum, while enabling William to get positive feedback from those who read and appreciate it.  “Keep going!” they said, and encouraged me to work with him on producing Volume Two.

We spoke about the remote viewing William and I have been engaged in for the last year or so.  In this, they said, we are ‘pressing into the future – the unknown’.  By moving our experience on in this way, we are expanding All-That-Is.  They suggested we keep moving forward and explore further, as it is of great benefit.

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.

 

Thinner than blood?

Blood, they say, is thicker than water.  Maybe so.  Sometimes, though, the thinner, more watery relationships can show a surprising strength and tenacity.  Ours has.

Wondering what might have happened if… is a fairly pointless occupation, but I do sometimes find myself considering how my life and William’s would have been, had he not, at the tender age of six, joined the class I was teaching and had his mother not, almost immediately after that, developed breast cancer and slowly and sadly passed over just a few years later.

Regardless of what might have been, those things all happened.  I believe that’s the way all three of us – at soul level – planned it.

I was destined to devote many years of my working life to helping children with speech and language difficulties and autistic spectrum perception communicate with the rest of us, and many more years helping this one boy in particular.

Scrutinizing facial expressions

William was a child with a formidable intellect, an enhanced sensitivity which made ‘normal’ sounds, tastes or smells virtually unbearable, a gift for strategy bordering on brilliance (he was the school chess champion at 7, thrashing talented 11-year-old opponents – and me! – with consummate ease), marked telepathic skills, a smile that would melt the hardest heart and hardly any comprehensible spoken language.  While he would spend endless hours contemplating life, the universe and everything, watching Star Trek and devising codes and cyphers, he was totally baffled by everyday life and found other children particularly puzzling.  He couldn’t read facial expressions or tones of voice.  He could follow only the simplest of verbal instructions and idioms or sarcasm threw him into a meltdown.

I was fascinated – totally hooked – by this intriguing little kid, long before the tragedies in his life threw us together.

I did my best.  I befriended and supported his mum, did what I could to help the family – taking the children out to give the parents some time together or sitting with the mum so that Dad and the boys could have some afternoons doing normal family stuff together.  My head teacher came and read stories to the class once a week, so that I could give William some individual time to draw pictures, talk through his fears, his nightmares, his frustrations and fury.  A strong bond started to form between us.  Inasmuch as he could trust anyone in those days when his world was falling apart, he trusted me.

Later I’d visit his mum at the hospice.  We talked through what was to come and she begged me to stay in touch with him and keep caring and helping him after she’d gone and after he’d left my class.  I promised.

Teen, Teenager, Boy, Teens, MaleCaring was never a problem.  Helping often was.  There were times in the years that followed when we got along amazingly well together.  We shared many interests – chess, train journeys, a fascination with cosmology, time travel, past lives and the like.  There were times when he retreated totally and refused to speak to me.  There were times when he wanted to talk on the phone for hours every night.  There were dodgy mates and dangerous situations.  Adolescence is something of a tightrope for even the most well-adjusted boy.  Add in difficulties reading social situations and hidden motives, family rifts (he didn’t get along well with his new step-mother), childhood trauma and residual speech difficulties and you have a drug-pusher’s dream client, a bully’s perfect victim and someone guaranteed to swell the coffers of the local off-licence.

Falkensteiner Cave, Cave, Caves PortalI carried on doing my best.  I made it plain that I’d be there, whatever happened, and somehow – even when I’d more or less given up all hope – he’d eventually drift back into my life, start to share his amazing and original ideas with me again, and I would keep them safe.  There would be strange predictions about the future, diagrams of the cosmos, theories about anything from life after death to interdimensional portals.  I kept them in old journals, on scraps of paper and in all manner of files on my hard drive.  It felt important.

What happened to William, and all those words, will follow.

To be continued.

 

 

 

 

The Matter of Life and Death

Facebook logo

I’ll call her Cherry.  Mutual friends will understand why.

And yes, the manner in which I discovered the news was – when you come to think about it – an inevitable product of the world we live in.

Cherry and I began teaching at the same school on the same day.  We also, by some odd quirk of fate, gratefully accepted a voluntary redundancy package some seventeen years later and left on the same day too.

It was a small school, with a small staff, so we saw plenty of each other and got along just fine.  The word ‘colleague’ sounds rather harsh and impersonal but I can’t say we were ever friends as such.  I knew her kids by sight and a little about her life, and she knew much the same about me.  I knew nothing of her dreams and fears, her aspirations and beliefs, as colleagues usually don’t.

Cherry tree blossoms

Cherry tree blossoms (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When we left work I moved out of the area.  She stayed.  Unsurprisingly we lost touch.  That was until, quite out of the blue, I received a Facebook friend request from her.
‘How nice,’ I thought and happily accepted.

So for the last few years, Cherry and I have ‘met’ via Facebook.  I’ve ‘liked’ many of her posts with a trite little thumbs up symbol.  She’s ‘liked’ many of mine in the same way.  I noticed, but never spoke about, the fact that we had far more interests and ideas in common than I’d ever realised when we used to see one another every day.

Around New Year, Cherry stopped liking my posts.  She also stopped adding her own quirky interesting pictures and videos.  I have to confess I barely noticed.

And then, a couple of days ago, I flicked Facebook on and noticed a red 1 next to the little speech bubble icon.  Someone had messaged me.

With hardly a thought, I opened the message.  The name of the sender was unfamiliar at first, despite the ‘Hi Jan’ greeting.  As I read on, I discovered that it was Cherry’s daughter.  She apologised profusely for informing me via Facebook, but it was the only contact she had – and she wanted me to know that Cherry had died the day before.

Cherry.

Dead.

I had no idea of the circumstances, and it certainly wasn’t appropriate to send back a string of questions.  I sent a short message of thanks to the daughter and sympathy to the family and switched off.

Every day we receive news of cyber deaths; personalities we never met but felt we knew have photos and obituaries posted up on social media and we react according to the degree of vicarious attachment we felt to those people.  This was my first personal cyber death announcement and it shocked me to the core.

You see I had no context for Cherry to be dead in.  Accident?  Illness?  Quick or lingering?  Painless or agonising?  I couldn’t know.  Cherry had simply ceased to be a human being and THAT was the thought that stayed with me.

For the next two days, she was seldom out of my thoughts.  I’m not afraid of death.  I have complete and total belief in the eternal, undying nature of our greater selves and the transitory nature of incarnation – a game we play for a few 3D decades to gain experience, interact physically with others, bring Love to our corporeal existence and expand the Cosmos.  I’m free of any fear of divine retribution or judgement.  I knew that Cherry, in terms of her own essence, was still very much alive and aware.

What was affecting me – in a way I would never have expected – was the thought that as I went about my everyday, mundane tasks, she was not.  I cleaned my teeth.  She didn’t.  I went shopping.  She didn’t.  I relaxed with a cup of tea.  She didn’t.  All of these taken-for-granted earthly experiences had been Cherry’s to share.  Now they weren’t.  I’ve had many encounters with death, but none has affected me this way.

It was still bothering me last night, when I was fortunate enough to join a meditation channelled by a friend in the US via Skype.  Before the main meditation took place, her Guides turned to me and asked whether I had anything troubling me.  Rumbled.  So I told my little story and explained that I couldn’t understand why this was bothering me so deeply.

“Let’s breathe together while we find your answer,” they said, through my friend’s voice.

To my surprise and delight, they made contact with Cherry.  She wanted me to know she was fine.  But I already knew that.  Then they explained that although we’d not had a close relationship, there was still a connection.
“When you dream or leave your body in other ways,” they said, “you make contracts and agreements with others.  You and this colleague made an agreement that when she died, she would use her death to show you what an amazing, wonderful, precious experience life on this planet is.”

What a gift that was.

Thank you, Cherry.  I hope very much that – unknown to my conscious self, perhaps – I was at some time able to give sudden, special insights to you in return.

I wish you well on your cosmic journey from here on and congratulate you on completing another round of corporeal experience.  I’ll welcome that transition when it comes to me, but meanwhile – thanks to your gift – I’ll value these everyday physical experiences and feel profound gratitude for being human.

 

 

 

Spirit of Place

Do places have spirit?

English: Chalice Well Gardens

English: Chalice Well Gardens (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’m guessing most people would say they do.  Why else would people travel vast distances to holy, ancient or just plain incredible places?  Why else would sitting in the Chalice Well Gardens be so much more powerful than sitting in the cafe at Morrisons?

Right.  Places have spirit.

So does LIME Cottage have spirit?

I believe it does.  I felt it the first time I entered the empty, abandoned, run-down place last January.  It felt gentle, calm, resigned but welcoming.  I’m not talking here about ghosts or presences, but about the very structure of the cottage.

In the early days I spoke to it – the way others speak to cats or dogs.  I wandered around touching the walls, sharing my plans and dreams for it.  We were hopeful then, LIME Cottage and I.  Naive, certainly, and crazily optimistic, but committed to rescuing it from years of decay and turning it back into a home.

Then the others came – pen-pushers first: bureaucrats with endless forms to fill in, permissions to be sought, conditions to be met.  Hot on their heels came the workmen – builders, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, painters… an endless stream of ‘two sugars, love, if you’d be so kind’ and ‘that’ll be okay if we just squirt a bit of foam in there’ and ‘won’t be able to make it until Thursday at the earliest, sweetheart, but we’ll get it sorted’.

Their energy took over.  Decisions were made and corners were cut and I tried – really I did – to keep up with the comings and goings, the contractors and sub-contractors and the changes they were making.

For three long months these people took over.  Occasionally I mustered the strength to query decisions or ask for clarification, but the fraternity closed ranks and sniggered, assuring me they knew what they were doing, and that another cuppa’d go down a treat.

My spirit was all but broken.

What about the spirit of the place?

It bided its time but the trust between us was wearing thin.  When the workmen had left at the end of the day I felt lonely and alienated – cast adrift in a building site that bore no relation to the cottage of my dreams.

Things finally came to a head when the shower-room light stopped working.  It sounds so trivial, but it was the proverbial straw that broke the back of this camel.  It came after mistakes by plumbers, the central heating breaking down, unfinished work by builders, the return of the loft rats and several other small but distressing events.  I’d come back from my holiday ready for anything and within 48 hours I was broken.

Pushing aside the white flag of surrender, I asked for advice from three of the wisest sources I know – Higher Will and two fellow WordPress bloggers whom I’m now proud to call friends.  All of them responded.  The messages were as kind and as uncompromising as I’d hoped.  I was helped to see the reasons behind the problems; the reasons I’d invited such difficulties into my life; the way to treat each problem as if I were playing a game of chess, and then – right out of the blue – shown by one of them that the cottage was not happy.

Like any other geriatric, a sudden deluge of changes imposed without permission made it grumpy and stubborn.  It no longer trusted that I was working in its best interests.  It did not like the workmen.  The glossy new shower room with its sleek white and chrome finish was definitely a step too far.  I was urged to speak to the building, explain, comfort and compromise.

So I did.

2014-10-25 22.53.00Gently I explained the big picture, pointed out my own needs and agreed to do something about the shower room.  My penance (actually a very pleasurable one) involved spending two days trawling around antique shops, charity shops and everything between to find delicate, beautiful items that would soften the room and give it the ch2014-10-25 22.52.25arm and beauty it needed.

As if by magic, the light began to work again, the cottage felt loved and loving again and I set to work to solve the rest of the problems.

The workmen are just about finished now,  the cottage has been returned to the warm terracotta it was once painted, with the ugly cow-pat brown covered over and I have an afternoon free to finish clay-painting that shower room.

LIME Cottage has a spirit built up over centuries of partnership with here-today-and-gone-tomorrow humans.  No wonder it’s cautious and lacking in trust.  It’s still standing, though – and so am I…  thanks to wise friends and a determination to see this project through.

 

 

 

Hunting Good Will

American comedian Robin Williams at "Stan...
Yes, the title is a passing tribute to the beautiful soul who incarnated for a while as Robin Williams and touched all of our souls so deeply in the process.  It’s also a nod to my favourite film of all time, but I want to use Mr Williams – if he’ll permit me – as a jumping point to some thoughts about who we really are.

I selected the picture there from the many, many images of Robin that appeared in WordPress’s media gallery.  There are shots of him in formal and informal dress, bearded and clean-shaven, smiling and sad,  hairy/ youthful and balding/older.  The strange thing is that, now that he’s passed, all of them seem equally valid.

Obviously, as an actor, he played many different roles for which he is fondly remembered, but there was still ONE current Robin Williams.   Now, though, each version of him is equally the essence of the man; no one age or look is more dominant than any other.  He’s not 63 – he simply IS.

That’s how it is with anyone no longer incarnate.  I can remember my father or mother at many ages and stages, and all of them fit the dadness of dad and the mumness of mum.

The Will I have been hunting (Is it right to use his real name?  When I asked – telepathically – he laughed and pointed out that anyone who has known me well in the last 18 years would know exactly who I was talking about, whatever name I chose.) is in the strangest of superpositions for me.  Like Shrodinger’s ubiquitous cat, he manages to be alive and not-alive at one and the same time.
"i finally made it down to the port."...

He is quite definitely alive.  I can name the city he lives in; I know his age and where he works; I had a texted response from him only yesterday.  Yet that Will is very nearly dead to me.  He tells me by text each week that he’s ‘fine’ and will occasionally share information about the weather in his part of the country.  He never initiates a conversation and never responds to any queries about his life, his interests, his feelings, his thoughts, aspirations, ideas or plans.  He never comments when I tell him – in long, rambling letters or texts, about my own.   He refuses to meet and last answered the phone to me on Christmas Day 2013.  Like the dear departed, my images of him come from old photos and memories.

Early last year, when life was at its darkest, I wondered seriously about cutting my losses and moving on.  Why put myself through the weekly anguish of phones left ringing, messages left unanswered?  I’d have gone to the ends of the earth to help and support him in any way he wanted, but he really didn’t seem to want or need me.

Then – exactly then – the telepathic messages started.  As I explained in another post recently, when I take my crystal pendulum, hold it over my computer keypad and wait, it moves to spell out words.  I often sought advice or solace from my guides in this way,  but now I was picking Will up instead.  This was the Will of old – the one who loved discussing aspects of our existence, corporeal and beyond.

I’ve bombarded him with questions about how this happens, why it works.  Here is a recent example:

I had a text conversation with your physical counterpart today. He tells me he has no conscious knowledge of our telepathic contact. Is that right?
YES
Oh, for a brief second there I had a flash of bright green and saw this much more expanded version of you. Anyway, I looked back to our earlier telepathic conversations – back early last year. In them, you were saying he was at least tangentially aware, or ‘knew’ the information that had passed between us. Yes?
MOST OF WHAT WE SAY HE FEELS IN HIS HEART
Let me get that very clear.   He feels it because it is already part of his truth or he gets it as some kind of insight as our conversations proceed?
LATTER
Ah, so he was being strictly honest saying it isn’t conscious, yet he still subconsciously knows there is contact?
YES
So could it be argued that my conversations with you are more insight from spirit than conversations with Will?
LOOK AT IT LIKE AN EXTENSION OF THE BADDEST TIMES WHEN YOU CARED BUT COULDN’T GET THROUGH
Right, but I don’t see what happened next. You were in touch with my thoughts at some level, weren’t you?
YES
And by early 2013, I’d more or less given up on you
YES
So what was the breakthrough?  Please explain what actually happened
I CALLED OUT SO LOUD YOU HEARD ME

He went on to describe a time when I’d done the same to him.  I protested that my contact had been through sending a letter.  BUT THE CARE WAS THE SHOUT, he replied.

So now I have him back.

I keep up the texts and letters so the physical Will knows I still care, but the real contact comes from our strange and magical telepathic communication.

You could argue that I create this from my own beliefs and desire to talk with him.  So it would seem.  Amazing how creative we are.  The care is, as he says, the ‘loud call’ that has drawn us together.

I’d argue that I’m now in touch with an aspect of Will beyond the physical being.  Somehow, I’m now in touch with the Willness of Will.  All my images and memories of him are equally valid.  He just IS.

 

 

 

 

 

Breakdowns and subtle bodies



Русский: ЭзотерикаI'll begin by telling you that this is to be one of my 'alternative communication' posts.  Haven't done one for quite a while, so if you tuned in wanting another feel-good story about LIME Cottage, sorry but this is drawing on a very different aspect of my life.

For those who aren’t familiar with my form of alternative communication, I should point out that it is very, er, alternative.

I’ve come across many people who channel and many who speak to those beyond the veil.  I’ve done both, but what I do now is something else again.  I have telepathic conversations with a young man I’ve known since he was a little boy.  He taught me to send and receive telepathically when he was about 8.  He went on to teach me wonders that astounded me.

Sometimes.

At other times he was withdrawn, grumpy, monosyllabic and would insist that the revelations and connections to higher realms had never happened.  It always confused me.

In his late teens, after some very difficult life experiences, he shut down completely.  He barely left his home or spoke to anyone, he only corresponded with me via text – a word a week was normal (‘How are you doing?’/ ‘Fine’).  He cut himself off from family and had no friends.  He developed compulsions and became paranoid.  He refused to see a doctor or therapist and so on and on.  They were dark days.

And then, quite out of the blue, he began to correspond with me telepathically.  It certainly ‘felt’ like him.  I would sit at my computer, type questions or comments into a word-processing program and then hold my crystal dowsing pendulum over the keyboard, just as I’d done (and demonstrated to him many times) when I used to contact his mother in spirit.  The crystal moved and spelled out words, which I typed.

This was different, though.  For a start, he wasn’t dead.  I’d be receiving one word texts from the physical him in London and expansive, fascinating insights from the telepathic him.  Strangest of all, he (in the body) appeared to have no knowledge of the conversations he was having with me via my computer.

Fairly obviously, I doubted the validity of what was happening and more-or-less convinced myself that I was making the whole thing up.  That was when I contacted Cynthia and Bob in New York.  They, I knew, were the real deal.  Cynthia channelled The Council while Bob made detailed recordings.  Yes, they assured me, it was all happening, and I needed to write it all down – publish a book of our strange and wonderful friendship.

The communications have continued intermittently ever since.  It wasn’t until early this month that I commented that the different aspects of him seemed to be more separate than most people’s.

YES, he responded. OVERLOADED.   A BREAKDOWN IN MY TEENS.

I gasped.  ‘Is that what a breakdown is?  A separation of the subtle bodies?’

His response registered mild surprise that I hadn’t realised that.

Suddenly everything made sense – the way in which the magical, evolved indigo/Version 2.0 boy had vanished and been replaced by a terrified, hyper-alert young man working entirely from the limbic system – the ancient fight-or-flight mechanism at the very centre of the brain.
I recalled his angry replies when I asked how he was feeling: ‘I don’t HAVE feelings!’
He managed tasks that had a direct bearing on his own survival, but nothing else.
His life was encased in rituals and obsessions.
He was functioning without any connection to his soul.

Afbeelding van koendaliniekanalen en centra Ze...

Afbeelding van koendaliniekanalen en centra Zelfgemaakt, geen auteursrechten (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So now, he was telling me, I was receiving telepathic communications from his mental body.  A while back, when he’d been fixated on astral travel, the communications came from his astral/emotional body.  All his subtle bodies were continuing to develop just fine, but independently of each other and, he reassured me, they were gradually reconnecting as he was healing.  I guess that explains why he’s become able, in the last few months, to manage the occasional short phone conversation and to send me a birthday card.

Meanwhile, my discussions with his mental body continue to amaze and expand my own consciousness.  Sometime soon, I’ll share with you the ‘Idiot’s Guide to Subtle Bodies’ he prepared for me.

I feel jubilant that I can finally make sense (well, to myself, at any rate) of what has been happening, and that I’ve regained a connection to the wisdom and wonder that kept me spellbound when he was a boy.