Autobiography

Valentine’s Day, 2019

Recently I listened to an author describe how his interior guides dictated a book, that he published successfully, shortly thereafter.

Sometimes my bodily pain is so severe, I can’t even imagine having the energy to write, unless the words themselves are provided like this – and I am practically handed the pen. Automatic writing has happened to me before, and it never fails to astonish, for the language received tends to be very cryptic, beautiful, and full of meaning, even when I feel by myself I am not.

I must have whispered prayers in the night that I would conveniently receive a ready-made composition of this sort.

Shortly after 8:00 a.m., I awoke, my clairaudience turned on. Prose started to flow from somewhere inside of me, without effort, and I grabbed a pen off the nightstand to secure the words on paper, before they evaporated like a dream, from my mind.

In reviewing what I wrote, it was, of course, like discovering and reading it for the first time. I realized that “cupboard” must refer to my heart, and glass “bottle” – the body – which contains and limits the soul, until it is released through death, or perhaps enlightenment. I found God’s use of culinary allegories with me entirely fitting, and more than a little entertaining in parts. It made me want smile.

“Onions” are what my mother planted to keep animals out of her garden, but could also mean distractions that keep people from finding out the truth. I  have uploaded pictures of my actual, open-faced cupboards, which I found ready and waiting, as if just to illustrate this piece.

I am calling it Autobiography, because I received it from a source with Whom I am quite familiar, but One that I also recognize as the Voice that resides within each of us, and some call the Christ.

And I share them, these few, intuited words below,  because I feel they were meant for me to share, like a glass from just such an open cupboard… or open heart.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

cupboard2

I am taking off a lifetime of pain

When I was twenty years old
the dam broke
the colors colliding,
like an off-put canvas
Household items lined up,
like cracked pots
to take with me

colors

The visions had ceased
All around me the pain,
the stares

What does it take to
believe in a miracle?
they asked with a grin

Finding themselves shoeless,
on my path

Don’t go away
The cupboards will burn
The dishes will fly

2014-09-15-19-47-09

Please,
place your onions at the door

When Spring came
the rains had stopped
and everyone cheered

Like a hen getting out of a truck
I didn’t even know how to drive

Laughing,
they killed me some more

White paper lined the floor
like parchment
with his portrait and portfolio

blog image wedding arms with gloves and dress

Shut the door
The cops aren’t coming anymore

In June the news came
of a city on a hill
glistening with radiance

How do they make those little cakes
that stand up
like needles on their edge?

Further more,
the door’s shut

so how can it bleed?

A raptor,
a pigeon
and a bird


He sees what he knows

like glass in a pan

blog image reflecting rose

What are you thinking my child?

I see you and I love you
I was always with you
my child
The tears flow and this time
they are tears of joy

Walk away from the pain
Walk away from those you love
But don’t walk away from me

For I am the one
who started it all
with a bottle of love
and a plan
laid out like cards
that can’t fail

The bottle has been broken
but the love is limitless
like a magic trick
designed to catch
your deceivers

Put it away in your cupboard
like spices on a rack
Use it liberally
wherever you go

In the end you will see
that was all that mattered

It contains seeds like nutmeg
that grow rampant in the rain
in the snow

Wherever you go
I am always with you
in your heart

Just look inside of it

fiery heart

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Night Message from Daddy

f6096bde7a5b5cbf556ccb5528edbe46--pale-moon-the-winter

That pale moonlight

at about a month ago


how bad the food tasted


Daddy thought the young side was chirping

The young side didn’t chirp

Great, at seventeen…

the young side didn’t count

Is there anything?


Not having a will,

I didn’t raise your son

I didn’t tell him to just confirm the good in you


There was a mason jar

Finding it, I cried

Jump


Experience Life


Having free bodies,

we never realize what we lost

It’s amazing how the time flies


Frank was a personable guy

He flunked law school,
but he liked to play
He got killed in high school

They listed him as MIA


Anywhere you lay your head

is home

I’ll always be there…


watching over you.

Good night

Sanctuary Places & Secret Spaces

cottage 7

There’s something special about old houses, whether it’s the nooks and crannies hidden beneath the stairs, the familiar sound of one’s tread on a wooden floor, or a gigantic, flowering lilac bush, encroaching upon a porch with a swing where you sit in the summer time, drinking iced tea from a tumbler.

But the first old house I lived in was in West Point, NY, when I was a little girl, and my fondest memories of it are in winter.

Often I’d be curled up with a favorite book (I re-read the Chronicles of Narnia so many times, the books to my set cracked apart into separate chunks) and looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows in the “sun” room, praying for snow.

Yes, I loved snow, and I prayed for it, because we lived in a valley often neglected for the peaks of the mountains in which it sat, peaks frequently graced and made resplendent in white powder.

But sometimes God complied with a little girl’s wish, sometimes even right around Christmas time, and granted not just the black mountain bear or fox but me as well, some snow in which to play.

icicles off windowbox

I haven’t thought of that old house as much, or been reminded of it as much as I have been since I’ve moved into my own little cottage, which is over a hundred years old.

Yes, it will be the oddest thing, not just the colonial structure of the current home, which reminds me of the one in my childhood, but the heaviness of a door, an unusual or unique twist in a cellar passage way. And it won’t be so much the public history, but the intuited, remembered or imagined stories, that will kind of belong to a place, which has become a sacred sanctuary – set apart from the rest of the world.

So the other day at the cottage, after a snow storm in the present, I was walking my dogs, and the way the snow had accumulated upon the large, evergreen bushes running alongside the house, creating a snowy stretch of roof top (with meandering open spaces and tunnels beneath) which the dogs wanted to explore, gave me a familiar, exciting feeling, as if I was a child again.

snow tunnel 3

It’s always the simplest things – the beauty of nature, the noticed patterns and symbolism that take me back home, or make me realize, with a spirit of gratitude, that I am home. I remembered playing with a childhood friend that I may not have remembered much, or even ever again, if not for this sudden rush of nostalgia, and remembered similar, snow tunnels beneath the shrubbery, and exploring them with this playmate, outside that old house I used to call home, at West Point, NY.

Those were days of great joy, and I don’t remember wondering once, if my all-providing father fretted over the inevitable problems that must have been associated with older homes, of which this military housing consisted.

Back then, I didn’t see the elongated windows of the sunroom through which I manifested snow as “drafty”, and outside I didn’t see overgrown shrubbery, needing to be cut down come spring,  to regimented standard.

I just saw marvelous long, drippy icicles, bedecking windows and rooflines like garland, and mysterious igloo-type tunnels in which I could hide, beneath gnarled, ancient shrubbery so old – it was worthy of I and my equally enthusiastic playmate’s respect. I saw outside-rooms created out of nature in which we could play house, or secret passage way, or create a story of our own making to which mother nature had already provided the fodder.

Who notices the most important things, adults or children, I wonder?

white feather in house
And when we find ourselves noticing odd or shall I say – pausing for beautifully mysterious things – in adulthood, or noticing how the present can be like a teaching echo of the past, is it then that we have really come of age, and read the patterns of our life correctly?

For I do not think it just coincidence that in a time when I am at peace, having finally decided to love and parent myself more fully, giving my own need for home and sanctuary precedence, that I recall a time in my childhood in which I had a father who took care of draft and danger, leaving me free to explore and create, while never leaving the perimeters of a safe haven.

For is God not a God who does just the same, as my father did then?

And is this world not just like a very old house?

Designed to make us recall, our even more permanent, and infinitely magical, home in heaven?

Indestructible

Our Lady of Perpetual Help, after fire

I know the woman who rests her bare feet on the moon and the stars, while holding their creator, like every child that comes into time.

She clears a path through fiery conflagration, she opens locked doors, and shelters the small.

In the desert they will find refuge, while the guilty get lost in a maze, a trail of their own destruction.

She is the woman of the apocalypse, the heart of mankind, and the very nature of God.

Societal Norms on the Eve of All Saints

blog image relief of st infants

Chesterton wrote that “Tradition means giving a vote to most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead.”

He went on to say: “Tradition refuses to submit to the small and arrogant oligarchy of those who merely happen to be walking about. All democrats object to men being disqualified by the accident of birth; tradition objects to their being disqualified by the accident of death. Democracy tells us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our groom; tradition asks us not to neglect a good man’s opinion, even if he is our father.”

In my family history there were relatives who were visited by or heard from these “dead”, to which Chesterton refers.

So I remember in particular a great grandmother, who would feel the toes on her feet being gently pinched at night until she roused herself from sleep and prayed for the souls in purgatory. Sometimes she had to keep praying  “until they left her alone”,  because they would “come back” if she had not prayed “enough” for them.

Yes, the ancient Catholic beliefs were held onto in those days, and children were taught the tradition that around this time of year,  All Saints and All Souls’ Day, your much beloved, dearly departed family members were allowed to visit you, and you with them, whether you realized it or not.

The visit was a custom or rule of the other side, because the holy souls (even those still in the purging place) didn’t really die.

Death was just a transition for those who had been saved. Yes, even as a child, I knew how to explain to protestant friends that the word “dead” in scripture usually only referred to the damned.

Why didn’t everyone intuit this?

Wasn’t to be with God to be more alive than ever, as He was the Source, or Existence itself?

Isn’t it us still in the material realm whose insights are dulled so to speak, by our own, encapsulated skulls?

We were not a family of conjurers, but looking back, I can imagine now how our familial acceptance of interacting with loved ones who had passed on – might seem superstitious or strange to a Baptist.  Some protestants I was told, also thought Catholics prayed to statues.

Ha.

So funny, how much has changed.

It is not that I reject my religious heritage, but I see it in a deeper sense now, one that accepts that all religions and people of good will are simply like different, equally valid reflections and children of the same truth, and my hope is that my more fundamentalist friends realize this secret as well.

But in what seems like a lifetime later (yet somehow still only like yesterday), since my own dearly departed sweet Babci leaned her dear face close to mine, squeezing my hand in vivid dream impression, I still have the strangest discussions…

with my paranormal investigator friend.

At least they might sound strange by standards of current, polite society.

We discuss the norms or rules of the democracy of the dead.

He being the conscientious scientist, we discuss and we discuss until he insists he must leave “religion” out of it and I, the conscientious mystic, insist mysticism is not at odds with science. My hope is that we are both learning about the other side from each other, like different reflections of the same truth, which all people are to one another. For are not both scientists and mystics fascinated by, searching for, and examining truth? What does he know that confirms what I intuit; how the other side works, speaks, communicates, and what the other side desires?

And perhaps, just perhaps,  what I see and hear can help guide or inspire objective and direct scientific inquiry.

I insist he is onto something big, the evolution of mankind’s spiritual progress and understandings, the direction predicted by reknowned pyschics, and the woman who sees angels, Lorna Byrne –   for a potential, very possible, future reality.

He and I both believe from our own experiences and from the information collected from near death experiences, that the next realm contains a society of people, what used to be called a community of saints.

And since he is all scientist, no bias, no hype or sensationalism, he is a great man to be a leader in all this.

For just as there are fraudulent or dangerously corrupted psychics, there are paranormal investigators who are unethical, who fudge data, and I believe even fraudulent ghosts – some call them dark angels – who masquerade as one’s loved ones.

My guy is not one of them.

He is none of the above.

And he has authentic respect for the “dead”.

I don’t believe the dead are a freak show for children to masquerade as on Holloween night, bodily injuries depicted by way of grotesque costume, indicating the manner in which the dead were bludgeoned, or knifed to death.

No, the old Catholics had it right, when they taught their children to dress up as beautiful and brave, living saints instead, giving honor to those who had gone before, those whose passing will make our inevitable journey home – a non scary and welcoming one.

And my nonreligious paranormal investigator friend has it right as well, asking polite questions and not forgetting to thank spiritual entities, when he gets a response, especially evidence or indication of personhood.

And oh does he get such a response.

So much so in fact, anyone listening to the recordings on http://blog.maryland-paranormal.com/ cannot honestly rule out personhood existing on the other side, that living, society – of the dead.

Early this morning as I aroused from sleep, I hear something interesting as well. I had prayed the night before for enlightenment, I admit, clutching my tiny statue of the Christ child, in the palm of my hand. Call me superstitious, or not. But I think this message from the divine Infant, regarding the family of God in this realm and the next, was for Hiram.

My entire family thanks you

when he says goodnight to the ghosts.

 

Psychometry

‘I’m thinking, like, I’m taller than you”
he threatened me
grandchildren
your police work done
what in the world
did he expect

blog image washer woman with son

 

I’m having dreams again.

No, wait.  That’s not the entire truth.

The dreams and silent voices have never stopped.

In a similar but different way to the manner in in which a schizophrenic is harassed by a constant audible stream of usually negative voices, a transliminal, psychic or mystic is aware of continual, silent messages – or for lack of a better word – intuitions. For the healthy empath, these impressions flow like constant waters she can tap into to a reasonable degree…

at will.

I don’t feel worthy to call myself a mystic or seer, but it’s certain I don’t have schizophrenia.

And I don’t always share with the public what I hear, intuit… or know.

But I feel compelled to share some impressions now, as I’ve been getting messages that involve children.

I see rather vivid flash images of small rooms in my mind’s eye…  that haunt me. Sadly, it is not uncommon in our society that children have been abused, neglected and molested by people we respect as neighbors, or civil and religious authorities.

I bind my guarding angel to only allow impressions from valid sources, not imposter forces posing as deceased loved ones, unholy souls, or those voices that torment the mentally ill.

None of my “voices” torment me.

But sometimes in the dark of the night, as I clutch the tiny Christ Child figurine called the Infant of Prague (once held by my grandmother) I hear about the suffering of children, the very living Body of Christ in the modern world.  Can it be possible, I confess that I wonder, as Jesus supposedly spoke through this little devotionary statue, according to legend, thousands of years ago, He would Voice to me through it too, the sufferings and whereabouts of child victims?

man’s field had empty faces
because there was an empty box
jealousy
solitude
there was something big

 

Blog image Priestfield conference room

The picture above is of an empty conference room at Priest Field Pastoral Center.

It is an unknown how many practicing Catholic priests and prelates have lost all authentic spiritual powers of office due to implication in crimes against children and fraudulent concealment, rendering many apostolic lines invalid.

Sometimes I think I hear from souls who are still living in this life.

It was ten months over
I wanted to look at that
swing back chair
plotting
we’re on the same page
at least I’d hope(d)
that was a little
nursing home
they could hear me watching
but it wasn’t the other side
read on it
and send it to Judy

it was suggested
I open up a chair
homeless
you would have done the same

birds singing
Kensington

I need to keep my mouth shut
until I hear it from you
he put a wood stove in there
hocus pocus
dogs in the hocus
I yanked her out of the way
I stayed out of it

 

blog image gothic washer woman

Dogs can symbolize areas of your life where you are emotionally protective, hocus literally translated from Latin means all or none, and hocus pocus can symbolize tricks, or illusions. Hocus pocus is also a reference to an invalid consecration by a Catholic priest.

I don’t have to wonder about the meaning of a wood stove though.  An understanding comes to me intuitively and instantaneously.

The good father, gathering and tossing dead wood into a furnace, after lifeless wood has been pruned off and kindled dry. If wood cannot be strewn into walls and ceilings to protect, the flames rising as it is consumed will keep children warm.  The good father does not even waste dead wood.

I have also been planning to put a wood stove into the lower level of my barn, and appreciate the synchronicity. The angels’ language pleases my brain as I ponder endless allegories like light refracted in shattered glass, lying half asleep in my bedroom.

Heat rises, from the bottom up.

I hear a woman sobbing (wondering, vaguely, if it’s me, some time in the past or in the future) and she says…

you’re going to turn around and go back

I think of abused children and adults with Stockholm Syndrome, and how they sometimes love and return to abusers, institutions and entities that abused them.  I feel that woman’s grief for her loved one(s).  She has become me.

Then comes a voice of comfort, and though I cannot be certain it is the Queen of Angels I intuit another feminine, or maternal connection. She is advising me, or another person that I know and love.

the road is narrow
there’s a bridge to get to the other side
the deluge
don’t fall in
a small boat will rescue you
don’t drown
it never failed

he starts talking to me that
Jorgenson
they followed Adam’s rules
though it slowed death down
the impact was not quite like you’d expect

Suddenly I see beneath my closed eyes, a flash of light pink.

babies
everyone born with it
had a disease

‘Emma, you’re broken’

What the bad man said to the innocent mother of the abused boy in The Silent Child

‘have you forgotten your son?’

a car accident

‘Car accidents’ can symbolize errors of judgement.  It is also the type of accident arranged by the perpetrator in The Silent Child, for those who threatened by their existence, to expose the perpetrator’s crimes.

I’ve got to get up.

It’s time for my morning coffee.

 

 

 

 

Searching for Oz

 

a_002

 A book review.

Sometimes in an author we recognize a voice, startlingly familiar, as if angels have guided their pen to page… tap, tap. I find myself engrossed in Adele’s book, feeling honored that  she would “share” her inner thoughts with me.  I want to take her words in slowly and ponder them all, for I was meant to read this. Adele’s style of writing is one in which the flow of words, although seemingly random, form beautiful, rhythmic patterns, like the movement of water in a stream.

This smacks familiar to me.

It is a voice through channels unexpected, that reminds me of home.

And thy own soul a sword shall pierce, that, out of many hearts, thoughts may be revealed. Luke 2:35