493: circumstantial

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To make sense of the trail of breadcrumbs I’ve left behind, I trace back, in intricate steps, to where I have been and what I have done. Remembering less than recalling. Bringing in what was seen, especially to recount to the mirage of cluttered self.

I am what I am continually; though to me this ‘I’ seems to weave in and out, sporadically, in childlike spurts. Evaporating parts bleeding out with last breath into another mirror of something else. I remain less grounded, and more adrift, from the constant state of limbo that is.

Circumstantial, or not, something or another has twisted me into a form that neither has structure or defining markings. I am that blob of sorts, that almost-liquid blue that slips between the bewildered child’s fingers. And I grasp, too, attempting to take a hold of what exists.

I don’t know where I am headed, anymore, in vocation, in love, in life, and that terrifies me with a numbness so surreal I am left stagnant in thought, even as a million pieces of recollection spin through. It is as if I am this tiny creature locked in a corner shelf, desperately seeking but having not the sight nor knowhow to find what it is needed; and atop this imprisonment, even what I desire seems an anomaly.

I suppose the other half of me was lost in some torrential storm, ions ago, before I even found this earth, or rather it found me. I suppose I was beamed down not of my own accord; and if this journey had been choice, then hungry for erotic adventure, I must have been. For to be subjected, by my own doing, to this world, would surely be the mark of a madman. And still the beauty surrounds me everywhere: ravenous hope.

This tinkered-love again arises as thief in the night, stealing rationality from the place it harbors, deep within the torn regions of heart. I dare not say I understand anything anymore; in that I be more a victim to my own secret wishes than the bystander to the robber. Tis truth, as I set out knowingly to be excavated by prying, wanting hands. Yet, nothing I desire, all at once, but to be devoured.

And here is where the journey seems mindfully stealth, exceedingly mockery-bathed, dipped in the jester’s own naivety. The dancing fool I be.

372: Brain Chatter!

I have been seeing things ahead of time, and I am very much confused and somewhat afraid. I know that my abilities have been heightened but I know not where to turn. Sometimes the “coincidences” are so subtle, and other time shockingly surprising. Two days ago I said to my son, as we were talking about wedding anniversaries and the symbolic gifts for certain years, “I don’t know, honey, if anyone would have an 85th wedding anniversary, as both people would have to live to be over 100 years old for that to happen.”

Within a couple hours, I went to a social network site (FB), and there in living color was a couple both in their hundreds married 88 years. It was as if the question were answered without me knowing I was asking.

Last night, I said to my husband, out of the blue, as a saw a flash of knowing, “I think C.S. Lewis was a type of prophet and genius”; tonight, my husband says, “Guess what the newspaper reads: ‘C.S. Lewis reluctant prophet and eccentric genius.’” This morning I had a vision about someone contacting me (a specific someone), whom would be angry. I did not know this person, and never had spoken with her, but knew of her. I was “told” to treat her with love and understanding. I thought this was a silly thought, and certainly only and imaginary future fear. I motioned the ‘fear’ away. But this late afternoon, the event transpired, and I observed myself as I went through the process of holding a space of love.

These events keep happening day after day, usually several times in a twenty-four hour period. I am still being stirred awake around three in the morning and taught some type of lessons. I’ve gotten to the point now where I mumble, “oh, joy, lesson time,” in a sarcastic tone, and then sleep through most of it. Though every once in a while I jolt awake with a distinct sentence or to find myself talking.

All of this perhaps sounds light-hearted. In actuality this is a very difficult phase for me. I am struggling with these extreme depths of logical reasoning counter balanced by intense light-filled knowings. And I think I could stay in my home and write all day and into the night, if given cause. I am finding it hard to concentrate on anything of simplistic nature and I long desperately for guidance from a teacher. I am more sensitive to food, almost any meal leaves me immediately feeling forlorn, lost, and hopeless.

I have noted, too, there isn’t a moment in my day that I do not feel I am in the presence of a higher power I want to please, not impress, but please. This has eliminated my lifelong need to please others. For the most part, I only want to do right by my God, which in this present moment means to live authentically, to be truthful, to not gossip, to not be angry, to not hurt intentionally, to help others, and to love others unconditionally. At the same time I am wondering what the heck is left to do with my friends? Talk theology, angels, and spirituality—I’m soooo tired of that subject.

Today, I was upset when I couldn’t help an angry person see their inner light. The whole event made me cry. I couldn’t make a difference. I couldn’t “save” her.

These events lead to a theological discussion inside my head (that often leads to a sensation of spiritual headache; my physical head is fine, but I get lost in the diabolical, throbbing fog of confusion of brain chatter). I reasoned I did not need nor want to “save” anyone, because even thinking I could “save” someone would indicate I have the answers, which I know undoubtedly I do not.

And so I discussed at length with myself, and likely my angles were in there somewhere, about how my only “role,” if I was to have a role, is to live by example. If I am to point a direction to anyone, it would be straight into their own heart to remind her of her own inner beauty. But even this pointing seemed self-serving; for if other people see the beauty within themselves, they will see the beauty in me—and isn’t that a wee bit self-serving?

Next I entered an entire confusion-cloud about humility and service, and this desperate need I have to help others. I only feel alive and worthwhile when I am in service to my calling. Mostly, this fulfillment takes place when I am writing. But the advocate in me, she thought, rather loudly, “Well what if this is another aspie role you are virtually perfecting?”

This took me down a long road of fake identities and the embarrassment of not knowing who the heck I was; until I realized this is truly who I am.

For the first time in my adult life: This Is Me.

I know I am me again because I am how I remember being when I was four years of age.

And in so being this new found original self, I set about to sob. Yes, sob. Mostly because I feel like I have been given too much—kind of the story of my life. And while sobbing, of course I persecuted myself for even thinking I have a right to cry, when I have so many blessings and others suffer so much.

I feel separated because I have an intolerance for certain things now—an actual physical intolerance manifested at an energetic level that feels like a stomach punch. If a person is bad-mouthing another, himself, or speaking in an overall negative tone, I cringe; it’s like my body can’t stand the energetic vibration. I want no part in it, except to shake the person and say: STOP. Then I feel guilty. Then I try to identify the difference between discernment, picking up others’ energy, and judgment. As the last thing I want to do is judge. So as I am taking in visions and sensations about another, I am removing myself from judging, but then standing this helpless impatient woman stomping her feet and jumping up and down and screaming: Now What!

Part of my confusion is because I am seeing so dang much. I am seeing straight to the core of a person in just a few words. I can see their heart, their intention, their fear, their longing for love, and I just want to shake people and say: LOOK AT HOW FRICKEN BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE! But I can’t. Instead I come across as this fairy-kissing, happy-to-be-alive, all-life-is-a-love-fest, thingamajig; at least it seems like I do. And that’s not pretending! I truly feel that way… but more liken to an elven princess than a fairy.

To add to this complexity, (did I mention this is all happening during a ghost movie, I sort of got to watch), I am contemplating how I have been ‘taught’ that I am not a teacher. That to push my advice and thoughts onto someone else is in essence kind of like a sin, but not a sin, as my angels Do Not judge, and tell me, like everyone else, I am divinely good. But sin is the closest thing I can think of in relation to someone pushing their knowledge onto someone else, especially unsolicited. So I am stuck in this type of limbo life. People flashing me, and me pretending I don’t see their dangling parts. I don’t know which is worse: Pretending to be someone I am not. Or pretending I don’t see what someone else is flashing me.

At the same time, with all of this, I wonder if in sharing I am being too self-focused and look-at-me attitude…but how do I continue to share without doing that? And isn’t it my sharing that is my service? So I am a bit cluttered in thought. I can’t go back anymore to the way I was. A part of me thinks she truly wouldn’t mind to backtrack. The past was torture, but there was this freedom; not this continual knocking to serve. A part of me thinks maybe I am done with writing, or maybe another venue for my writing is appearing.

I spent years trying to figure out who I was. I found myself. And now ironically, I am this fumbling, tumbling fool who just keeps asking herself: Am I selfless enough?

(sidenote: I understand clearly I am not here to save anyone, and no one needs saving. I had written a paragrapch explaining that…but it seemed over the top, so I deleted it. It is kind of the KEY of my whole belief system…. How could I need to save someone else, if I am whole and they are whole…. It is not that at all…but the experience of watching someone in pain feels like I let them down, even though I know I did not.)

275: The Stepping Stones to Glory

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From Twin Flame on Facebook

I was prepared for this time.

I was prepared by prophecy and my angels.

Fifteen years ago, when I was in my late-twenties, I heard my angels; they told me: “You are going to write your story. You are going to write to heal others and yourself. But it won’t be for a long time. You still have a lot to go through. You will not use your real name and you will not make money. This is your gift.”

A year before that, a seer  told me: “The best part of your life will begin in your early forties, when half of your life is over. Until then your life will be very hard. Your life career will change, and I see you in front of many people teaching and touching people all over the world.”

Eight years ago, during a powerful vision, I was told to write my story to heal others and to heal myself. I was told I would not be writing for profit. That I was not to make money or this would take away from the healing. I was told to start writing. I fell asleep and dreamt I was a giant oak tree, and people were gathered around me in unity celebrating and crying. They were healing through me, through my journey. When I opened my Bible, after I woke up, the Book fell open to the passage of the tree on the hill and the prophet. I began writing that day.

Seven years ago, a seer told me: “Everyday You Write the Book, the spirit of your grandfather is here singing this song. You will write and your words will reach people in a profound way, and you will bring healing to the world. It will touch people in a way you never imagined.”

Two years ago people began to remark on the healing energy surrounding me and of my “glow.”

Last year, a seer told me: “You are going to write. You are going to teach. You are going to reach people, and help them to heal.”

Having been told in several ways my destiny, there was definitely many times I felt inadequate, and many other times I felt I was insane.

There were times I pleaded to God to make my passion to heal the world stop.

Times I pleaded not to see and know so much.

I wanted a normal life.

I wanted the simple.

Still, after the vision of the oak tree, I spent everyday for a year, (except one day), writing. The end result was a release of so much negative energy and past wounds that I sank into a deep depression.

I cursed the heavens for what they had ‘made’ me do, and for the resulting failures. My writing wasn’t up to par. My skills were mediocre at best. After a year of tears and sweat, there was still so much more work to do.

I took a year off. Not planning to write ever again. The prophesies and my angels were clearly mistaken, and I was surely crazy.

The third year I was called again, and spent months redrafting my first writings. Still no luck. No one would look at my work. No publisher, at least.

But still this longing. I was supposed to write. I had to write. The second draft was not one of sorrow, but one of rage. I was so angry at my mother and for my past. I spent months in isolation and pushing others away.

I rested, almost another year, before writing again. The third draft was magic. My heart sang. The anger and sorrow released. And there was a lovely healing rhythm and love to my writing. The third draft was of forgiveness. By the end, when my manuscript was done, a large part of my past was healed.

Still no audience, though. No way to share my works.

I let it go. I’d done all I could. A part of me gave up. A part of me thought everything was just a coincidence, and that I only heard my angels to make myself feel special. I cried over the loss of my calling. And I mourned a part of me. Primarily my ego.

It wasn’t until this year that I began to share some of those writings and much new writing through this blog..

I hadn’t realized that just like my grandfather had sung those many years back: Everyday she writes the book.

I had absolutely no idea I would be writing for an audience any larger than a handful of people. Mostly, I wrote for me. I wasn’t intending to heal or help anyone, but myself. I’d let go completely of my calling, at least in regards to healing others through writing.

Slowly, through the months, I began to see that what I had been told all along was coming to fruition—the reaching others around the world, the different name, the no need or desire for profit.

The last seer I saw, a little over a year ago, she said I had the gift of creating a safe haven for people. I was a guardian of sorts. I didn’t understand then.

Remarkably, in the last months, through this blog, I have healed more than I ever thought imaginable. Not just at a physical level, but at a spiritual level, and even at a cellular place.

My husband and I both agree that the light in me has returned, a light I think I lost about the age of thirteen, when the fear of what life entailed set in.

Age Thirteen Me 8th grade

At times, I truly feel like I went away for a couple decades, just slipped out because life was too much. I don’t know who took my place, but it wasn’t me. I look back at this woman I was, and I don’t recognize her. I truly don’t. I love her. I know she was in essence a part of me. But she wasn’t me.

This is Eleven Years ago. My son with ASD and Me 399296_4993278079825_2087537885_n

I know the light returned because despite the trials of my life, I never gave up hope. I never let the world destroy my heart. I never stopped loving. I never stopped believing I could make a difference. Even when I wanted to die, my angels led me forward by reminding me to: Think of the Children. I know that in addition to my three sons (all birthed on a Sunday) that they meant the children of the world.

I’ve known since I was a very young child I would be called to be a healer. Probably at the age of four, when I stopped eating lamb as I didn’t have the heart for it. Probably again when I was nine, and I hid in the bushes weeping as I couldn’t comprehend the vastness of the universe and the depths of human suffering. Probably too, when as a child I would sit with people in convalescent homes by myself, just so I could be near the lonely at heart.  I knew I was a healer when I became a teacher, and later when I served as an advocate for children with special needs. I knew too, when I began to write.

What I didn’t know is the profound effect the healing would have on my own life and journey. I didn’t know how deeply I would be blessed.

Today I woke up frightened. I felt like I regressed. I began to cry. The fear was back. I couldn’t see a way out.

All about me the walls closed in. I became immobile, unable to do anything but feel and respond to the fear. My body shut down. I had pain everywhere. I was taking on the world, taking on the fear, taking on the dark.

I couldn’t stop.

I was brought back to a place I sat months ago. To a place I don’t wish to return.

But this time something was different. I had another me. A stronger me. And she was there holding me and cheering me on.

She shook me out of my place. She made me reach out. She made my light shine. She led me back to the amazing place I created on a social network site, filled with the most beautiful, caring of souls.

A safe place.

And I reached out.

I wrote: Please send me positive vibes….not doing well today physically. Frustrated. Thanks so very much. xoxoxo Brain fog, too. ♥ love to you all.

Within moment, before me, people reached out in all forms and ways from all over the world.

I received messages of:

Hearts

Wind from the Valley

Positive Vibes

Positive Energy

Hugs

Music

Lots of Love

Sorry you are having a rough time

Looking North

Much love Sweetheart

Big Bear Hugs

Loving healing bubbles of light

Dark Chocolate

Smiley Faces

Mashed Potato

Hope

Within a few minutes my pain dissipated, my fear decreased ten-fold, and I was able to breathe again. I was able to live again, and to find myself.

I was only lost for a moment, just long enough to be reminded that I am never ever going to be alone again.

Just long enough to know that I have created through vulnerability, honest, and pureness of heart the most wonderful place that draws to it the most wonderfulest of souls.

If ever there was to be a people I’d want to cherish, it would be these people. For they face challenges upon challenge. They face ridicule, displacement, misery, isolation, worry, dread, and pain on a daily basis. Their days are never easy. Their minds always searching.

And still they shine; they shine like no others, giving and loving unconditionally.

They have freed me. As have the people who read my words. And the people who write to me. The people who hold me in love and in thought. The people who thank me. They have freed me. You have freed me.

If there is one thing I could tell you, I would say this: Be you. Be the best you that you can be. Shine your light so brightly that your own soul sings out in celebration. And then watch how the light follows you, how the world unfolds, how your richest and purest dreams become the steppingstones to glory.

Thank you from every part of me. Thank you.

Photo on 12-12-12 at 2.02 PM
Me today.

271: Faucet Thoughts: The Psychic Vending Machine

Twelve Year Old Trivia: ^ I like to dance half-naked half-dressed with a pink hairbrush-microphone to this song. ^

Now the Serious Stuff…… Faucet Thoughts….

I need a brain drain, a faucet at the tip of one of my lobes that I can twist on and off (preferably without pain or damage), as to allow the excess energy splattering and bouncing about my mind to exit.

I imagine a thick flood of information all rushing down a canal and then rapidly caravanning into the corners, until at last, having entirely flooded the space, a small light appears in the distance, and all blabbering-goop charges forth in eager fashion in hopes of being the first to plunge out of a narrow pipe.

Alas, I have no faucet and no pipe…and so the faucet takes its form in the way of words: agreed upon symbols thrown together in distinct and exact order in an attempt to convey random images of the mind.

It’s not an easy task, using words. They are so limiting, yet so utterly delightful. I could eat them at times, some words, for their pure delicacy and taste, their richness, their potential, their rhythm, their purpose.

Other words I’d rather grind into the ground with spiked high-heeled shoes—red shoes preferably; though I have no idea why.

People trigger my thoughts.

I suppose I’m like a soul detective of sorts.

I sense things about my environment and people and animals to an extreme degree.

I can readily tell, within minutes of meeting someone, about that person’s worries, challenges, and battles. I can see the hidden secrets and sense the front a person puts on to protect him or herself. Sometimes people have a thick shield around them. Sometimes I sense an actual guard. When dealing with addiction, especially alcohol, there is sometimes no shield at all, but a pretend peek inside, where everything is perfect with no troubles.

Upon meeting a friend of a friend, I might tell my friend my first impressions of her friend, not in a gossiping or mean way, but strictly as analysis. Even after a two-minute conversation and a handshake, I can usually (so far always) give an accurate description of the person.

I can tell right away about the energy of a commenter on my blog, only through their words. I feel and hear their energy, and I hear messages , such as: sad, lonely, wanting, curious, angry, etc. I feel the sensations in my body at times. Sometimes I can’t shake the energy off of me.

I experience the following on a daily basis:

clairvoyance (clear seeing)

clairaudience (clear hearing)

clairempathy (sensing of emotional experience of others)

claircognizance (clear knowing or psychic knowing)

clairsentience (clear feeling)  “Clairsentience relates to the sense of touch. It is the ability to perceive energy fields through physical sensations using Psychic senses. This includes auras, vibrations, and the presence of entities. When you get a “gut feeling” about something, you are using your clairsentience. What you’re doing is using your second chakra, the spleen center, to sense things on an emotional level. Clairsentience can pick up what other people are feeling. Clairsentience often works with another ability called precognition. Precognition is the ability to know what is going to happen in advance.” Source http://www.theintuitpathway.com/temple/claires.htm

Through clairaudience I hear my angels. They are a singular voice, primarily, the sound of my own inner voice. However the words are always uplifting, nonjudgmental, supportive and encouraging. Ultimately, they are my cheerleaders, advocates, protectors and validators. So far they have always been right. They laugh when I debate or try to change their ways. I am stubborn with them, and they treat me with unconditional respect and love. They remind me of my divine worth, but above all my equality with all, how I am no lesser and no greater. They tease me about my constant request for humility, and my constant worry I am not worthy enough in their eyes. They remind me I am human and to release the guilt and shame. They remind me that anything can change and that all transitions.

I have grown a lot in the understanding of my abilities in just the last few weeks. I understand  that sometimes the worries and anxiety I have are simply not my own.  Some of the images I see that I think are dread and fear of my own manifestation are actually a future flashing before my eyes. When I feel certain pains in my body, sometimes the pain is not my own. I am becoming more fine-tuned with my abilities, and as I tune in and analyze what is happening, I am finding more peace of mind.

I am now keenly aware of some of the knowings I have during my day.  In just twenty-four hours I saw through visions and through sensing in my body the following events:

a person having a cold that involved continually dripping of the eyes and drainage of the nose, with the inability to stop the dripping; I saw this as a vision throughout the day of a person’s face with lines pouring out of the eyes and nose. (The person in question was a close friend’s daughter falling ill the next day. Because she has special needs, she is challenged by the task of nose blowing. Her eyes were also watering a lot.)

a person having a lump under their left armpit. I sensed this while standing at a mirror. I had the urge to feel beneath my left armpit for a lump; something I do not do and hadn’t done in years. (My good friend called me the next morning and said: “I just wanted to make sure you aren’t picking up on me and my energy, as I found a lump under my left arm, and I know how you worry and think it is your own body.”)

a sharp pulling and tugging and pain of my left arm, enough to make me gasp and take a pain reliever. A pain I hadn’t experienced in years and that went away by the next day. (A lost dog appeared at my door, moments after posting my cats and dogs post, who had an injured front left leg and was being pulled on a leash by a person searching for the dog’s home. My pain diminished in half upon seeing the dog.)

an  inner voice saying I needed to buy a bath brush, and the actual bath brush visually popping out at me in the store aisle, as if glowing and calling my name. (I never buy bath brushes. When I got home my husband said he wanted a bath brush for Christmas; we’ve never owned one and he’s never requested one before.)

a vision of a flood of water near an electrical cord, a panicked feeling of electrocution. (Moments later I went upstairs to find a large puddle of water on the kitchen counter, a result of a spill, with an electrical cord in the center.) {In the past I would have thought I was being paranoid or overly fearful; now I recognize my feelings as a vision, as precognition.}

Sometimes I ask my angels for signs. This week, as I am quirky, I wanted to see the shape of an apple in an odd place. I was thinking like a walking, man-sized mascot apple or something like that. An unpredictable image that signified a certain relationship was safe and beneficial. My angels have the most remarkable sense of humor; as I was eating corn chips, I noticed the entire center of one chip was missing, except for an outline, and the missing piece was in the exact shape of an apple.

Yesterday, while in my sauna, I asked to see a sign of something flying outside my window. Not a butterfly, but something small and lovely. I have a very limited view from where I sit inside my sauna, but I can see the upper half of a tall pine tree. As I sat resting, I spotted a humming bird flying between the branches of the pine tree. It’s the first humming bird I’ve seen during the winters here.

Also, sometimes I ask for messages in the form of written word, and will open a book to find an answer to my soul’s desire. I recently was comforted by a passage from a Buddhist text. The message in summary said that although you are centered in self with acute awareness of life and energy, you are human and will still experience extremes of emotions.

I needed to know that my emotions were okay. I needed to be reminded that I am human.

I’m not quite sure why I’m sharing all of this today. I think I am being called to explore my abilities more, and to perhaps rekindle the vocation I began two years ago.

I’ve learned in the past couple of months to trust my body’s intuition. For instance, I focus on an idea for my future vocation or question a feasible goal, and then sense how these thoughts cause me to feel inside my body. I’ve learned to side-step logic and trust in my inner feelings. This has greatly reduced the pressure I place on myself mentally to make a decision. I have read and studied an abundant of works, and as a result have floating inside of me constant variants on what is the correct and incorrect way to respond, behave and choose. I have found that relying on all the endless data that feeds and scaffolds off of itself, is much more wearisome and exhausting than simply pausing, breathing in a thought, and then gently feeling how this thought feels. If the thought feels comforting without any degree of resistance, I then have a knowing that I am balanced and at peace in the decision. If I feel resistance of any form, I let the thought go with the intention of revisiting the thought, if and when needed, in the future. For the present I let my body remained balanced.

As of late, I have also noticed I have little to no anger for anyone, anything, or any event. I have moments of frustration, but usually that is once a day, if at all. I have no anger for myself, either.  I have no worries about me as a person, beyond finding balance between my gifts and daily functioning. And even this is not so much a worry, but a careful observation.

I’ve also seemed to have developed, or rather awakened, a form of medical intuitiveness. A dear friend recently confided in me about her diagnosis of lupus. (I had a vision of lupus moments before she called me.) After a few conversations about the subject, I had a clear knowing. I informed her that during her upcoming appointment that the specialist would tell her that the blood tests were wrong and that she did not have lupus. I also told her that what concerned me most was her past diagnosis of Hepatitis C and that I believed that was either a wrong diagnosis or had disappeared. I would soon find that I was correct on both accounts.

My friend called, relieved, and said: “You should be a doctor.” I had to laugh and remind her that the doctors were the ones that were wrong to begin with.

And one last thought. I used to have a terrible time with criticism and rejection. Now I often do not react if I am “attacked” by words. In fact, just this week, twice I was able to step back from what I would deem mean statements and spend very little time and energy on the matter.

I am a reflection of light and love.

I have an inner core of purity, peace and goodwill.

How someone else choses to see me is their business, and their business alone.

I choose to keep my eyes focused on beauty.

~~~~

As I’m sitting in my bathtub, soaking up the dead sea salts and listening to a visualization sound-therapy selection on my I-Pod, and thinking how awesomely good the acoustics are in my bathroom, and floating somewhat out of my body, I realized: No wonder I’m fricken tired all the time….on top of having Aspie traits, I’m a non-stop psychic vending machine. 

~~~~

This morning I was sitting on the couch, partaking in an intensely deep conversation with my significant other, regarding my complex logical perception of love. I am having eloquent revelations and profound understandings, and expressing myself with humility and clarity. Aglow with knowledge and inner light, I sit basking in the element of essence. Wow, connecting with spirit is awesome!

“Ding-Dong,” the doorbell rings. I jump off of the couch in fear, taking a defensive pose, crouching and speeding to the staircase, while screeching and giggling, “I have to run downstairs and hide!”

I love me.

Post 238: Seeing the Future


I believe in precognition and seeing the future. I believe in knowing people from another time or place. I’ve had dreams since I was a young girl of future events. When I was a child, I would predict the death of my pets. Later, I would foresee car accidents. As an adult, friends would appear in my dreams and tell me about what was happening in their lives. Months before I knew my family and I were moving to Washington State, I saw our future home, our future town, our future landlords, and a future car accident, in a dream.

In my early forties, when job circumstances altered for my husband, I utilized the change of employment tide to encourage my husband to search beyond California for work. For years, I’d felt called to move up north to Oregon or Washington. I longed for the clean air, the thick forests of trees, and to be near water.

A week into our job search, my husband was contacted by an old colleague via email. The colleague and my husband hadn’t spoken in years, and she did not know my husband was job searching. At this exact time of our search, she happened to email a job possibility in Washington State.  As it turned out the job did not pan out. However, a week later, once again the same colleague emailed with another job.

This time, after extensive interviewing, my husband was offered a job in Washington.

Months before we ever started considering the real possibility of moving out-of-state, I had dreamt of our soon-to-be home in Washington.

I remember because I awoke with a feeling of knowing after the dream and had later phoned my mother to tell her the details of the dream.

I had dreamt of a house set up on a hill with many large windows overlooking a beautiful body of water. A woman and her husband, both dressed in Hawaiian attire, had greeted us at the door of the home. The woman had shown me around the house, as if I was to live there. She directed me to look over the water and said: “This will be a place of healing for you.”

Then she pointed to walking trails and a local farmers market. I remember thinking how odd to have a farmers market outside your window. At the end of the dream, there was a flash, and I saw a vehicle crash, with images of tires rolling and a huge impact. I woke up bewildered and startled.

Fast forward months later, in the state of Washington on a mad-dash, house-hunting weekend, we (family of five + my mom) just happened to be one of the first families to query about an advertisement about a home for rent. Though after learning over the phone about the circumstances surrounding the home, we deduced it wasn’t the right timing for us to move into this particular house: they didn’t take dogs, there was no fenced yard, and we weren’t certain about the area. Regardless, the homeowner who had placed the advertisement on a whim felt an immediate connection to me over the phone.

The landlady insisted we come over to meet her. She wanted to at least show us around the neighborhood. When we arrived, she opened the front door and said, “Welcome home.” Upon seeing one another, we both instantly felt we had met before.

The house was like the house in my dream, set upon a hill with large windows over looking the water. I soon learned the owners were moving to Hawaii. Later that day, the landlady took us to the local Farmer’s Market.

We rented the house pretty much on the spot, despite the timing and perceived conflicts. Not waiting more than a few hours to make up our mind. We’d make the situation work. We made an immediate connection with the owners.

Before the move, my husband had to go up north to work, a month prior to the kids and me arriving. During my husband’s visit to the house we were to lease in Washington, the owner told my husband this: “I really like your mother-in-law, I really like you, but I am giving this home to you because I feel it will be a place of healing for Sam.”

I had never told my husband the words the woman had spoken in my dream; only my mother had known.

All the pieces of the dream were fitting together, except for the car accident I had seen.

I’d mentioned the accident to my mother, and was nervous to drive my children on the eleven-hour road trip back up to Washington.

A few days before I was to drive to Washington, I drove to the bay area in California with my mother. While driving on the freeway, I panicked, turned to my mom and, after reminding her of the dream,  said, “I have a lot of anxiety right now, with all of these trucks and large vehicles around us.”

Minutes later, a tire on a truck blew, directly in front of us on the freeway, and pieces of rubber flew out. We were fine, and the anxiety left.

I tried to convince myself that the tire blow out that had just occurred was the accident in my dream. After all, it was in the same time period. Even said so this to my mother.  Close enough, I told myself.

Still…..the feeling remained.

A few days later, on the way up north to Washington, with the van jammed pack with people, animals, our belongings, and a friend who was coming along to assist, we stopped at a hotel in Oregon. The hotel staff confused our reservation and gave us an inadequate sized room.

I decided it was best to leave the hotel and travel more. I wasn’t tired, after all.

Back on the road, during our search for another hotel, I was in the fast lane, moving along at an average speed, when directly in front of me, some four to five car-lengths ahead, an old-style silver motor home blew a tire.

Large chunks of tire came flinging towards our windshield, bumped off the van, and splattered and spun down the highway.

A knowing came over me: a remembering.

I gently hit the brakes and turned on my hazard lights.

The motorhome driver could not gain control. The vehicle started wobbling to the left, to the right, and back and forth, tilting this way and that, faster and faster, and closer and closer towards the road. There was nowhere for me to go. Cars were breaking behind. And there was a steady flow of traffic to my right. The shoulder to my left was a ditch of dirt. At my speed we’d crash, if I tried to pull over in the dirt.

I watched trembling, as the motorhome started spinning like a top at full speed, backwards towards us. I thought this might be the end. If that vehicle hit us, we would be crushed.

Seconds passed in slow motion.

I took a deep breath.

An hour before I had told my friend sitting in the passenger seat that because of my prior dream months ago, I felt protected on this journey.

I wasn’t so sure anymore.

The motorhome made a final spin before it tipped over onto its side and did several three-sixties, turning round and round, crashing and crashing, sending up clouds of dust.

At first I feared the vehicle was coming towards us. But it slid rapidly on its side, across the ditch, in a direction horizontal to us, all the way across to the other side of the freeway and oncoming traffic.

With a loud thump, the motorhome came to its final landing.

People from all directions came running towards the vehicle to help. I pulled over to the right side on the roadside, too shaken to move. Then my friend sitting next to me said exactly what I needed to hear. She said, “You know, if it hadn’t been you directly behind the motor home, if someone else had been driving and following closer behind, it could have been a lot worse.”

Her words comforted me.

I realized then that no one outside of the occupants of the motorhome had been involved in the collision. No fender benders, no spinning off the road, no severe braking. Everything around had remained calm.

Day 152: Sometimes When We Touch

 “I’m just another writer still trapped within my truth.” ~ Dan Hill

Sometimes when I dream, the honesty is too much.  Sometimes when I dream, I travel into the life and spirit of a friend. Sometimes strangers visit me. Always, always people come, in all forms, with all types of messages. And we touch.

Recently, I’ve had two friends visit in my dreams, just in this last six days. Both dreams were filled with extreme emotion, both dreams had anxiety, both involved an urgency. When I awake from dreams such as these, I am left with a residue, a film in my spirit, something that remains, the remnants of what was shared with me. A streak in the glass of my vision I can’t wipe clean.

If I am fortunate enough to confirm the happening in the dream, and make a connection, and find some validity in discovering what I sensed actually occurred in real life, I am able to discharge and remove some of the energy. If not, sometimes I take on the feelings of the other person, become overly concerned about something I do not understand and cannot even pinpoint. I may feel a rush of panic, fear, or injustice. I might weep. I might laugh. I might become hyper focused. I might hibernate; attempting to disrobe the feelings, only to emerge still weighed down and lost. I take on this energy, as much as I take on the dreams, without knowing how or why, and without knowing how to stop.

Sometimes I want to break down and cry. Sometimes I have to close my eyes and hide. The emotions are so overwhelming. I feel like I’ve been opened up and had another’s spirit poured into me. At times I become that person. At times I understand the person more than myself.

I dreamt once, years ago, of my long time friend. She was stretched out on a car and pointing to her kidneys and kept saying, “I need a bladder operation; the doctor told me I need a bladder operation.” I called my friend the next morning, and sure enough she had just found out she required surgery related to the tubing above her bladder.

Long ago, while I was napping my grandmother started wafting above my bed, a ghostly apparition draped in an aqua-colored dress. Swaying back and forth, an inch below the bedroom ceiling, she kept repeating the same phrase:  “Wake up.  Get off the phone.  I am waiting for a man from Egypt to call.” This made absolutely no sense to me, as I was sound asleep some two hundred miles away from Grandma, and I most certainly wasn’t on the telephone.  Still dreaming, and wanting desperately to get some rest, I looked up at Grandma and answered, “But I’m not on the phone.  I’m taking a nap.”

Grandma continued on, a stream of blue, weaving herself back and forth in my room, badgering me to get off the telephone.  Having found no luck, after I placed two pillows over my head to block out her voice, I sat up and screamed, “If you leave me alone, I’ll call you when I wake up.  Go away and let me sleep!”  On my words, Grandma vanished.

Within the hour I phoned my grandmother.  After a few minutes on the phone, I delicately described my dream to her, thinking at some point she’d say I wasn’t making any sense, and that would be the end of the discussion.  Surprisingly, Grandma responded, without pause for breath, “You’re a witch! I’ve been sitting by the phone waiting for a man from Egypt to call me about his interest in buying my house.  How did you know? Actually, I need to get off the phone now.  He might be trying to call.”

Years ago, I dreamt that two of my teaching colleagues would be going to Japan by the end of the year. They both came to my dream together and told me. That year both were surprised to learn they were traveling to Japan. One was accepted in an over-seas teaching program; the other unexpectedly was invited by a host family. Another time an old woman, a stranger,  came to me in my dream very upset. She said that my mother was going through her items and taking them, keeping them for herself. She showed me the room where the items were spread out. She showed me my mother holding her things. I told my mother the next day, and sure enough my mother had been to a friend’s house and had collected several items from her friend’s mom whom had just died.

There are so many visits, I could go on and on: a family drowned on the beach, my future house and the owners of the house, my future employer, my car accident, my grandfather’s car accident, my mother-in-law’s cancer, my friend house hunting, the person dying in the car off the highway, my husband’s co-worker getting married and denying it, my son’s karate teacher getting engaged, friends divorcing, friends weeping on couches …..so many various people visiting me to tell me about their lives.

When I was very little, animals visited me and showed me their death. Usually my pets, but once a friend’s bunny came in my dream. The animals usually died just like they showed me within seven days. Once my canary was slashed under the eye by a stray cat. Once my dog died on the Fourth of July after jumping a fence. The dreams came true, just as I had witnessed. Thank goodness I was able to tell my mother the night of the dreams, which then I called nightmares. She was at least able to validate my experience. To show me my dreams were coming true and I wasn’t insane.

Interestingly, it seems lately the more I share and write, and the more I am not afraid to be authentic and honest, the more these dreams and feelings are coming. And the more I’m visited.  I don’t mind the visits for the most part. I feel honored and know this gift or ability, or whatever one choses to call my visions, is a part of my journey. But there are definite times, like this week, when the emotions are so over powering that I don’t know what to say or do.

It’s times like these that sometimes when we touch, sometimes the honesty is too much. And then, all I want to do is to just hold my friend and cry, to hold on tight and not let go until the fear in us subsides.


Day 71: I Had a Dream

What has happened to me in the last five years. What goes on in my head.

Thank you for being part of my journey. You will never know how much you have healed me. Bless you.

As always, this is my journey and I am not trying to push my experience or belief system onto any person. Click here to see my thoughts on spirituality.

I Had a Dream

The Spring of 2005

Except for the light from the slivered moon the road was black.  My foot hit the pedal and I sped up faster and faster towards the tracks.   Mangled is what I wanted.  But I wouldn’t have the nerve to stop, to wait for a train.  There would have to be another way.  Perhaps a motel off the interstate, perhaps some pills and a forever sleep.  I shook away the thought and breathed a prayer.  “Please, help me.”

The ache of the past had become my own Siamese twin.  So much so, I didn’t know where my pain stopped and my true self began.  I was pain.  I was the past.  We shared the same blood.  Everything and anyone could conjure up bitter memories, especially certain sounds and smells.  Everyday was yet another rerun of all the misery I’d viewed before.  The scenery and characters might change, but the plot and outcome never altered.  I knew all the psychological jargon, the self-talk, the imaging, meditation, and so on; and they served as my air so to speak, the invisible space which kept me temporarily afloat as I waved back and forth in a stormy sea clinging to an inflatable raft filled with holes…

The rest of this story is in the book Everyday Aspergers

 

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 69: Until the Rain Came

Until the Rain Came  

by Samantha Craft, April 6, 2012 (Based on True Events)

I was an only child.  But I wasn’t a lonely child. I always had some type of friend; whether a cousin, a daughter of mother’s friend, a neighborhood kid, or an imaginary spirit friend, I always found company. Making friends was never an issue, before I hit puberty. I had a natural cheeriness and good nature, and downright quirky humor that kept people about. I was clever, too, creating skits and recitals on a whim, and performing for whomever would listen. I still appreciate the young couple, our landlords, we had for one year, when I was about nine, who painstakingly listened to me sing You Light Up My Life, whenever I saw them. I couldn’t hit the high notes of the lyrics without a terrible screech—still can’t for that matter.

Though I had friends, I was often alone in the afternoons after my three-mile hike home from middle school. I remember there was a pointy-teethed German Shepard that lived at the top of First Street. He growled at me whenever I walked by, and then darted out clanging his lengthy metal rope with him. It took a lot of courage for me to walk home. Not because of the ferocious barking dog but because of home itself.

Things had a way of following me from house-to-house, and I do me things, as I never did figure out what else to call them.  These things kept happening to me.

The things came to the upstairs duplex I occupied in Palo Alto. There was an afternoon when my babysitter and I were sitting on the living room couch and heard a circular sawing sound directly above our heads.  Only when we ran outside onto the balcony to see what the noise was, nothing was there. Confused, we walked back inside, but as soon as we sat back down the sawing sound began again. We spent the next several minutes playing a game of running outside to find the noise and then running back inside to hear the noise. No explanation was ever found. Soon, we lost interest, and as children do, turned our attention to afterschool television specials.

That same house is where I discovered my imaginary spirit friend whom I named Buddy One. To this day, I’m not sure if he existed or not. I do recall one time reaching up for a bottle of wine vinegar and losing my grip. The bottle came rushing toward my head, and then, somehow, the bottle moved in the shape of an L and landed gently on the kitchen counter. I remember televisions and phones going wacky and all fuzzy on occasion; and I remember how the faucet in my bathroom would turn on when no one was about. There were knocks at the front door at night with no one behind the door. After a couple of years of living on the property, between the occurrences and my continual nightmares and premonitions of our pets dying, Mother was spooked enough to have a priest visit with holy water in hand.

Later, in my teenage years, when I belonged to a local Catholic youth group, I’d attend meetings in an old yellow Victorian building that used to be a nunnery. That house always spooked me. I couldn’t use the bathroom there. And twice, when I entered the empty kitchen, the faucets turned on.

One of the creepiest happenings took place at my father’s in the Central Valley in California, when I was in college. Dad worked nights, so I was typically home alone. One late night, after I’d watched the Silence of The Lambs at a local movie theater, I entered the house spooked by the whole movie. I flicked on the television for comfort, and right after I turned the television on the stations started flicking from channel to channel, one after the other, nonstop. I couldn’t get the television to stop, even when I used the remote.

But of all the places I lived, the duplex at the bottom of First Street on the Monterey Peninsula was the scariest. The house had a way of calling things to it. It was during this time, during my middle school years, I had horrible nightmares of being speared with a stick and roasted over an open flame by demons. This was the time I’d wake in the middle of the night feeling as if something was pulling me down the bed. A time when I didn’t change my clothes at night because I was afraid of the darkness that came when I lifted my shirt over my head. A time I slept with the light on, the television on, and my nana’s rosary around my neck.

One day at the duplex, I remember a tall stranger came whom had claimed to be a painter. My friend Renny and I were sitting on the back deck, when he sauntered through the yard with a wide and even gait.  I can still hear the gate squeaking, the iceplant crunching beneath his boots and his deep voice clearing.

Stopping at the bottom step of the deck, the stranger had glanced across at us two girls with a cool smile and said, “Hello.”  It was a simple calling, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.  As if the backyard belonged to him.  It was Renny who moved first, sitting upright and giggling, blushing like the word Hello had been a compliment.

Inside of me, I felt a need to run, to escape.

“I was asked by the owner to paint the house,” he said.

Wanting to leave and go inside, I had tried to catch Renny’s eye, but she was too busy looking at the blonde stranger.

The man tapped his boot on the step and shifted his weight.  He was silent for the brief time he took to scratch his head and sink his hands into his overall pockets.  Then he looked out with a rather empty stare. “You two ladies go to church?”

“No,” Renny answered.

I was inches away from the doorknob.  “Sometimes,” I said.

The stranger leveled his eyes on Renny. “That’s interesting.”

“Not really.” Renny retorted.

“Don’t you think it’s time you made a decision to commit yourself to something other than yourself?  Now you two, let me guess.  It’s probably all about boys for you.  Am I right?  No time for God.  But plenty of time to do things you ought not to be doing.”

Renny’s red ears were poking through her hair.  She shrugged her shoulders at the man.  I remained frozen.

The stranger continued: “God isn’t something to take lightly.  Do you want to burn in hell?”

My toes felt numb. There was something terribly wrong with his tone, like he was trying to inch his way inside me with his words.  Watching Renny begin to tremble, I remembered back to my friend Jane, when we’d been beaten with the board.

I shouted, “We’re leaving!” and grabbed Renny’s hand.  Renny didn’t hesitate to follow.  We were through the backdoor quicker than the man could utter one more word.  And we left him there, good and lonely, not wanting a single thing to do with him.  About an hour later, after Renny and I had escaped inside my bedroom, I gathered enough nerve to look out the kitchen window.  The backyard was deserted.

Most days at the duplex, I got the sense I was being watched.  It was a terrible frightening feeling.  I can’t think of anything worse than the fear I had of entering that duplex. Nothing worse than fearing home: the one place that was supposed to be safe.

I spent most of my afternoons when school let out outside on the back deck, on our flat roof with the ocean view, or on the small front patio.  There was easy access to the roof. I only had to climb through our upstairs bathroom window.  Out on the patio, a space no larger than two pizza boxes set side-to-side, I’d watch television through the open front door or pull out our extra-long orange cord and talk on the phone.

One cloudy day I ventured inside the duplex to grab a snack.  I immediately did what I always did—I opened all the draperies, the front and back door, and clicked on the television.

While I was in the kitchen, rushing about to find something in a hurry, I heard a strange and unfamiliar sound. At first I thought the sound was coming from the television. Some haunted house event on Sesame Street. But the sound didn’t stop. It was a loud throaty breathing, a very scary sound, I will never forget, and can still imitate with a chill-rising tone. The sound was comparable to Darth Vader’s breathing, only more pressing.  I’ve only heard the breathing replicated once accurately, and that was when I was watching a ghost hunting show.

On hearing the breathing, I ran to the living room to turn of the television off. I couldn’t stand the noise. I wanted to jet out of the house. However, when the television was off, the noise remained.

I recall turning around frantically to find the source. Not believing the sound could still exist with the television off.  It was then, as I began to panic, I heard the sound again. This time right before me. Suddenly, in front of my eyes, a gigantic wall of static formed from ceiling to floor. The static hissed something terrible.

Trapped and cornered, I clamped my eyes shut. When I opened them, the static was surrounding me. The deep throaty breath pulsating through my entire being

As I trembled, I heard words, words that sounded as if they were filtered through a thick mask and felt tube-fed into me: “Get out! Get out! Get OUT!”

As if on cue, at the same time as the words Get Out were voiced, outside the thunder rumbled and the rain poured down. Fearing for my life, I burst forward through the static and dodged around the corner, sprinting out the backdoor at full speed.

Terrified, I screamed at the top of my lungs, and ran and ran up the hill. Finding myself a block up from the house, on the top of an unfamiliar flight of stairs, I leaned against an apartment door and wept.  Then without thought, I pounded on the door, still screaming.  A young man opened the door and brought me inside.

Ten minutes later, Mother arrived.  Taking me by the hand, she led me through the rain down the street and back inside the duplex.  Mother listened to my story but blamed the event on my over-active imagination. As twilight approached, she wouldn’t give into my screaming demands.

“Just go to bed and stop letting your imagination get the best of you.  If I let you sleep with me, what’s that going to teach you?  I’m doing this for your own good.”

My black-beaded rosary, a gift from Nana, was swinging around my neck. I held firmly to Mother’s doorknob.  “Please let me in.  I’ll be quiet.  I promise.”

“Let go of this door and go to bed!” she insisted.

“But the ghost, the ghost is in the house.  Please!”  I begged.

Mother pulled harder.

“Mother you don’t understand.  It was real.  I don’t want to be out here alone.  Please let me in.  Please help me!”

Mother shook her head and glared at me.

My hand slipped from the knob and Mother’s door slammed shut.

I ran downstairs, grabbed the phone, pulled on the cord, and ran outside to the small front patio.

I dialed my father.  Before I had spoken more than a few sentences, Dad suggested I stay at Nana’s house.

“Did Nana teach you the Lord’s Prayer?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Use it,” Father said.

“Okay.”

Father cleared his throat.  “You have to know something. Today I was staring at a photograph of you for over an hour.  I don’t know how, and this has never happened before, but I had this sense some evil force was attacking you. Your nana’s mother used to have dreams and sometimes she saw spirits. Last week a psychic told me to destroy a painting I’d made.  One with a gray house set up on a high hill.  She said to paint candles all around it because she believed it was a portal to another world. Anyhow, I painted the candles, and threw the painting away.  Right before you called.  I can’t believe this.  It’s very strange.”

Dad went on, for several minutes, explaining about how a spiritual group had recently tried to recruit him claiming they believed he had spiritual gifts.  Dad, never one to talk on the phone for more than a few minutes, quickly ended the conversation with some more nervous laughter and some pleasantries. Then, after wishing me luck, he hung up.

I sat on the patio listening to the dial tone for a long while, still wiping my tears, and twisting the rosary in my hands. I thought back to all the times before—the nightmares, the stranger, the unexplainable happenings.

I ran into the house, quickly grabbed the old afghan off the couch, and ran out to the backyard wooden deck.  I could sleep there, I thought, at least until the rain came.

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Click to see where image was found

Day 58: Angel and Mary


By StrawberryIndigo “My Life In Color” Click on image

Sometimes I get afraid to write. I’m afraid I won’t write the correct message, won’t express myself in the right light, won’t use my words adequately to express the deeper meaning. That I will get prideful, that I will depend on others’ input too much, that I will weep at criticism, that I will offend or scare some away. Such fears keep me from shining. Such fears stop me from trusting.I know innately there is no right or correct way to communicate. I know ultimately there is no failure, and that my words’ power and energy are not dependent upon others’ opinions or reaction. What matters is being honest and true to myself. What matters is trusting who I am. What matters is moving forward with beneficial light and kindness.

I want to begin sharing another part of my journey, experiences that long to be shared to such a degree that an essence knocks at my inner door calling over and over to be opened.

Today I open the door.

The first experience I will share with you is what I would deem remarkable. It was a long time ago, but begs to be shared. Why now, at this exact moment and on this day, I do not know.

Angel and Mary

Written by Samantha Craft on March 27, 2012

Long ago, in the fall of 1990, during a time in my life when I was still training to be a teacher and trapped within the vice of a romantic relationship that left me tormented and lonely, I questioned my place in this world.

I remember vividly sitting up in bed, under my father’s roof, in my bedclothes. I remember staring at my own reflection in the mirrored-closet doors and wailing to God. I was begging, asking for forgiveness, demanding to see a sign, so I would know, without a doubt, that everything would be all right.

It was then, as I was screaming at the top of my lungs for mercy, I heard a voice. A small voice from somewhere, possibly from within, possibly from beyond. A still voice that was so very light and freeing. This would be the first night in my life that I would sleep soundly and free of nightmares. This would be the first night that before drifting into a deep slumber, I would be filled with a soothing energy, a wordless lullaby that moved my entire being in the shape of a figure eight, shifting my neck and back in a peaceful swaying motion.

The voice I heard before I drifted to sleep, whispered only one word—the word Colfax.

During this time, my last years in college, I’d found a friend in Angela, an open-minded, spirited gal who sat beside me in my teaching preparation classes. When I awoke the next morning after hearing the voice, I contacted Angela and explained to her the events of the night.

Trusting my experience, she said, that like me, she believed that something was going to happen with this word Colfax, something powerful. Angela anxiously set about researching the word Colfax in the library. I remember her telling me in class, the next day, that she’d found several places named Colfax in America, and that one such place was located about fifty miles north of us.

I began doodling the word Colfax on my notebook. Colfax was all I could think about. The lady sitting next to me in class, a fellow student named Maryanne, upon seeing my doodles, asked me quietly, “Is that where you are from? Because that’s where I live.”

I soon found out that Maryanne had lived in Colfax for quite some time. I explained to her that I had never heard of the town of Colfax before a few days ago, and that I had a distinct feeling that there was something having to do with Colfax that I was supposed to discover. Maryanne kindly invited me to drive up over the weekend and visit her.

On Saturday, Maryanne, as promised, drove me about the small country town of Colfax. We stopped at a restaurant, a park, and a few other places. All the while Maryanne asked: “Do you sense something?”

I left in the evening discouraged and saddened. I’d sensed nothing, felt foolish, and worried for my sanity and reputation.

These unsettling feelings stayed with me, until a few days later in class, the day Angela came bursting through the door of our classroom.

That day, Angela sat down at my side, caught her breath, and said to me: “I have something to tell you.  Something you’re not going to believe!”

I waited.

She continued: “You know about Colfax? Well, it is all over the news this morning! People from all over, as far as Texas, are traveling to Colfax, near where Maryanne lives, to see a vision in St. Dominic’s Catholic Church, some reflection through the stained glass window which looks like the outline of the Virgin Mary.”

Angela scooted in closer.  Streaks of her black hair reflected beneath the fluorescent lights.  “You were right,” she whispered. “You were right.”

I shook my head and tried to smile, still processing all that Angela had reported.

“What are you going to do?” Angela asked.  “Are you going to go back? You knew something important was going to happen there, and it did. It really did. Remember at first, you thought that Colfax was a person or a far away place?  And here it is, right up the hill from us!” Angela shook her head.  “Isn’t it strange that you’ve already been there, before all of these people? Are you going to go?”

“No,” was all I could think to answer. “I’ve already been.”

It wasn’t until some twenty years later, I realized a profound truth, the fact that the two people involved in my search of the meaning of Colfax, the only two people I confided in and trusted, were named Angela (Angel) and Maryanne (Mary).

Small Article relating to event.