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 113: Goodbye Dead Man’s Beach

Goodbye Dead Man’s Beach

In the late spring of a bitter windy day, I wiped the grits of sand from my face and stared down below to the foggy beach. This would be the first time I’d see flaccid bodies all lined up in a row, bloated and an almost-blue.  I hadn’t wanted to watch or even glance a little.  I’d wished to run away or at least close my eyes, but I had to see.  This was another coming of a dream.  Some seven days had passed, seven long days of waiting and wondering who would drown.  I knew enough from my past and the way my dreams played out to realize death would be arriving on a Saturday—on a cold, cold Saturday.

I wondered as the workers desperately pressed and pumped on the already dying flesh, why life, or God, or whatever essence gave me these glimpses of future events, wouldn’t also go one step further and allow me to serve some purpose and exist as more than a detached helpless onlooker.   Had I had a magic button to stop the dreams, I thought at the time I would have.  But then I thought I would have missed the dreams in the way I would have missed my arm, or leg, or eye; the dreams were so much a part of me, a needed part, something I’d been born with which had served me in some sense; even though I couldn’t comprehend the reason, even though I cursed the visions and the following reality, I knew enough, innately or perhaps spiritually, to know the dreams were necessary.

The dreams would serve a higher purpose someday, I was told.  Not directly, but in whispers, gentle reminders to be patient, to be watchful, and to wait.  I would cry then, in my teens, in the same way I cry now, when the weight of the world is so heavy upon my shoulders that I wish for nothing but silence and the unknowing, to be like the mother across the street satisfied with her scrapbooking and classroom volunteering, and yearning for nothing more than the simple.

That’s what I longed for:  the sweet simple.

Those dead bodies below on the beach had been a family, the emptied vessels now covered in black bags on the sands below had been minutes before living tourists who hadn’t heeded the warnings posted at Dead Man’s Beach about the dangers of the ocean currents and under-tow.  One boy had fallen in off the rocks, and in response, each family member had leapt to their own death.

I have been terrified of the ocean, ever since the tragedy at Dead Man’s Beach. Add this to the horrific flesh-eating fish dreams I’ve had since I was three, and the time my mother’s boyfriend saw a shark take a chunk out of his best friend. (His friend died.) And I’ve been able to justify not going in the ocean for about twenty-five years.

Yesterday, I overcame my great fear of the sea. As I paddled out into the ocean on my surfboard, I was terrified. I trembled. I almost cried. I almost turned back. But I paddled onward.

I wasn’t planning on surfing at all while visiting Maui. But there I was, regardless of all my fears and misgivings, flat on my belly, in a borrowed, rather-stinky surf shirt, paddling over the waves. And I got up on my surfboard, not once, but at least five times and rode the waves.

They may have looked like little waves to the observer. But to me they were the biggest darn waves of my life.

I’ve realized I have spent much of my forty-some years living on my own Dead Man’s Beach. I’ve been counting my days. Worrying about lurking dangers. Terrified to be happy.

This evening, as I sat in a local bar having yet another fruity rum drink (a new thing for me), the musician played Here Comes the Sun, and I was brought back to a summer day in Oregon, when at the age of nine I was riding in the back of a pickup truck listening to that song. I remember at that age I had an intense feeling of happiness and freedom. It was one of the last times I remember feeling so elated.

Yesterday, when I rode the waves, I returned to that sunny day in the back of the truck. I walked off of Dead Man’s Beach and I found my sun again.

A wise man once told me that he asks everyday: “How can life get any better?”

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

Thirty-Two: Myttin da!

Attention folks. I’m using my teacher voice here, and then I will be checking for understanding, and administrating a pop quiz. If you have not read many prior posts, you might want to press the LINGO BUTTON. Repeat back what I said, to avoid further confusion. Thank you and onward!

Side Note: I will be venturing deeper into the realm of my Aspie mind and touching base on more serious issues soon (as in someday), but at the moment, Crazy Frog is buffering me from the insanity that has surrounded me in the last few weeks. So, stay with, if you can, until Crazy Frog retreats some, and we can get down to more serious business. Or not.

I figure one medium-sized chocolate-chip cookie (130 calories of gooey, pure heaven), that I devoured at 5:00 in the evening yesterday, is equal to the loss of thirty-five minutes of sleep.  I had three cookies. Plus my earplugs are defective; that, or my husband, having returned from his leisure business trip, picked up a multiple-of-two on his visit to Arizona, and attached said multiple to his snore factor. Regardless, I couldn’t sleep last night.

And I had chocolate-induced dreams, where I think, if I remember correctly, I was some sort of Star Trek Borg (cybernetically enhanced beings who assimilate other races into their group and devour everything in their path) hooked up to the genius-stream of the all-knowing Google God.

My husband’s snoring sound ZZZ-Zzzz-ZZzzz-hn-oink-GGggoofffh-Ppwwbhww- zZZzzzZZ was the source of the Borg’s power. Right now LV theorizes she can use Borg and Star Trek as search engine terms for this blog, and pick up some more traffic. Attract people to the Geek Posse (Lingo), like those cool characters from The Big Bang Theory television show. Currently, the Big Bang Theory is LV’s and Sir Brain’s salivating-worthy fascination.

Did I mention it’s 5:00 in the morning! I’m thinking Sir Brain is up because of the upcoming IEP meeting (Individual Education Plan) for my middle son at his school this afternoon; that and the fact that LV had this running dialogue (hamping) about our life-forces dependency on my internal organs, and how at any second our heart could decide to give up, or even explode. Sir Brain wasn’t totally freaked out, until LV added the whole aneurism (brain explosion) probability to the equation. That’s when Sir Brain packed two rectangular-1950’s-style suitcases and stood up on his toothpicks legs and said, “I’m out of here.” Until LV explained that he was the brain and couldn’t leave. Which bothered Sir Brain to no end, as he didn’t understand how he wasn’t a separate entity beyond a body organ. LV and Sir Brain are still debating on that one.

I wrestled with the thought of staying in bed, until LV brought me back on the hamster-wheel, and reviewed repeatedly, (think copy machine spitting out 1000 copies), the fact that I didn’t show up to my afternoon college course yesterday.

Thus, I rose with puffy, slit-eyes, appearing as if I’d been born and raised on a planet without sunlight. I mounted the stairs, walking like a zombie, while listening to LV chatter it up, in her California, valley-girl dialect, about how I don’t have to be from another planet, because I live in a little town in Washington State, which is primarily absent of sunlight.

And now I’m here typing, while LV goes over with Sir Brain, (who is frantic about exploding), about how yesterday was the first day in my (count them) 7.5 years of college that I missed a class. I haven’t missed a class (not big into rule breaking), since that time I was a freshman and broke down in front of the professor babbling and bawling like a Fool (picturing tarot card), because I needed to go to my beloved Nano’s funeral that was two-hundred miles away, and I wouldn’t be back in time for the next week’s class. That was in 1986!

So, understandably, LV and Sir Brain are a wee bit perplexed about me basically playing hooky from school. Although, they are quite aware that we have left the university but can’t withdraw officially yet, because we’re waiting (and waiting) to hear back from the authorities that be, to see if I have to spill the beans about how I was woefully treated, before I can get my tuition, (the equivalent of two-month’s mortgage) reimbursed. I’m thinking it’s not too early for a glass of wine or a horse tranquilizer. What’s your opinion?

I had something I was thinking about typing about when I was tossing in bed this morning, but the thought is beyond me now. Prophet in my Pocket is still in his 18th century pajamas and nightcap, attempting to sleep. LV is in la-la land wanting to travel with Sir Brain and his suitcases off on some tangent. And I’m thinking I’d like to take a ride on Elephant and get the heck out of Dodge. (Which I now know the meaning of, thanks to one of Brain’s prior followings of string.)

Thank my lucky stars. I just ran to the phone and received an automated message: Do to icy roads there will be a two hour late start at school.

Crazy Frog just woke up with a jolt. He’s a morning frog. Wide awake. He arose to tell me he is super excited about going back to sleep. He found a song! Almost three million people have seen it! It’s a perfect video: it’s weird, talks about sleeping, and the guy walks like a borg! The first one Crazy Frog found.

I’m not going to let Crazy Frog edit this prose or rouse me any further, as I’m taking Prophet in my Pocket’s cue, and crawling back in bed. “Don’t wake me, I plan on sleeping” (song lyrics). Oh, before I go. One thing that made me laugh this morning, besides the processing of my own brain:

When I was looking up ideas for snore sounds (because I don’t really have a life), I found this article about this lady’s husband who is a chronic snorer. And this novice lady author, she’s rambling on and on, going way off tangent; and then right in the middle of the article she writes, “…and my husband, he’s had lots of wives.” And I stop. Backspace. Reread. Chuckle. Reread again. And pause frozen, completely unable to read the rest of the article, because I’m thinking this chick definitely has Aspergers.

Crazy Frog does how a softer side. He found this. Make Yourself Sleep in 40 Sec. (Don’t show this to children.) Thanks Crazy Frog! You Boob!

Spastic-Colon (my dog) just busted out her doggy-door and is barking at the sunrise. Now she’s back. Must add her to the lingo dictionary, after I get some shut-eye. Which is odd when you think about it, because our eyes never shut—they just get covered in a flap of skin.  Ironically, my alarm clock just went off in the other room. Time to wake up! Myttin da! (That’s Cornish for good morning.)

Day Twenty-Five: A Prophet in My Pocket

 

I have a prophet in my pocket.

Ever since I identified my little voice inside my head as LV, and labeled the gray squishy world-ball as my heterogeneous Brain, The Prophet in my Pocket has been speaking to me in rhyme and rhythm.

The Prophet part makes sense to me. All through my life I’ve had precognitive dreams, premonitions, and those “feelings.” I can recount the events in detail. They are numerous. Grand in scale, like the time I predicted an influx of people would be traveling to the small town of Colfax, California to see a spiritual manifestation. Or smaller in scale, but just as potent, like when I saw my mother’s friend die in a VW Bug exploding on Homan’s Highway in Carmel, California, days before my mother’s friend’s death.

I’ve had strange encounters, strange coincidences, and a plethora of people tell me that they know me from somewhere. I’ve also been sensitive to physical pain, since I can remember, starting with terrible intestinal pains and rashes.

I’m officially deemed handicapped, even have that nifty handicapped plaque, that comes in handy when my pain threshold is registering low on the scale. By all definitions, if I wasn’t such a poop-head at times, in theory I’d qualify as a Shaman in some cultures. The thing that sucks about being a Shaman, or anyone born with distinct spiritual abilities, is that the healers always seem able to help most everyone, except themselves.

I think that’s why I have a prophet in my pocket. I think he’s there to guide me through the proverbial mire of life—the sensitivities, the pains.

Looking back at my writings, sometimes I’m amazed I’m still here. I remember an intake psychologist telling me, years ago: “And you’re sure you’ve never been addicted to drugs or had any form of substance abuse? It’s hard to believe you could survive all that, and not turn to something.”

I turned to something. I turned to my faith. And fortunately the powers that be provided me with distinct mentors and supporters along my path.

Which leads me to the current problem I face, that has resulted in my current funk. Recently I’ve lost many of my supporters. Some have disappeared through the engulfment phase of a new love interest and others through moving to a new physical location—some thousands of miles away.

I’m understanding this dissipating funk more clearly. In the last ten months alone many of my supporters have disappeared, my beloved dog passed unexpectedly, a professional used callous words about Asperger’s Syndrome, my mother-in-law and my mother were diagnosed with cancer, my son had a serious reaction to medication, a homeless person ran his bike into my moving van… this on top of the everyday stresses of raising three boys, with one on the spectrum, keeping a household running while disabled, and dealing with my sensitivities, coupled with my recent diagnosis of Aspergers. Deep breath! No wonder I’m sad.

This prophet of mine, if he does indeed exist, I fancy the idea of him residing in my right pocket. I can picture him there, rather small and distinguished looking, like a little cartoon stereotypical university professor. He has the type of beard that’s good for running fingers through, and spectacles that are speckled with dust. He doesn’t brush his wiry white hair. His appearance is not even secondary. His appearance doesn’t matter to him one bit. He speaks in rhyme or rhythm, or very fast in a combination of visuals and streams of words. He uses symbols lots, and has a glorious sense of humor.

The Prophet in My Pocket is the one I pull out often in my sacred hours of writing. He whispers to me through my interior voice (LV), sometimes for the stretch on an hour, and then he gently recedes, returning from whence he came. Here’s a poem he is whispering to me now:

There’s a Prophet in My Pocket

There’s a prophet in my pocket,

And he’s always standing near,

Listening to my stories,

And then whispering in my ear,

He doesn’t long for fame,

Or simplicity of life,

He reaches for the stars,

And lends them through my strife,

His answers are so clever,

Though sometimes rather thick,

With philosophy and prose,

That pours out rather quick,

I think he’s standing near,

When I dream of what’s to be,

I think he hears me cry,

When I’m scared of what I see,

He tells me I am loved,

And that all will be all right,

He tells me to just trust,

And embrace my inner light,

I’m a beacon on a hill, he tells,

And my glow is rather bright,

And you see, he says to me,

“Because of this you fight,

The shadows that draw near,

The games they try to play,

The gifts you carry with,

They try to take away,

Be gentle with yourself,

Your challenges are grace,

Humbled in your walking,

Humbled in your pace,

Remember I stand strong,

As the shadows linger in,

Standing at the doorstep,

Readying to win,

All their twisted dealings,

All their twisted means,

They are nothing to you, Darling,

Even though it seems,

Just call on me, your prophet,

Whenever you’re in fear,

Just reach into your pocket,

And know I’m always here.”

~ Sam Craft (2012)

Much Love ~ Sam

Day Sixteen: The Bus Stop


 I pulled this out of my journals. We had to say goodbye to our beloved dog, today. And this prose reminded me of another place and time. I imagine our dog with many friends and family now, including dear Catherine.

A week before I met Catherine and was greeted by her four little ones—their faces a blush and small mouths encircled with remnants of the faded pink of popsicles—I’d dreamt of a dark-haired lady guiding me from one room to the next of a colonial-style home.  There we had walked together, with the glee-filled echoes of children’s giggles fluting down the staircase… (This is available in the book Everyday Aspergers)

Rest in everlasting peace, Sweet Scooby. Look for my friend Catherine. She’s waiting for you.

Day Seven: Aspergers and the Sixth Sense

 

Sometimes I can see the future. I’ll explain more in a bit.

When I’m partaking in some deep thinking; which let’s face it, is pretty much every waking hour of my life, I hypothesize about the creation of this Asperger’s Syndrome. I’m beginning to wonder, if in fact, Aspergers is not a syndrome at all, but a result of a lack of a particular sense (as in the five senses). Being born with Aspergers might be compared to someone who is born without the ability to hear or see. For example, if social skills were considered a sixth sense of sorts, then could we not theorize that instead of a syndrome (a clinically recognized collection of features, signs, and characteristics) that Aspergers was a result of not having acquired a sixth sense: A deficiency in being able to subconsciously navigate the social arena without assistance?

It is true, that like a person who has challenges with vision or hearing, that a person who has challenges with social skills can be taught said skills to increase his or her aptitude. A person with Aspergers will arguably never truly see socializing from the exact neurotypical viewpoint, but he or she can learn to improve his or her social skills, similarly to the way a man with limited sight would learn to navigate in a seeing world.

(Stay with me here, as I remind you that I’m merely processing aloud, and not discounting any of the scientific studies that are pointing to other biological and environmental causes.)

If we were to consider the prospect of a sixth sense, that of being social skills, and to postulate a child with Aspergers is born with a deficiency in this sense, then would it not be a logical conclusion that other senses would develop more acutely–just as the person who cannot see develops a stronger sense of tactile experience or smell? If this is the case, that a person with Aspergers compensates for a lack in the social skills’ sense, by having a heightened awareness in other senses, then perhaps this explains sensory overload.

In my own experience, I wonder, too, if another sense, that of the ability to see into the hidden worlds, those of the quantum physic and collective unconscious worlds, is not a sense also capable of increasing. In my case, I have been hyper-sensitive in my dream state since I can recall. I began having precognitive dreams at the age of three about my animals and other people. I would tell my mother about my dream, and then parts of the dream would come true.

Here is an example of how my precognitive sense works:

In what I believe was early December (as I did not record the date), as I stood in the living room talking to my husband, suddenly I saw a scene before my eyes. A waking “knowing” that is difficult to explain. The process was similar to watching a sped up movie before my eyes, while at the same instant knowing a “truth” was being conveyed from a higher source.

That late day in December, overcome but what I saw in the vision, I uttered words close to the following to my husband: “Honey, in the early part of next year Carmen will be calling you with news about her health. It will be a serious illness, one requiring a lot of your attention, and a time when you will be asked to fly down and see her. This is partially happening at this time because there is such a physical distance between you for the first time in her life.”  I don’t know how I knew this, but I just did; as if someone had just phoned me and told me the news, and I was conveying what I knew to my husband.

I went on to explain in more detail what I meant by this to my husband. It is important for me to communicate that at the time of the event there had never been any indication of serious health concerns, or indicators that Carmen’s health would be compromised in the near future. In the many years I have known Carmen, there has never once been a serious health concern that required my husband’s full attention.

This news came to a great surprise to my husband, and he responded by saying: “Don’t say things like that.” He then shook it off, fearing the superstition that I might be creating this by speaking it, and thinking I was wrongly informed. I, myself, too hoped that the vision I saw was wrong, but I could not put the image of my husband flying on a plane to go see Carmen out of my mind.

In early January I had a profound dream, one that stirred me so greatly that I was drawn to write the details of the dream down in my journal; this was a significant act, as it remains the only dream I wrote down in the last nine months, and the only dream I wrote since moving to the state of Washington. (I have been encouraged to record all my dreams, and hope to develop this dedicated habit soon.)

Thirty days after I recorded the dream, we received news of Carmen’s health. At that time, I was immediately able to retrieve my dream journal and show the page to my husband. He was much surprised at the words he read, as was I; even with the ability I have carried of prophetic dreams since I was a child, the process of the dreams coming true still affects me to a great degree.

I will not write the exact words found in my journal, but summarize with some detail. First, this is the only dream I ever recall about Carmen and her daughter that I have had in my entire life. I clearly remember my dreams each morning I wake, without fail. Usually I remember at least three or more dreams.

This dream began with Carmen’s daughter at a home similar to ours. In the dream there were palm trees in a storm—a symbolism I took to mean calm turning into a stormy situation, or storms ahead. I asked (telepathically) Carmen’s daughter to tell me why she was at our house without Carmen. She then took me back in time, as if painting a story. I was removed from the events she unfolded, like a bystander walking alongside the characters without them seeing me.

In the dream Carmen was in a world I did not recognize, surrounded by a golden field of what looked to be high grass or wheat. She seemed at peace, though I noted in my dream journal she had lost a lot of weight, and had undergone much emotional change. Around her were most of her grandchildren, circling in the field and carefree in spirit. Carmen’s daughter indicated to me (telepathically and through symbolism) that Carmen’s weight loss was due to severe stomach pain. She showed me this by leaning over, clutching her stomach, and acting like she was throwing up. I noted in my dream journal that this meant chemotherapy as a result of cancer.

Carmen’s hair was mostly gone or hidden and she wore a bandana around her head. Her pants were long and purple, which signified a spiritual transformation or passing on from this world. Carmen’s daughter indicated by pointing to a hospital sign and again using telepathy that there was “no help in this place.” A child (*), liken to my youngest son, began to swell and be sickly; Carmen lifted this child and was trying to take him to a hospital for help. None could be found. I suddenly was seen by Carmen, and began to apply healing light to this child. The child and Carmen were pleased.

When I wrote this dream the following morning, I felt in my heart that Carmen would be discovering an incurable cancer in her body, and be undergoing chemotherapy. I did not share this dream with my husband. I did not want to upset him, and a part of me hoped that the dream had only been symbolic of my friend’s mother, who I learned the next day, following my dream, had just recently died of cancer.

Another part of this experience involved my physical body. For some reason, call it my empathic ability, I some times experience symptoms and discomfort in the same body location as someone I know, usually before I actually know of their diagnosis. For instance, recently I was unable to move off the couch all day from severe back pain. I told my mother I believed I was feeling sympathy pain for my stepmother undergoing back surgery; though it turned out that on that same exact day my cousin had broken his back. On the day my son’s teacher fell and injured her tailbone requiring hospitalization, I also had a freak accident where I bruised my tailbone. When a good friend was undergoing breast surgery, I developed a cyst on my breast (never has happened since or before that). These could be considered coincidence; and I tend to lean that way myself, except that these “coincidences” continue to manifest themselves in my body.

Concerning Carmen, the entire month before we were informed of her condition, I developed an unusual circular rash on my chest. It was “scary” for me, to the point I went to the doctor twice. Right before we learned of Carmen’s health concerns, the circular rash began to fade. For thirty days straight I was convinced I had cancer in that location of my body, to the point that I bothered my husband repeatedly, having him examine the spot. With news of Carmen, I knew where the cancer was: indeed it resides on the exact same side of her chest (inside her lung). I also soon started to have a discomfort, like a knife pain, in my back; Carmen confirmed this to be the same area where she was feeling discomfort.

Approximately a week or two before we received news of Carmen, I had another dream, one which I told my friend about the morning after the dream occurred. In the dream, my father phoned me to say he had cancer. During the dream, there was a period of trying to acquire more information, and wondering about the severity of the condition. The time period seemed to last several days in the dream. My father then phoned back in the dream, to tell me that his state was incurable and serious but that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere anytime soon.

The morning following the dream, I confided in my friend that I did not think this person represented my father, and that I believed (as had happened in the past) that he was a messenger of sorts in the dream, indicating that someone else in the family was going to be calling with news of their health.

It was in early February that Carmen called us late in the evening to tell us of her health news . That same morning I had a strong feeling to send her a present. Something I have never thought to do before (except Christmas time). I told my friend that I wanted to send Carmen a special and significant token with a note that read: I love you unconditionally. In my mind I was picturing my rose quartz necklace, and imagining purchasing something similar to the necklace, so that a healing stone could rest in the area near her heart. I had no idea why I was getting this indication.

Then, during breakfast that same morning, with the same friend, I had a very odd experience; the first of this sort. As I was eating, I kept looking over my friend’s shoulder at a metal coat rack that rested in the corner. There were some jackets, a bag and some other objects hanging from the curved bars of the rack. For approximately thirty-minutes, I repeatedly kept saying to my friend, “This is so strange, but the coat rack behind you keeps appearing to be an executioner; the type from years ago that had a sack over their head as they oversaw the gallows.” This was very disturbing, as I usually do not have visions of such sort, in the broad daylight in public nonetheless. My friend was very patient, as I kept repeating the apparition I saw behind her. I was a bit worried for my friend, as well. I felt at this time that this was an omen of news soon to come regarding death or the like. Again, I repeat, this was the same day Carmen called us.

In summary, the five signs were as follows:

1: The waking vision in early December involving news of Carmen’s health and my husband’s attention.

2: The dream 30 days before the news, that outlined the process Carmen would experience with her health.

3: The dream a couple weeks leading up to the eventual phone call, involving my father and his news of cancer.

4: The odd rash on my chest and the knife pain in my back, as well as the need to mail something to heal the heart region to Carmen.

5: The apparition of an executioner for a half-hour the same day we heard the news.

 

* Soon following the news of Carmen, I had to rush my son to the emergency from a severe medication reaction, which caused his body to swell in hives. The experience was was very similar to the rushing for help in the dream.