I always knew there were ghosts. They did not look like angels. They stood behind Grandpop, as I called him, he was really a close family friend, but I, being four or five, did not have any idea what our relationship was at the time. His angels were more romantic, their clothes for example, neater, more English, and one lady constantly walked with me; I could feel her fingers in my hair. Sometimes they talked, but not often. Sometimes they were like choirs around us. And then Grandpop died. And the ghosts, I thought, were gone.
Later, though, I saw them in the hallways of the hospital at night when I had my tonsils out at age seven. Their appearance in the hospital did not surprise me much, except that the ghosts there moved slower. They seemed to exist in a different dimension. They were less cognizant and did not seem to be as peaceful.
The hospital staff and visiting adults did not take the time to talk much to me, then a seven year old in a bed. I had ample time to myself to watch these ghosts more carefully. The ghosts inside the hospital seemed to walk slower than the ones I had seen outside, and they seemed more confused. They did not hear my whispers to them, or appear in any way connected to this universe.
I remember going down to this old house. The place was deserted. A while ago a guy had moved in there and then there had been some sort of fire. Indians walked around down here, or First Nations, and there had been some sort of disease. That was what one old man told me. Definitely there were some interesting people down there, but by then I did not share with anyone what I saw because they would have blown it out of proportion. In this house, though, there was an old man who wanted us out. He was angry, kept pacing room to room, and asked me to leave.
I remember walking through the woods feeling a bit scared as the trees were thick and I had only gone down this path once before. There was no road that I remember; it was a walk in. It was dark, clouds, no moon night and then the moon maybe broke through the trees illuminating a path just ahead of me. I walked it sort of singing, trying to remember the song now, but I do not think it was my own voice or my own thoughts. I walked away from the house and out to the road and from there back to town. The sun disappeared as I went up the streets. I later learned that ghosts can inhabit your body, influence your thoughts, but that also they can do this in the nicest of ways.
You grow up psychic. You dream dreams and they come true. You have the experience of hearing thoughts. You try sometimes to manifest but your emotions are too off the wall. Only a few people in town understand you and the rest of them just walk away. It hurts.
In the small town where I grew up, a beautiful girl named Shannon once told me, I love the way you are. If you do not like something you leave. I have seen you down by the water. Do not change.
You do not. You write poetry.
In our world, we marry around fifteen or sixteen, and at eighteen, I would be considered an old maid. I believed this and married the first man that asked. It did not work, but for a brief time I pretended to be normal. To look like everyone else.
I used to watch the television show The Ghost Whisperer, and I think it may be based somewhat on truth. Ghosts come in and out of my doors. I almost always see them in hospitals. At one time during my life I worked in the hospital. The year we had epidemic influenza was the worst.
There are times when they jump out at me, the spirits. Once we were going into town. We lived about fifty miles out. Our daughter, just a baby, had developed croup the night before, and we had to drive her to the hospital after my husband got home from work. She was breast fed, so we had to drive back first thing the next morning to feed her. A hornet flew into the car and onto the windshield. My husband, who was driving, took a swipe at it and the car began to go off the road. We were headed for the embankment, and then it was like arms on each side of the car, something just picked it up, all four sides, and set it back on the highway. No rational explanation for it. I saw angels and to this day believe that angels are the hands of God.
I lost my Dad and remember walking with my brother, trying to come to terms with it, and at the same time feeling that he was close, so close to me. We got to the house and my Aunt Rilla was there. I was not going to go and see him in the funeral home. My Aunt said if I didnít I would regret it. I went, and it was like he was still with me. My spirit jumped ahead of me to his body and I knew at that moment he was still there, still with me, but not in that container, that body, anymore.
I hear him occasionally, but not often. I honestly feel a life well lived lets you pass to the next realm and only come back when needed. Which means in a way that when I experience problems I can call on those who have passed and ask for help. And I feel they do. I believe that death is the doorway that souls walk through to move forward to a better place in time.
In my work as a medium I have encountered some entities that are filled with rage, confusion and darkness. At times they are not, or do not seem even human, wearing feathers and masks like birds. Young people at times seem more susceptible to them. I try whenever possible to speak to these spirits. I go where they are, but I go alone, not in a group. Yes, there are spirits here that are not comfortable where they are. Perhaps in other times they were Gods or Messengers, or perhaps they were creatures from other planets and places.
Before I deal with them I create an energy field around me that is complete, and I feel completely safe. Then I try to communicate. Communication is something that is necessary and the feeling is like that song I was singing without knowing the words or the context. You have to trust yourself. You have to know there is no hidden agenda. You only want to help; it is that intent, and God that protects us all.
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