Holding rings by the lake

Now I’m not sure about the timeline.  I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, so I am pretty certain I won’t remember exactly when these things kicked off.  I do know that I had started to pop along to the ‘Psychic Fayre’ every now and then, so obviously I had begun to find out more.

About 9 years ago, I was sat by a suitably spooky lake, at the bottom of an approprately deserted lane with some ideally suited friends.  Once conversation had dried up I offered to do a bit of pyschometry, as you do.  Other people might suggest a game of truth or dare maybe but no. I obviously didn’t know what psychometry was at the time. I do now.

I held my friend’s ring (well, it was that sort of night) and I was one hundred per cent freaked by what I could see.  Not just feelings but clear, powerful images that I had to describe.  I can’t go into detail because these are not my stories to tell but there were people, faces, right up close to my face and it got pretty emotional for everyone down by the lake that night.

This lead to me holding rings on a regular basis.  I knew nothing.  I just felt the need.  The minute I held the jewellery, the images would come and the voices would speak in my ear.  This is hard to explain too. I couldn’t actually hear the voices as if they were outside of me but rather as if they were in my head and inside my right ear.  However I explain it…it will always sound mental.

The readings just got stronger and stronger with more and more detail.  On three memorable occasions they got overpowering and physical.  I actually ‘became’, I would get up and walk around the room, talk directly as if I were the spirit.  Totally, totally freaky.  I surprised myself and then I doubted myself.

Friends of friends that I have read for have been kind enough to dig out photographs and other evidence to verify what I was seeing.  But still – the doubt.  I have been very concerned, many times about the possibility that I was losing my mind.  None more so than when I was reading for a friend’s mum who happens to be a Psychotherapist.  So convinced was I that she was using me as a case study that I was sent a gift.  Another one I can’t explain but I needed proof for myself and I got it.  

Another time, I was sorting the washing when I was visited by a stranger, telling me who she wanted to speak to, I have also been followed to the toilet by someone who has yet to be claimed.  Now, understand, these people are not like the ghosts I have seen.  They are the sense of someone, the feeling there is someone there but behind a veil.  I can’t explain it but needless to say, if they just appeared in the bathroom looking like you or I, I would have a heart attack.  I am certain.

So these experiences all lead to something far more disturbing and soul destroying and that is where I am now.  

It has all gone terribly serious and that is the bit I struggle with.  The same way I can’t sit through a wedding or any other church service without digging my husband in the ribs and making snidey comments.  I feel uncomfortable having to take anything to seriously.  But, some things just require it, so I might just have to grow up. 

Ghostie Number 3

I loved Ghostie number 3.  Not more than Ghost Nan obviously but Ghostie number 3 was a really odd one.  Strangely calming.  Not that I have freaked out (or hadn’t until last week) but I have noted how a sense of calm comes over me when I see or hear things (up until last week when I nearly shat myself, like I said).

There is a lovely antique shop in Lewes which has a weird vibe at the best of times, mainly because it is full of other people’s stuff.  I always find that a bit uncomfortable.  I love antiques but I think your things absorb your vibes.  You won’t catch me wearing a dead woman’s ring for example.  I will move onto holding people’s rings at a later date.  Then this blog will hold a very different appeal.

So Mum, Dad and I were shopping for antiques, mirrors I think.  Boring detail.  Mum walked up a big flight of wide stairs to the next floor and I was walking behind her.  At the top of the stairs a woman in a beige raincoat walked from left to right.  No biggie.  Until I realised she had walked through a wall.  She was there, walking, as plain as day and then she wasn’t.  She was either a spectre or a relative of Harry Potter.  She was nowhere to be seen.

We spoke to the owner of the shop and I described the woman I had seen.  He said it sounded like a woman who worked in the shop but who was not in that day.  I suggested he checked to see if she was still alive – (inappropriate joke by all accounts)  So it got me thinking, was that an impression of a member of staff?  Or did I see a spirit?

The manager then went on to tell us about a few experiences, like the time they had come into work and found cups and saucers laid out in a perfectly straight line at the top of the stairs.  And the time the police had been called when a lady was seen hanging out of the window in the middle of the night and screaming.  When the police arrived, there was nobody to be seen.  So bloody odd.

The thing for me was that I long to see Victorian children and ghosts of the past but this woman could have been anybody’s Auntie.  Around 65 years of age, raincoat, white/grey short hair, slacks.  You get the picture. But she was there one minute and gone the next.  I felt totally blessed to have seen her actually and still do.

Thanks Ghostie number 3.  You and the others have made me the looney I am today.

Ghost stories

Blithe Spirit

Blithe Spirit

My next ghostly experience was a simple, inoffensive one.  I always think one is given a slow build up to the ‘face in the mirror’.  If spirits leapt out of bushes at every turn, I might not view my experiences so fondly.  That said, when my time comes?…I’m leaping out of bushes.

I saw my dead Nan.  As plain as day.  She had died about a year earlier and I saw her, two doors up from my Mum’s house, standing in the street and just staring.  Literally staring at the house up the road. The best thing about that amazing moment was that my Mum saw her too.  We were both sat by the window and we both turned, without reason to look out.  We both saw my Nan and we looked at each other and looked back and she was gone.  I love that one.

I have seen and heard plenty in my time, but to share it with someone else who I don’t consider to be a fruit loop, is worth it’s weight.  Not particulalry dramatic…those ones come later.

Poor old Nan, she had gone to all the trouble of materialising and went to the wrong house.

Talking to an Angel

Right.  After falling at the Grand National, I feel like I need to put my money where my mouth is.  I am going to start by reminding myself of all the freaky stuff that has happened.  I open it up to anybody who would like to exlain it away but I don’t want flimsy theories.  I want proof, do you hear me?  Proof.

That’s another thing that winds me up.  Our Spiritualist church meets on a Sunday morning to do a bit of healing, listen to a few suspect songs on a temperamental CD player and then round things off with a raffle.  Very refreshing.  But most importantly, they ask for ‘evidence’.  Now, I don’t think all faiths need evidence.  That is surely the definition of ‘faith’, it is something you feel rather than know.  Or maybe you know it because you feel it but you don’t need a polaroid of it.  Does that make sense?  I spend most of my spiritual time seeking evidence, I can offer more concrete reasons as to why I believe what I do and yet I attract more doubters and piss takers than any Jehovah’s Witness, Muslim, Catholic or Mormon.  I mean, nobody has written a musical about my Church.  That would be a great musical.  Full of characters that place.

OK.  So here is my unusual experience number 1.

I was about 13.  I was performing a song from ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’.  In retrospect, this was not an age appropriate choice of song, but that is not the issue here.  Two thirds of the way through the song; I blanked.  I could not think of the next lyric, not something that had happened to me (an already seasoned performer) before.  Please don’t think I was some sort of Bonnie Langford, I just liked to sing.  I dont want it to taint your view of me.

Anyway, there I was, giving it some welly in front of a room full of people and my mind was blank.  Before it could have possibly become obvious to the audience, someone sang the next line in my ear.  A beautiful, female voice had sung the words, close to my ear.  I scanned the audience and I thought a child had sung it from the front row.  How could they?  How could they have known I needed help and how could I have heard them so close to my ear?  I think it was an Angel.  Doesn’t sound like a big deal but it was to me.  I might have been put off performing if I had a bad experience that day (many might wish the Angel had not helped me) but then who knows what I would do for a job now?

How did the Angel know the lyrics? I am guessing ‘Jesus Christ Superstar’ might be a favourite among celestial beings but it was a young voice; leading me to think that Angels do not concern themselves with age appropriate material either.

Explain it away if you like but I think I was a very lucky girl that day and have been lots of times since.  I will be back to tell you more exciting tales.  Now you are the lucky ones.

Hurt feelings.

If I intend to do any sort of reading on here then I need to, by law, have a disclaimer to say that ‘ALL PSYCHIC READINGS ARE FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY’.  BY LAW.   

I get it, I agree to it, I will of course include that disclaimer should I go ahead and publish any sort of psychic reading.  I am, however, a little hurt by that.

It would be like insisting that all churches have a sign above the door stating ‘WE CANNOT GUARANTEE PRAYERS WILL BE ANSWERED.  THIS IS REALLY JUST FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES’.

I understand. I really do.  There are ‘psychics’ out there who exploit the grief of others, who may not have genuine abilities or good intentions.  Am I to be lumped in the same basket as them?  Would ALL Catholic Priests liked to be tarred with the same brush?  Hmmmmm?

How would any other faith feel if they were forced, by law, to express their beliefs with a disclaimer?  Entertainment purposes for flip’s sake?  Like online gambling?  Or sudoku?

Seriously, I do understand the reasons, the law is there to protect people. However,  I can’t help feeling that the law patronises the thousands of people who stack out Spiritualist churches across the country, I can’t help thinking many people who flock to watch a medium take to the platform, do so, with a full understanding of what they are about to witness.  Entertainment suggests magic, trickery, lights, smoke and mirrors and that is not my experience of it at all.

So I am hurt.  I do feel that we are very careful not to offend any other faith or religion but Spiritualists are fair game. It is, in fairness, a complex issue but I don’t like the way we get singled out.

It annoys me in the same way that I can’t be doing with the seemingly acceptable prejudice; fat people.  Yes, let’s tax the fat, let’s make them pay for two seats on the plane, better still let’s make them travel on separate planes altogether.  We don’t want to be sat next to a fat person do we?

What if you were a fat psychic?  Can you imagine the isolation?  Fat psychics are the new ginger gays.

So yes, by law, I will be putting a disclaimer against my intuitive work but I’m still hurt.  

  

 

 

 

 

Talking with Fairies

I am not likely to be found in shops, admiring chunks of amethyst glistening under the spotlights.  You won’t find me weaving through windchimes or fondling dreamcatchers.  Nor will I be spotted purchasing sketches of my American Indian guides.  However, I am a little bit in love with my fairy cards.  What a loon.  But aha!  I am not the only one.  My lovely bohemian cousin and my terribly normal and down-to-earth husband are hooked too.  How marvellous.  I select a card and read from the book – lazy I know but so far there has not been a need to do anything more.  They have been spot on.  I have to say that they are more effective when I select them for whoever wants one.  I think that is because they are mine and they don’t want to be manhandled by any Tom, Dick or Harry.  Fair enough.

My husband has been a bit spooked by the accuracy of the cards and it would appear the fairies have an insight into his brain.  What a terribly confusing place that must be.  So if anybody would like me to pull a card for them just let me know.  Eventually, I will get brave and use inspiration cards to read properly for anyone who might be interested.  In the meantime,these are pretty fab.   

The kicking of the crutch is the ugliest.

When I am out and about in the car I love to listen to a bit of James O’Brien on LBC radio.  He encourages listeners to call in and discuss the topic of the day, be it on-the-spot fines, sexting,  Boris Johnson or sexting Boris Johnson..  Well a couple of mornings ago I was delighted to hear his chocolatey voice discussing the power of prayer.  The subject was presented as an opportunity to come out of the closet, for people to talk, anonymously if you like, about something that is just not discussed.  Listeners were phoning to confide in the host, describing their darkest secrets.  Or that is how it seemed to me.

I listened to callers who strongly believed that their prayers had been answered, even if that was only the need for a delivery driver to end up in a certain place by 5pm.  Each to their own I always say, and that is the point.

Prayers, cosmic orders, creative visualisation, call it what you will; why are we so embarrassed to admit that they are a part of our life?  Admitting to people that one has a spiritual leaning, that you believe in fate or that you go on intuition is like admitting to people that you touch yourself.

Too much?  Maybe, but why do we not shout it from the rooftops?

“I AM AN OPEN MNDED PERSON AND I FUNCTION ON MANY LEVELS.  I TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR MY ACTIONS BUT I HAVE FAITH IN A HIGHER POWER AND HAVE TURNED MY LIFE AROUND”.

Not anywhere near as embarrassing as shouting “MY NIPPLES ARE INVERTED”, for example.  The difference is, with nipple inversion there can be sympathy.  With spiritual belief comes crutch kicking.

James O’Brien put it so beautifully (especially for a self-confessed sceptic) “the kicking of the crutch is often the ugliest”.  He had been speaking to a lovely man who had lost his ‘beautiful wife’ (cue tears) and this lovely man had prayed for her to be cared for and knew in his heart that she was still with him and that he would be joining her in time.  Who would dare to take that away?  Is there anybody so certain of what happens after death, so sure that there is no higher power, so convinced of the inability for the soul to continue that they would delight in proving this beyond a shadow of a doubt to a grieving man? There probably is some small minded bully blogg arsehole somewhere that would take it upon themselves.

James O’Brien, I will always remember that fantastic sentence and will no longer be reduced to calling someone a small minded bully blogg arsehole.  For that, I thank you.

Keeping it on the down low.

I feel better already, thanks for caring.  Just by having this blog and forcing myself to think about all things spiritual on a daily basis, I feel more positive. I still haven’t meditated but Rome wasn’t built in a day. The trouble is, I am not sure I will ever connect with likeminded people because I am too ashamed to publicise this blog.  There are plenty of people in my life who don’t know about this side of me and I really don’t want them to.  Isn’t that awful?  I am embarrassed about the part of me that I feel most connected to and most passionate about.

A good friend was chatting to me on the phone once and we were going through the usual stuff. How’s work?  How’s so and so?  Any gossip?  Then the topic moved onto a recent psychic experience I’d had.  It was a risk.  I hadn’t discussed this kind of thing with him before but he was a child of the sixties…I sensed it was OK.   He observed the fact that my voice changed when I spoke about these things.  That I became brighter.  Well, that is true. I do.

I actually really struggle with conversations about day to day things.  I feel insincere discussing surface things.  That sounds really snotty.  I always imagine that might be what it feels like to be really clever, just completely out of step with the rest of the world.  You see lots of eccentric, overly intelligent people don’t you?  They are socially inept and can barely dress themselves but they have read lots of books.  I am not like that.  I do wash. It is just that I want to be true to myself at all times but that is not realistic.  So it is easier to bury it, to cautiously dance around conversations for fear of being outed as a witch (which I am not) or a devil worshipper (which I am not) or just a loon (which I might well be).

I don’t even want to link this blog to my Facebook page.  I don’t think even 10% of my thousands of friends will get it.  I don’t mean that to sound harsh because all of my friends on Facebook are intelligent people and can accept that everyone has their own beliefs but I don’t want to be the target for piss taking.

Not for that reason anyway.

Maybe I worry too much, maybe I am making more of it (again), maybe if I put it out there I will realise that there are lots and lots of people exactly like me, that nobody would judge me, everyone would respect my right to believe what I do or maybe I would wake up to find ‘witch’ daubed across my front door.

Either way, I don’t have a lot of choice in the matter.  I am what I am, even if others don’t approve.  Is this what it feels like to be Dale Winton?

Under pressure

We already know that I am not generally found flopped over a bean bag, twiddling my karma beads.  I have never been and probably never will be described as ‘chilled out’.  I sweat at the drop of a hat (such an affliction for a woman, for anyone in fact).  I wear anxiety like a t-shirt and I don’t do well under pressure.  Don’t put me under pressure.

Just tell me this: Why do sceptics think they have it all sewn up when a ‘psychic’ can’t perform under pressure?  Like on ‘This Morning’, when a well-meaning spiritual type lays themselves open to a good kick in the nuts by Phillip Schofield. (Although I like Schofe, I think he has an open mind).  It’s as if someone NOT coming up trumps under those circumstances susses up all spiritualists everywhere.    It’s not what one could call a fair trial.  Actually, why are they on trial?  Why not chuck Gordon Smith in the pond and see if he floats?

I just cringe for the poor psychic, sweating under the lights and crumbling under the beady gaze of the likes of Paul Zenon who is determined to ‘out’ them as a fraud. The whole nation is waiting to watch the psychic a) balls up b) prove beyond all doubt the existence of psychic abilities and what do you think will be the outcome?  Hmmm.

I have never stood behind a hairdresser and whispered “Go on, cut that hair.  I’m waiting to see what you can do.  You are not going to do a very good job.  You are a liar not a hairdresser, you’ll probably slip and cut that woman a new ear”.  I just wouldn’t do it, it’s rude and I’m pretty sure Trevor Sorbie would struggle under those conditions.

I know what I know and that’s all that matters.  I know what I have experienced, I don’t need to explain it or try and prove it to anyone.  That would be pointless.  I am sure I am not the most developed of intuitives but I do know that even the most gifted of mediums are not always on duty. I’m pretty sure they don’t find themselves surrounded by the deceased in the Spar.  “I’ve got your Auntie Phyllis with me now, she is standing by the yoghurts and she’s balking at the prices”.

Just ask yourself how well you would do at your job if everyone ganged up on you and made you question your own ability.  Pretty mean really isn’t it?

The last crap and pointless test I saw of this nature was when a celebrity was placed behind a screen and the psychic was given a watch belonging to the celebrity to see what they could pick up.  I can’t remember the psychic’s name but she held the watch and  intuitively picked up on a woman, a strong female energy.  Well, Lionel Blair popped out from behind the screen and I thought ‘that’s one in the eye for the sceptics’.

 

blair

Me and my ego

I can’t do it.  I simply can’t be that skirt swishing, barefooted spiritual Mum.  I really want to shop organically and create a relaxed environment for my family with food on the stove, classical music playing quietly and the sweet smell of incense permeating the cat.  I want long evenings of deep conversation with friends, over huge glasses of red wine and dirty great slabs of cheese.  I want to read a book, any book.  Not Chip and Biff books, real books.  I want to be clever and funny and captivating and mysterious.

bohemian-grove-03-746619

But I’m not.

I am well and truly grounded.  No chance of me connecting with the spirit realm and losing track of the real world.  Oh no.  ASDA deliveries all the way for me, mind you, not so much now we aren’t totally sure what is in the lasagne.  I can’t cook, we don’t have a cat and the only smell permeating anything right now is burnt toast.  I never see my friends, in fact, I’m not sure I have any and I hate red wine.  It makes me sick.  The idea of spending more than one hour every 8 weeks in the company of like-minded people and getting in touch with my spiritual side is pure fantasy.  I want to quieten the self doubt, the aggression, the bitterness, the moaning.  God, I moan so much.  I hear myself moaning and I think ‘shut up’ moaning.  I am on the brink of a midlife crisis at 36.  I am convinced of that fact.  I googled it and everything, so it must be true.

I was given a book to read by a clearly concerned friend, and I have managed a whole 15 pages, which is a chuffing miracle around these parts.  The book helps you to become aware of your ego – as if it were separate to you.  The ego is responsible, so the book says, for making you feel shit.  I am summarising but there are some big words that I don’t really understand and this is the gist.

Since identifying the naughty behaviour of my ego and apologising to myself for letting my ego make me feel shit, things have got worse.  My ego has gone nuts.  It tells me, “oh dear, you are not making a good job of that”, “oh, you showed yourself up there”, “why has that person had a lottery win and here you are working like a dog?”  Really, toxic, unhelpful things like that.  I hate my ego and I have asked him (oooh that is interesting, why do I think it is a him?)…I have asked him to kindly piss off and leave my poor head alone.  This has been like a red rag to a bull.

I don’t know how to tame him now, I am guessing the book will explain everything but it will take me a good ten months to read it.  In that time I could properly lose the plot.

No, I don’t struggle with being grounded.