With the price of beauty comes the side of darkness from its past. Continue reading
The eternal smile, worn tight, fosters an agist culture that demands youthfulness. Constant bombardment of natural cures, anti aging creams, cool sculpting to going under the knife for the sake of erasing time stares back at you in the mirror. The deep circles or sagging neck, the jowls all define the human person as it ages. The greying of the hairs, crows feet flying, smaller eyes, are but the signs of father time and the measures he places upon the human body.
The time it took someone to experience life, to outgrow diapers, to spell, read and write, hit their first baseball, or learn to ride a bike, is wiped away. Where did the line go that signified true loss and pain or , the moment you captured love in the eyes of another? Is it magically lessened? Sent away in one knife and one pull of the skin? Where did the smile upon attending the grandchild’s first birthday go? What happened to the wrinkle that upturned on its own, that symbolized the marriage to the love of your life? The frown line when you scrunched your face thinking? That cuteness with abandonment filled by botox. When the character lines are erased, where might have the character of the moment of that particular memory have gone? Each subtle pull of the fingers, tightening ever so gently, takes away what life intended you remember. The scar from falling in the river on oysters, the laugh lines from the comedy club, a night spent with friends to the minutest engravings left behind after the worst breakup, where has it gone? Holding the lifeless furry body of your best friend after getting hit by the car, where is the life line on you to connect you to that moment? It’s gone. This is life found in the memories of your skin, character lines of where you have been, and what your soul has experienced.
The attention placed on the soul must be greater than the attention placed on the outward appearance if one is to remain forever young.
She wore a white cloth diaper with lots of safety pins stuck through it on her head, wrapped like a turbin surrounding her stubby areas of black hair that still remained., other areas with no hair. The thick glasses were handed down from the local eye bank or probably my father and she finally got a telephone in her wooden shanty when she was 90 years of age. Time stood still in Cameron SC and it still does.
Daisy imprinted herself on me as a baby, from the time our eyes locked, having lived over 70 years and counting when she came to be our “Mammy”. In the south, they were not housekeepers or babysitters but lovingly called Mammy’s. Today, even fourty years plus later, Mammy is not an appropriate term or considered politically correct when speaking of the hired “help.” She was not that, she was so much more. She was a boo boo kisser, a spanker when it called for it, a bean shucker, a flu shot giver, and a hugger, the most important quality of any good Mammy, a hugger.
To me Daisy was not hired help but my family. No matter what the white folks thought of her or how they treated her, she still was like my second mother and I am white, she was Black, but I am not describing the difference in our colors, rather the important difference in the mindsets that shaped these derogatory cultures that spawned slavery. A dreaded curse for the south and having to relive it whenever I say I am from the South, that is the first thing that people think of. I get asked so many times, “Have you seen the movie the help?” Yes, and Yes to what you are going to ask me.
There are fond memories of her sitting on the living room couch, or chair watching tv with a corn cob pipe in her mouth, the hair wrap, and her very thick coke bottle bottom glases, shelling beans or peas while we played with our toys. The moth ball smell never came out of her clothes and she had the “black smell” that only particular older blacks from the South had. It was in her skin and such a distinct smell that if she were to come around me now, I could pick her out of a hundred souls because of her skin’s smell.
I was known as the boy baby. Not because I am a boy, but rather a tom boy among girls. I had all the bumps and bruises on my body that my baby brother should of had. I was rough and tumble, tree climing, bush hogging female. So with that kind of nature, I was very accident prone. Mama threatened to name me Grace. That was how my parents and especially Daisy could tell me apart from my very feminine twin sister Amy, was that I was the wearer of plastic bandaids and the bearer of deep scars.
She never learned to read or write always signing her name with an x when asked. Picking cotton in the fields of South Carolina were left to the blacks starting at the age of of a child, and no one ever knew how old she really was when the good Lord called her home because they did not give birth certificates to slaves or children of slaves. Daisy’s mother and father were what history books speak about, the chained African American’s of long ago, sold openly on the slave market in cities such as Charleston and she was one of many children in her family that grew up and lived in Cameron SC.
Married at age 13, Daisy had 9 children, some not making it out of the womb, or maybe she was 9 years of age when she married and had 13 children. I simply can’t remember that part. When she died, her alcoholic son Thomas, was there but most had already gone on to be with their Lord. Why did the almighty let her live so long? Daddy thought she was well, well over 100 years of age when she died but sadly, there was no way to prove it.
When Mama and Daddy had bridge club nights out, all of us children, four in total would line up on the couch and watch Daisy sleep in the leather chair. Her body would jump violently and we would start crying and screaming, never waking her up. She slept like the dead when she closed her eyes. We were afraid she was having a heart attack in her sleep or feared the worst, she was dead. Sometimes she did it to pull a prank on us. Doctors kids know everything about everything and we swore she was dying. Mama and Daddy would eventually come rushing home to find everything normal as it should have been and Daisy still alive.
When Daddy died, I gave Daisy Daddy’s wheel chair. I wheeled her upfront to be with the family, and covered her up with his blanket. She was family. She was my cherished Daisy and no one was going to tell me otherwise. Color didn’t matter to me. It never did. Even when the community of Cameron SC made my father build a waiting room onto his medical clinic for the coloreds, the blacks in the 1970’s or 1980’s, because they smelled funny, I never saw color.
Being the outcast, rebel and instigator, I enrolled in the Miss Black Orangeburg pageant. I did it to cut the stigma between colors. The audience gasped when I walked out on stage. It was to prove a point at age 15. I did exactly that. Even though it was not the right kind of point to make, maybe it coming from a teenager who hated the segregation even in modern times, might have touched someone. I did it. I did it to prove there is no difference in color of a human being. I can still hear that loud gasp from the hundred or so patrons and some certain members of the audience saying, “What in the hell is that crazy Lawton girl thinking?”
Today, my soul says go home, just go home Mary to the piece of history that few know about. To that special place that doesn’t exist today. I will, eventually, but I don’t think the time is right. The sad part is seeing what the South still believes in. If I could have given Daisy more, I would have because she gave me so much. She gave me the biggest hug of my life.
Copyrighted, TM 2000 from my book
This morning as I was in my hotel bathroom, preparing myself for work, off to my left, I caught a vision of the doorway, the path, leading to the other side. It was right there, beside me. It has never appeared to me that way before. i have witnessed the giant marble steps that my twin walked up when she cried for help to seeing the Arch Angel Michael appearing before me in a whiteness with the golden light behind him. The idea that it was my time had suddenly crossed my mind but this vision vanished a few seconds as fast it appeared. Was a spirit coming through that it opened for? They don’t normally enter my world this way or if they did, they didn’t make it so announced.
This was not a door per say as we know it with a door handle, knob or sliding glass but an opening of white, almost as if a cloud had formed into a doorway. This opening I knew. I immediately knew what it was intended for, a white entry way leading into what I could not see, a walkway, a path to follow and it was filled with love. When it closed, it closed from the bottom up. There was nothing to be afraid off. Nothing at all. Was this the proverbial tunnel that so many people speak of. Was this the way a soul travels in a near death experience only to return and tell of? Their diminishing senses upon the death of their body is awakened with a renewed sense of life. This journeying soul ifeels an all encompassing love from a golden light on the other side and is greeted by lost loved ones, This we know from store.
If it was indeed my time, then I would have gone right there as it was the most welcoming feeling, the most loving feeling I have had for a long time.
Magicians use smoke machines to create an illusion of mystic means and this was no different. It appeared and as soon as it appeared it was gone.
Was I to die this day? Was the door intended for my soul not yet finished with it’s mission? Why did I see the entrance to what some refer to as the pearly gates, the golden gates, the heavens, leading to a power much greater than ourselves? Perhaps this was not meant for me but to relay this to someone else, so that they know not to be afraid. Perhaps that I was born with the gift of being a medium, I am to relay this message. Justly so, Perhaps.
Scrooge was not there with the angel of death pointing his ghostly, craggly thin skeletal finger at his demise. Darkness didn’t appear and fade into another drama of the wrongs I committed in this lifetime, rather a lighted path, a warm loving path laid out before me only I could not see the path but yet, an all knowing of it being there. This is what a medium has been gifted with, an all knowing in a way to see, to hear, to feel the other side and the souls in it.
The vision went on to a gradual fading of everything we know, as depicted in the movies, but can only be described similar in circumstance to a passenger looking out of a airplane window. The view is starting to become obscured, with a thick blanket of whiteness overtaking the view, the clouds slowly dissipating what the eye has before it. The natural light fades with the onset of the clouds and then a brilliant golden light emits from above as though the sun peeked its way out. The noise, all noise cancels and the harmonious voices of thousands of souls singing can be heard in the background.
When i state that the doorway is open upon ushering in a reading, the doorway is different. The souls that have crossed are now in a different room behind a different door, like a large conference room standing in line, waiting their turn, a holding room. They come freely, some not all or all but not some will inevitably show. The doorway is different than the doorway I saw today. However, it all leads to the same magnificent place, a place that offers total unconditional love, like the puppy you have who just wants to show you how much he bestow his gratitude and love upon you. Unconditional love is what awaits us with no strings attached.
As I walked out of the hotel and boarded the plane, I experienced Dejavu as we ascended into the clouds. I relived what I felt in the bathroom this morning. It can’t be lived twice, so I know this vision was not intended for me but to relay it to others as a remote viewer, psychic and medium.
This is what Heaven wants you to know.
The lady in the elevator was rude. Pointing out that I could not see the number 5 had been pressed and not 3. Not looking up to meet my eyes, was a way of hers to let me know I was less than, not important in her world or others. I didn’t matter. It happens every day, all day, the mentality of others toward others.
The young man standing in the get together with other young cronies, some of them female, starts to laugh when they lay eyes upon me. Is it the way I look or that I am older? Am I not dressed nice enough? Is it a way of being defiant and important in their world, to shun the older people as not important? Is it a way to make someone feel less than? It’s the mentality off others toward others.
The cute puppy immediately runs up to me as I exit the elevator, picking me out of strangers walking past. He knows. He sees what I try to carry, what I try to instill in others, the “Good Soul”. It only comes with the white light. Animals know when you are a good person or not. Their built in uncanny sense of awareness is very distinctual and humans do not poessess it. I carry the white light. I am merely one of millions of souls on this planet in a body but my soul tries to walk along God’s path.
What Heaven really wants us to know is that we as individuals are indeed loved, by something much bigger than what we will ever be able to see while alive unless you have a gift or unless you someone meet your maker but come back. Heaven wants us to know that when our time comes we don’t just go away but are still learning. We have a job to do here, to learn how to be better souls in a body that perhaps might not work, might not be perfect and might not be what we wanted. We still have to learn from our mistakes and right the wrong. Learn from the mentality of others so that you don’t repeat it.
We need to learn to be grateful for what we have, be grateful to be able to give to others perhaps the last dollar we own, the last smile a person may see, or the last laugh someone may experience from our jokes. It comes with compassion and it comes from God.
Empathy and compassion, stepping outside of our own needs to see the lost dog on the street, the homeless man asking for money or food, to the person who suffers from mental illness. It doesn’t matter how much money we have, what we wear. What does matter is how we treat people, the mentality of others toward others.
If you saw an elderly woman walking outside in the pouring rain would you cover her with your umbrella and help her? If you saw an elderly man with a flat tire would you call someone or ask if he is okay? If you saw a lost dog or cat would you try to help get it to its home?
Say you are rich, so you donate money to a worthy cause. It does not mean your soul is good. You donate it to give it away because if you don’t, the government will take it in tax form. What were your motives to begin with? Do you personally hand people money instead? Do you personally go out of your way to help an indivdual in need or find the most needy to help? Did you buy a turkey for the lady who supports her grandkids and disabled husband and yet, she only has one lung and lives on food stamps? What have you done to deserve being called a Good Soul”? Remember, the mentality of others towards others.
Photographs never lie. Look closely at family pictures. Do you see a golden or white small light in them near a loved one? Chances are it could be an orb. If you do have an orb in your picture, blow it up large, then look for a face in the orb. Chances are, it is a loved one that you lost. Orbs carry faces in them. If you move into a new house, be sure to snap pictures and look closely. It might look like giant blurs or blobs. It could be realtives or it could be total strangers.
A friend of mine recently sent me a picture of her family photo and in that picture I saw three things happening. Two were not good but swooshing by her brother’s face was the essence of a spirit that was protecting him. Standing behind the family, especially behind her brother stood two demons, a small one but a much much larger force behind that. Both negative and I saw some serious health issues accompanying those demons.
Just as my recent photograph catpured a spirit coming from the wall in the place I stayed, capturing spirit is not difficult. Just start snapping but be prepared for what might come through and things you might not want to see.
I was riding home from the airport with two friends who picked me up late at night. Maureen rode in the front of the car and with me in the back seat was her deceased brother. That was difficult to tell her he was sitting in the back with me. It was kind of hard convincing Maureen that her brother was there for her,and when I mentioned another name for a deceased brother in her family that I had no knowledge of, now she was some sort of a believer.I didnt know she had another dead brother named Jack. Her brother sitting next to me in car mentioned “Cracker Jack”. This was as a reference to their brother who died before him. Jack.
She didn’t believe in hocus pocus, as that is what she called it. I told her, Maureen, I have a gift and that is to deliver a message of hope and closure to you with your brother. They relay imagery, symbols, and words and I have to help you put the pieces together. This was a kindergarten puzzle to piece together. Easy, simple. Most aren’t.
“Oh by the way, he said to tell you, he likes hanging out in the livingroom/kitchen area.” Of course she freaked out when I told her he was by her bedside after he died.
Her brother also told me to tell her, that she was at the jumping off point when he died. She agreed.She was. There were several ways she could of left this world but chose not to do it. I named those ways and she said yes. A confirmation that I could not have known about this except through her brother who was present for this.
He was there to protect herself from herself. A guardian angel found in a deceased brother.
The conversation continued for some time and I think when they dropped me off at my house, Maureen who didn’t believe, became a believer and can now go onto heal from the death of her brother
Its to the point I know it has something to do with me personally, perhaps my spiritual fitness or perhaps it is due to my gift.
We on occasion look up at the clock and see the numbers 11:11 or 1:11.
Well when you see it day in day out, twice, even three times a day, there might be a reason. I have heard it is because these numbers belong to half angels and half demons. That people who see it all the time are just that. I am no demon but yes, I can claim the devil made me do things on occasion.
That is pretty scary to think that could be the case. Usually when people see those numbers, they say a rhyme or even riddle after it.
I know I do, to the point of it being something like this: 11:11, God please bless my family, especially (and I name the ones who have passed.)who are in heaven.
There are several articles written on this number or collection of numbers and I know I am not alone in seeing it but when you see it everyday for days on end, there is a reason. Even this all knowing psychic and medium doesn’t know all the answers, especially when it comes to me. I can’t see for myself.
I had to share this because it is so prevalent in my life I wish I truly knew what it meant for me and why I am seeing it all the time.
I welcome comments on this subject from some of the bloggers I follow who have far more knowledge on this subject than I do.
I just got back from a kind of camping out. I stayed in a beautiful cabin in the mountains. Perfect for the month of September with the cool NY air and crisp bite when I awoke. It was just me, stinky cheese to eat and noosa yogurt and then I heard footsteps, upstairs. Pretty loud footsteps. Loud enough to get my attention kind of footsteps. They stayed upstairs thank goodness. It was a pacing around, and kind of sounded like the spirit was upset I was there. I tried to make piece with the spirit by telling them I was not there stay, just passing through and that I meant no harm. After that I felt no harm but didn’t stay in the living room very much. In fact, I stayed in my room trying to ignore the spirit.
I surmised from my gift it belonged to the person who lived or cared for the property long before my friend bought it. Not threatening but when the lights went out, I was thrown into pitch dark blackness and I hate total blackouts. I sleep with the lights on full blast and for reasons! Well, I believe that the entity upstairs also correlated with the basement, which was off the bathroom and I opened the door once. I immediately shut it. I did not get a good vibe from the basement. During the time I was there, I never opened it again nor decided to investigate it. I don’t go looking for trouble. Hey, it finds me easy enough. At one point, after I left, I was asked by someone who knows the property, “How did you like staying in the cabin.” I said, well, okay. I left it at that. When I saw the laughing smile come across her lips, I knew she knew something and didn’t want to tell me. I never let her know I knew it was haunted. Well, that was not the only soul that made their presence known. I was seeing a man of about fifty, handsome, in a sitting position around the cabin. He was wearing a red sweater, kakhi pants. I knew he was the uncle of a man I knew. What was he doing there? He never let me know but I do know that spirits show up when I am around to either let themselves be known or to be known to their loved ones I know. He was smiling the entire time and thoroughly enjoying himself. I love happy spirits. They make my gift easier to deal with.Then, she showed up. I had heard voices during my stay. Faint female voices to the point I had to ask, “Who is there?, “Hello” No answer. Silence. Then the same female voice would start talking again, as if she was carrying on a conversation with someone else. I know she was the sister to an elderly woman I know. She stayed with me and I know she is around this elderly woman constantly because she is watching over her as best as she can. This spirit showed me she had a physical defect and that is how I knew she was the sister to my friend.
Today, I saw the elderly grandmother to a gal working at Whole Foods. I didn’t say anything. How can I say to a complete stranger without giving them a heart attack, that their dead grandmother is standing behind them. I cant go anywhere without seeing the deceased or them communicating with me. I just wish I could communicate better to make others believe in what I see so that they might want communication.