The Eagle and the Rose (17 page)

“Every time I tried,” she said, “I just got the collywobbles, and couldn't do it. I hope you'll forgive me and understand.” And of course, I did.

Then Doris went on to tell me how she had tried to let her daughter know that she was there on my first meeting with her.

“As you now know, my surname is Rose, and my favorite flowers are roses, and Elizabeth knows that more than any others, the tiny pink rosebuds, like the ones you saw when you first went to her house, are the ones I love the most.

“Grey Eagle placed garlands of them around the room for me, and I was hoping that you would tell her about them, but you didn't.”

The garlands of roses I had seen when I first went to Elizabeth's house. Oh, such a beautiful sight—but I had missed the significance of them. Such a small point, seemingly inconsequential. But because I hadn't seen it, I had failed to see Doris Rose.

Thank goodness that Doris and her daughter had persevered. Thank goodness they had kept on trying.

“If you had told her, I'm sure that my daughter would have realized the significance and known that I was there,” Doris said then. “Perhaps,” she concluded with a smile, “you could tell her that I will always be with her when she needs me, always.”

So many of us, when first coming into contact with a medium, are nervous or even downright afraid. Not sure what to expect, afraid of the unknown.

Many in the spirit world are also afraid. What if I can't hear them? What if I misunderstand them? It's a bit like being afraid of messing up on an important exam.

Thank goodness Doris Rose overcame her nervousness, her fear of not being heard. And thank God for the many in the spirit world who helped her, and others like her, to break through the barrier and make contact.

Suicides

F
ear is an intangible thing, an illusive and insidious emotion that can cause destruction and devastation, if allowed to grow. Fear of death is common in most of us to a greater or lesser degree, for isn't death considered that great “unknown”? But there are many who equally fear life, fearing failure to achieve, to compete with their peers, or even to take that next step that will lead them around the corner, again to come face-to-face with the “unknown.”

There were times in my life when I have feared living, times when I feared dying, and it is my knowledge of the spirit world and the workings of the universe that enables me to dare to be. To dare to be my own self with quiet confidence, able to go forward to meet the many challenges that life itself brings.

The ancients, the grandfathers, American Indians, believe that each of us as individuals owns the power of the universe, to do with it what we choose. And they, like others from ancient cultures, had an understanding of the spirit world and all that the universe encompasses, living their lives enlightened by that knowledge, embracing life and also embracing death as it came to them, joyfully and proud.
Hanta Yo!,
Ruth Beebe Hill's book about the Native American Indians, offers a phrase that expresses perfectly what I mean: “continual habitual spirituality.”

One of my aims, working as a medium, is to teach you, all of you who would come to learn, in the same way that I too have been taught, to give you a greater understanding that life is an adventure, a learning experience that, if embraced, will help us grow. In that growing we can discover the spirit self and truly know who we are. Death is a door that we all must walk through, and it is that spirit self that, discarding the physical body, will take us on to continue our lives, learning and growing as we go.

I am fortunate in that I was born with, and have recognized, the awareness of the spirit world. I am of the universe even as I live my life on the earth plane, and with that knowledge I have been able through time to face my fears and to deal with them. Consequently my life has become more and more fulfilled and fulfilling. Truthfully I cannot say if, at the moment of my death, I will race through that door willingly, for even now the thought of leaving behind friends and family, particularly my daughter, saddens me. I feel sure that I will be apprehensive about the journey to come, but I know it will take but a moment before I see the light that will show me the path that is mine to follow. I know too that I am, even on the earth, walking a path that is also lit if I care to look. This makes me unafraid of life.

Unfortunately, those whose stories I now tell did not have such understanding, were not awake to the joys of life, to the gift of life that is so precious; so, blindly, and with fear in their hearts, they walked their path here on the earth plane in darkness and alone. These people chose to take their own lives.

Suicide is a difficult thing to talk about because, unlike all other causes of death, it is self-inflicted. A person decides, using his or her own free will, to end life. But the fact is, and these people usually discover this too late, that life continues. There are those, both in the church and some concerned with the legal system, who consider suicide to be a terrible crime. I know that some of you who read this book will be of the same opinion. To say that it is a crime or not a crime is to be judge and jury. So I will leave all the judgments to God and simply tell the stories, all of which are true. But I will change the names of the characters to prevent inflicting more pain on the relevant families.

The lady who had come to me for a consultation sat facing me, waiting for me to begin. She appeared to be in her early thirties, although I discovered later that I had underestimated by about ten years. Despite the obvious pain showing clearly on her face and the desperate look of sorrow in her eyes, she was very attractive. I realized instantly that here was a woman in deep distress.

When her friend had rung two weeks earlier, begging me to see her immediately, my first reaction was to say, “I'm very sorry, but I have a waiting list of at least six months.” But even as I was saying this, Grey Eagle was telling me something different.

“This one really is urgent,” he said. “Will you please fit her in?”

I looked through my diary, and sure enough I had one afternoon off—the first in weeks!

So here she was (we'll call her Mrs. Jones) with her friend, the one who telephoned, standing in the hall. You don't have to be psychic to tell when someone is greatly troubled, even though that person may be putting on a brave face, so it was quite apparent to me as I ushered them into my study which of the two ladies was my client.

Working as a medium can sometimes be a great strain, and occasionally before a sitting, especially if I'm feeling tired, I will ask Grey Eagle, “Can we make this an easy one?”

Although he always helps me, and without him I would be completely useless, he doesn't have a magic wand, and if he did have, he wouldn't use it. It is impossible to “make” anyone who has passed over communicate. It has to be an action born of free will.

I have yet to see or hear about anyone who can “raise the dead,” and I would never use methods of any kind that might force someone in the spirit world to talk to me. All a medium can do is hope, wait, and be patient.

I have rarely contacted a suicide with anything other than some difficulty. Those I have spoken to who have killed themselves, for whatever reason, all have one thing in common. There is always a feeling of tremendous reluctance on their part to make the first step toward communication. It is a reluctance born of fear, fear of rejection by those they love, those whom they have left behind to face the hurt and pain of living.

Within minutes I was aware of a very strong presence in the room but could neither see nor hear anything that might help me establish a contact. Patiently I waited, asking over and over, “Where are you, can you talk to me?”

But nothing.

Those who have taken their own lives often need a tremendous amount of coaxing and encouragement. I always try to show my love to them and let them see that I care. For me, the trick is never to lose my patience, to remain gentle and caring, and to gradually gain the confidence of the person in the spirit world who is waiting to communicate. It is also necessary to remember that the client is very likely becoming more and more nervous.

Mrs. Jones was no exception, and as the minutes ticked by she became very edgy. I reached out and patted her hand gently, smiling reassurance. “Patience,” I said. “Just try to relax and leave the rest to me.”

Still we sat and waited, and it was more than thirty minutes later—it must have seemed like forever to Mrs. Jones—when I saw him. He was a young man, very slim, not very tall, and I guessed he would be around eighteen years old.

In fact he was twenty. At first he was extremely nervous, scared that he would be rejected, and scared that he would make a mess of the sitting. I let him know that we weren't in a hurry, that he could have as much time as he needed; slowly and carefully, and with Grey Eagle's help, I managed to build up a rapport between us. Eventually the link grew stronger, and then I heard his voice. It was faint at first, but as he became more confident, I was able to hear him more clearly.

“My name is Ricky,” he said. Then, pointing to my client, Mrs. Jones: “And that's my mum.”

He then promptly burst into tears, so relieved to have finally broken through the barrier that separates our two worlds. After he had calmed down and become familiar with his new situation, he began to speak. Little by little he overcame his initial reluctance, and I found that he was quite a forward young man with a great personality.

Most people on the other side, when talking to a medium for the first time, feel the need to talk of their last memories of life on earth. These memories, of course, include how and why they have passed over.

Ricky was no different, and very soon he was giving me all the details.

Often when I communicate with those in the spirit world it is like sitting in front of a very large TV set, and in just the same way that I would watch a home movie, those in the spirit world will relay their information with words and pictures. As I carefully take note of the vision, the “movie” that I see, the person in the spirit world with whom I am communicating will give his or her own narrative. I may be shown a picture, a “photograph,” of how they looked when they were younger. Sometimes there will be many voices, many people, family and friends, wanting to be heard. Other times I may hear just one voice. This was how it was with Ricky.

He began by describing the garden shed, a big old place that had stood for years in the grounds of his family's house. The house itself was old and brick built, and as Ricky talked about it, I realized that he had a tremendous affection for the place, as had his mother. He talked about the tall trees surrounding their land and how in winter it was a very spooky place to live, the wind whistling through the trees, making them creak ominously.

It is always difficult for suicides to talk about how they have passed, because often these people who take their own lives still don't really know why they have done it.

Suicide doesn't solve anything, even in sickness, because the problems we all encounter during our daily lives, no matter what they are, are there as obstacles to be climbed over. Problems will be there whatever we do, wherever we are, whether we are on this side or the other. It is how we deal with them, our state of mind, that determines how big or small, or insurmountable, these obstacles become.

Dying doesn't change who we are, and Grey Eagle assures me that our problems go with us.

Positive thinking is something we should all try to achieve, and putting an end to our lives on this side simply means that we must achieve this state of mind in another place. Our lives on the earth plane have a purpose, and that purpose is to learn, to discover as much about our true spirit and the importance of our own spirit selves as we can.

Ricky must have realized this, and his struggle with himself would have been made all the more difficult knowing how badly his family had been affected by what he had done.

As Ricky relayed his story, I of course told Ricky's mother all the things that he said. Tears rained down her face as she listened, nodding but silent, indicating that she understood what I was saying but unable in her grief to react further.

Quietly I listened while Ricky repeated the description of his home, letting him know that whatever he wanted to say, whatever he wanted to do, was fine with me, even if it meant repeating things a dozen times to make sure we'd understood.

Each time Ricky mentioned the garden shed he would become agitated, and I began to suspect that it was this detail more than any other that had some bearing on this young man's passing. Step carefully now, I thought, as gently I steered his thoughts back to the shed, hoping that he would tell me more, and eventually he did.

He told me of the day—his last one on this side— when he had decided to end it all. For years he and his father had been at loggerheads. They only had to look at each other for the rows and arguments to start. On the day in question he and his father, as usual, had had a row. Not a big one, not much more than a spat.

Afterward, for some reason known only to himself, Ricky fetched the shotgun his father used for shooting game and went down to the garden shed.

After sitting alone for some time, staring up at the rafters and listening to the wind whistling through the trees, he put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Many hours passed before his body was found, and the police were called in, as foul play was suspected.

The agony and pain his family sustained during this time, and since, is indescribable. The terrible burden of guilt had been laid upon their shoulders, and nothing will ever be able to remove it.

It is unlikely that anyone who had not experienced similar traumas can imagine the atmosphere that now hung heavily in the air in my small study. I had repeated, almost word for word, the story Ricky told, and his mother was now weeping uncontrollably before me. It is a hard thing for a mother to come to terms with the fact that her son had been unhappy enough to kill himself, for whatever reason. Mrs. Jones could not understand why Ricky had done such a thing, and I'm sure she never will. Her son was unable to help her because he did not know, either.