The Eagle and the Rose (7 page)
I realize now that this reaction was a sort of protection against the possibility of mind reading, and quite a few of my own clients have, at first, the same reaction to me.
When people come to see me privately for a sitting and avert their eyes, or keep their heads down, I always smile and remember my own first encounter with spirit through a third person.
But back to the healer man—it was only when he gave me the name of Judith that I opened up a little, and I told him that she was my sister. He described her, tall, blond, and blue eyed, and talked of her divorce and how difficult her life had been. He also mentioned that she had two children, a boy and a girl, and he talked a little of them, too. It was amazing, all of it; everything he said was just so incredible, but true.
The last message, however, was one that at the time didn’t make much sense.
“I am being shown a ring,” he said, “a large oval-shaped ruby, surrounded by diamonds, in a setting which is so beautiful. The diamonds themselves must be worth a fortune, and the ruby is the most wonderful color, deep red, clear and pure, not a flaw in it, a perfect stone.”
I began rubbing my hands together; after all, everything else he had said had been right, so perhaps I was going to meet a millionaire who would shower me with diamonds and rubies. Although greed and avarice are not usually part of my nature, I must admit that my eyes did sparkle just a little at the prospect of all this.
But when the healer man explained the full meaning of this message, I realized that wealth comes in many forms.
The ring, the beautiful ruby, was a symbol of clairvoyance, as the color red indicates, as pure and clear as possible. The setting of diamonds is symbolic of the beauty and energy that always surrounds me when I'm working.
I was being shown something precious, a thing of beauty that I must cherish, so rare and so special. An indication of the mediumship that was to come.
This precious gift from God, which I had been blessed with since I was a child, was going to be developed, brought out, so that all of those who wished could share with me the wondrous knowledge of spirit.
While I had been sitting, engrossed with the healer man, in communication with my father, I had completely forgotten the reason I had gone to visit Paul and Irene that evening. But now my sitting was drawn to a close, and the Denhams appeared in the doorway to ask if we were ready to begin the “circle.”
They both looked very pleased with themselves, and I realized that they had deliberately kept out of the way but had been listening in the kitchen to all that had been said.
My impromptu sitting had, it would appear, benefited all of us, so as we formed a circle and held hands, and as Paul opened our meeting with a protective prayer, a feeling of calm and peace enveloped us all. Until, that is, the man who had just given me such fantastic evidence stood up and without preamble started playacting in front of my very eyes. As I sat in semidarkness I watched the healer man “pretend” to be an Indian chief. It was so ludicrous that I almost laughed out loud. Yet at the same time my mind was telling me that the man standing before me was good. There was no way he could have done what he had ten minutes before if he wasn't real. So why start pretending now?
Part of me wanted to believe him, and part of me, the sensible part, simply couldn't accept Indian chiefs as anything other than, at best, part of an overactive imagination.
After I had met this man the first time, and he had mentioned guides, I had gone away and read up a little on the subject of spirit guides. The one thing that struck me more than anything else was that so many of these guides seemed to be American Indians. So farfetched did this seem to me at the time that I dismissed it all as rubbish.
I sat mulling over all of this, not really listening anymore to what was being said. Why, I thought, do they always have to be American Indians? If mediums do have spirit guides, then why can't they be something more credible, less exotic?
Eventually, the “playacting” over, we closed the circle and the healer man asked me what I had thought of his guide, Red Feather.
Although I felt very uncomfortable, as I found it difficult to criticize this man because of my earlier experience with him, I still felt bound to tell the truth. I told him that it was impossible for me to believe there were Indian chiefs with nothing better to do than “float” around, waiting for someone to guide.
“If ever I have a guide, which I doubt,” I said, “and if I ever get to the stage where I accept that such things do exist, I can tell you one thing, it is certainly not going to be an Indian chief!”
The healer man smiled that infuriating smile—a smile I have since come to know and to understand—and he said, “Well, Rosemary, stranger things have happened, and perhaps one day I will be able to watch while you eat your words.”
Many months passed before I did just that. During that time, each Wednesday evening, our small group gathered to witness my startling progress.
The man who guided my development during this period, the healer man, was responsible for helping me to go carefully and to choose the right path. He was a constant source of information and wisdom, and he helped me at all times to find the strength within me that I needed to stay on that path.
He showed me that the answers to my questions were within me, and although he laughed at me often, over many things, he never ridiculed me. A better friend I could not have wished for than this gentle healer man, and I will be grateful to him always.
Oh, yes, I nearly forgot to tell you—his name is Mick McGuire!
Grey Eagle
I
t was Irene who first made the suggestion. “Give up your job,” she said, “and put an advertisement in the local paper. You could give psychic readings, charge £3.50 for half an hour…. You could do it.”
I was living in the small town of Epworth in the north of England, working in a pub behind the bar, part-time, earning a small but much needed wage. It wouldn't have been too bad if it hadn't been for the unwanted attentions of the lecherous landlord. Working for him became more and more impossible, but I had no choice, or so it seemed—my eleven-year-old needed feeding.
Considering Irene's suggestion, I realized I would need only three sessions a week to match what I was earning at the pub. But what if I couldn't do it … what if no one came?
I would hear the voices, now much clearer, urging me to leave, give up the job; but what would I do, how would I cope? I needed the money. I had begun to tell a few people about my experiences, and I had told my sister what our father had said, through Mick McGuire, which she totally accepted.
So I made a pact. “All right,” I said to those in the spirit world I knew were listening. “The first week I get three bookings I'll give up my job and work full-time for the spirit world.” The following week I quit my job and chose my new name … Altea. That was in October 1981.
Bookings came in slowly over the next few months, but there were never fewer than three a week. At first I was terribly nervous, knowing the responsibility of what I was doing and aware of the great need of those in the spirit world to communicate with their loved ones. I worked hard, wanting to do my very best. Even though I seemed to be working in the dark, I was always aware that someone was helping me, although I didn't know who….
Even as I write this chapter I contemplate the low probability of being believed, knowing how ridiculous it all seems. Although one of the main aims in my life is to help people to understand how normal and natural a medium's work is, I do seem to be saying just the opposite. What I am about to write I know will be seen as so ludicrous as to be totally unbelievable. I am also aware of the danger, more so after writing such seeming rubbish, of being thought by some to be a liar, a cheat, and a charlatan.
What I am about to relate lacks credence, I know. Yet it's true.
My first meeting with a spirit guide did not occur in dramatic and unusual circumstances, as I might have expected.
It was just a few weeks after I had begun my psychic development, November 1981, that I woke early one morning to find him standing by the bed, looking down at me. Although I was still half asleep, I knew he was no apparition, no specter in the night. Nor was he a figment of my imagination.
It felt natural for me to acknowledge him, and I smiled a sleepy hello.
He bowed graciously, looking completely at ease, and I knew that subconsciously I had been waiting for this moment to arrive.
I didn't ask his name, and he never gave it, but I nicknamed him my dancing Scotsman.
He wore a bright-colored kilt and a jacket, with a sword belt strapped across his shoulder and a sporran laid over the kilt; on his head he wore a tam-o’-shanter. His shoes were soft and looked similar to those worn by ballet dancers, and his socks were the long woolen type.
And he danced. Every time he was pleased with something, or if he felt that I needed cheering up, which was quite often in those days, he would dance a little jig.
I didn't need to be told that he was a spirit guide, or helper. I knew instinctively that he was, and I felt tremendously reassured just having him around.
I began to expect him to be there when I needed help of any kind, and every morning when I woke up he would be the first person I would see.
It was great to have someone special—a friend, a teacher—and without realizing it, I became quite reliant on the fact that he was always there when I needed him. Basically, I took him for granted.
A silly thing to do.
Having read quite a bit by this time about spirit guides, books like
Forty Years a Medium
written by Estelle Roberts, I knew that all of us have someone in the spirit world who watches us and watches over us. For most people this “guide,” or “guardian angel,” is someone connected to the family, a relative or close friend, often someone we have had a special affinity with prior to his or her death. Occasionally this guide may be family connected but never talked about, so we may have to do some checking to discover his (or her) identity. I had just assumed that I had been allocated my dancing Scotsman, who was possibly some ancient ancestor, rather than an American Indian, and that from now on he would always be around to help with my work and personal life.
I was quite delighted with this choice of guide, as I have always felt a particular affinity with the Scottish people, and indeed with Scotland itself, and I loved to hear him when he spoke to me, his voice soft and lilting. My father, being half Welsh, half Scot, had always seemed to dismiss the Welsh side of the family and was very proud of his Scottish ancestry. I suppose this is where my own feelings stemmed from.
Apart from this, I felt that a Scottish guide was much more acceptable in real terms than some possibly imagined, outlandish-seeming Indian chief with feathers in his hair and perhaps war paint on his face.
So I was content. My psychic development was unusual, I was told by Mick and Paul, in that everything I attempted to do, to learn, came easily. Instinctively I knew how to act and how to react. It was as if, suddenly, someone had switched on a light. I had been plugged in to some incredible unseen energy source, and I knew just how to use it. My actions were totally spontaneous, and as I sat with my clients, making communication with their loved ones in the spirit world, I knew just what to do.
If my dancing Scotsman, always with me, wanted to communicate certain information to me quickly, the most efficient way was to show me certain pictures or symbols. He didn't have to explain these symbols, or signs, to me, I just knew instinctively (there's that word again) what they meant. It was a bit like learning the highway code, using road signs to indicate certain situations, such as a railway crossing, road construction ahead, and so on.
I cannot be specific about the symbols that we used, nor their meanings. I do not imply that these are secret signs, trade secrets, so to speak, but this is a language all of its own, foreign to most people. It is a language I still use, but it has become more complex, less simplistic, and totally unexplainable. And, like the old proverb, every picture tells a story, or, in this case, one picture is worth a thousand words.
My clientele began to grow, I continued with my development group, my clairvoyant and clairaudient abilities became stronger and therefore much clearer, and each Wednesday evening as Paul, Irene, Mick, and I met to continue my psychic development, my progress was, to say the least, startling.
All this time my dancing Scotsman was there, helping, pushing, encouraging, and every morning I would wake to find him smiling down at me and ready to begin another day. I was happy. I drew closer to God, knowing that I was doing His work.
I can't remember exactly when it was that I began to be aware of yet another strong influence about me. It was a distinctly male influence, and at first I thought it was my father. But I soon dismissed this theory, as it didn't “feel” right. It is hard to explain to those who have never had a psychic experience the feeling of a “presence”—a sensing of a “spirit being” around you, sometimes close, almost breathing on you, sometimes from a distance, but real, very real.
It must have been in January 1982, just two or three months after meeting the Scotsman, and at first I put it down to mild curiosity on the part of someone in spirit, come to take a look at me and at what was going on.
It soon became apparent that whoever this was, he was more than just mildly curious. He was around far too often for that. But try as I might, I could not catch even a glimpse of this unknown intruder.
Even Mick was at a loss as to who he was, but smiling that knowing smile, which I had now come to recognize so well, he told me that I would just have to be patient and wait until “he,” whoever “he” was, was ready to make himself known to me. “That is,” he added, grinning wickedly, “if he ever does.”
Then came the shock!
I woke up one morning and automatically turned to where my dancing Scotsman usually stood, but he was not there. I sat bolt upright and searched around the bedroom. He was nowhere in sight!