Tag Archives: believing

These Boots Went-a Walkin’

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Recently, I pulled an oracle card that night, asking what tomorrow was going to be like. The card indicated that there was going to be a loss.

Oh, great, I thought, but then countered with, It is what it is. You can’t change it. Just go with the flow.

I went to bed not thinking about it, not worrying about it.

The next day, I went out to eat and stopped at the mailbox before going inside. As I walked toward my front door, I noticed something was sticking out of the sole of my snow boot. Something about four inches long and skinny. Not a stick. Whatever it was, it appeared attached.

I waited until I was inside and took off the boot to see what it was.

I was crushed. It was part of the sole, the side of the boot itself!

NO! No, no, NO!

The piece hung loosely, still attached. I pulled it off, thinking I could glue it all back together. Gorilla glue, after all, is a marvelous repair tool. But alas, the sole was loose as well and had been for some time with debris deteriorating the underside of the sole and the bottom of the boot, more than what could be repaired.

And then, I realized—THIS WAS MY LOSS from the oracle card! I’d had those boots for 20 years! They were older than most of my grandchildren.

When I’d bought them, I’d paid somewhere between $129-$159, which was a lot of money for me at the time considering my job status with no benefits and being a fulltime student, as well. Unfortunately, I had no choice but to purchase them as I couldn’t wear cheap shoes as they hurt my feet. I suffered from neuropathy in my feet and hadn’t been able to determine the cause. (It would be another 17 years before I would.)

These boots were ECCOs—hence the expense—and I discovered I could wear them all day without pain. Plus, I’d always had trouble finding a boot I could slide into easily because of my high instep and the high bone on the top of my foot that prevented that easy slide. At least with this pair, I didn’t have that problem.

These boots were perfect! Both in wear and in looks. They got compliments everywhere they went. They were coveted, desired, and admired by many.

Quickly, with an online search, I discovered there was no replacing them. No longer manufactured, there wasn’t anything even remotely close to a pair like these, not in any brand. Of course, being the middle of winter, stores had boots on sale. Had I made this discovery a week or two later, I’d probably have found nothing in the stores to replace them.

I ended up replacing them with what I called old lady boots, ankle-short boots that zipped on the outside. Not made for being in the snow at all. But then again, given my age and the fact that I no longer live in the lake-effect snow district or play in the snow, I guess ankle-short boots will do the job. For now.

When I told the story to a friend, she told me to call my new boots princess boots instead. I like princess boots a lot better than old lady boots, don’t you?

I hated the thought of having to trash these boots. They were the best friend a girl living in the snowy northland could have ever wanted.

They will be missed.

Amarillo By Morning

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My sister, Eileen, died suddenly in February 2013. Before that, she was taking care of Mom, doing her laundry, taking her to doctor visits, etc.

At Eileen’s funeral her favorite song, Amarillo By Morning by George Strait was played.

I downloaded it into my iTunes account and added it to my playlist, which I used while writing on my iPad. While teaching and working, I carried my iPad everywhere just as I did my paper planner. I discovered I could write on my iPad with it acting very much like a computer, wherever I went and could block out noise using my earphones and playlist. At the time, my iPad was lighter to carry than my laptop and far easier to turn on, use, and then turn off.

The thing you have to know is that whenever I shut down the iPad, I shut down all and any of the apps that are open. I learned to do that because, during one month, I discovered apps had been running in the background using up data even though I wasn’t using the apps. They couldn’t update automatically if the apps were all closed and the iPad turned off.  

I carried the iPad, the planner, and any school work I might working on with me in a black bag that always had my pencils, pens, a cord extension, and other incidentals that I didn’t want to put in my purse.

On this particular day, my brother and I were in an ER room at the hospital. My mother had arrived by ambulance before we got there, and just as we got into her room, they were wheeling her out for some tests. We waited.

I was sitting on a stool next to where her bed had been, my purse and bag on the floor, close but out of the way so no one could kick or trip on them. My brother was standing next to me, legs crossed, arms crossed, and we were talking about Mom’s situation.

All of sudden, music started playing. Amarillo By Morning. And, it was coming out of my bag.

He looked down at it. Then, looked at me, a questioning expression on his face.

I held up my hands, saying, “I didn’t touch it.”

I pulled out the iPad and opened the cover from the keyboard so that we could see the screen. It was dark.

I double-clicked on the home button to reveal the apps that were playing.

None.

Yet, the music button on the taskbar was highlighted. I clicked on it. George Strait’s picture filled the screen.

I looked up at my brother and said, “Eileen did that. She’s letting us know that she’s here with us, with Mom.”

That was the second time she had turned on my music, while my iPad was in my bag.

I’ve been waiting to see if she’d do it again. I suspect that she’s waiting to surprise me, to catch me off guard, knowing that she got me. I can hear her chuckling now.

An Ask of the Birds: Stop Loving My Car

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This is my fifth summer in this apartment complex. I love it for many reasons: my own front door, one story, older community, close to the grocery store, it’s quiet…

What I really enjoy is having nothing more than a postage stamp of a front yard on one side of the sidewalk to my door, where I’m able to plant a flower garden and set up bird feeders that I watch while at my desk writing.

On the other side of the sidewalk is a huge red maple tree. Birds like to use it as a way-station coming to and from my feeders. At night, they’ve roosted there. How do I know? I could tell by the amount of poo I find on the trunk of the car each morning.

I always park in the same spot under this tree. Why not move elsewhere, you ask? Because the spot is at the end of my sidewalk, thus I’m able to back my car into the spot, which makes for ease of loading & unloading both from the trunk and the backseat, plus my ease of access to the driver’s seat.

Four full seasons of Poo Wars. I’d wash the car. Next day blobs of white. New blogs every day until I either went to the car wash again, or we got a heavy rain that would wash it off for me.

It started again this summer. As usual. By May, I had washed my car many times, which in itself was unusual considering how long winter lasted into April this year.

Finally, one fine day in early May, I came home with a clean car, got out, looked up at the tree, and said: Okay birds. I’ll continue feeding you and you can roost in the tree all you want but no more pooping on my car!

Since that date, there’s not been one dropping.

Seriously.

Three whole months. Lots of birds at the feeders. More so this year than ever. Even orioles and lots of woodpeckers.

And still, not one dropping.

None.

Who says the Universe doesn’t listen?

They Come A-Calling with Their Smells

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Last night, someone passed through my apartment, someone who strongly smelled of fast-food fried chicken, like Popeyes.

In recent days, I’ve smelled pork chops, hash, and a blueberry pie, all from separate individuals. I have no idea who they are. Another individual came through smelling strongly of bleach.

All strangers.

People who have died during this pandemic period of time and are checking out the open doors that some of us maintain.

I can feel their confidence growing as they find someone noticing them. They’re finding their way around their new landscape, learning the rules of being on the other side.

They’re not unhappy, just curious, wanting to seek out ways of communicating with their loved ones. Testing us, total strangers with those open doors, in learning how to make contact.

You’re probably saying, these are smells normally in my apartment. Actually, no, they’re not. I haven’t used bleach in years. I’m allergic to both pork and blueberries, so neither are found in my apartment, and I have never made hash. I’ve eaten plenty in my younger days, but I’ve never made it.

While I share two walls with neighbors, in the four-plus years I’ve lived here, odors from these other two apartments have never leaked into mine. And, the front door has been closed as we await spring, so no odors aren’t coming from there.

How can I tell these are people on the other side? Because the odors come and go. Suddenly, the scent is there, and then, once I’ve noticed them, it’s gone. They’ve moved on, probably to test more doors or to finally try contacting their loved ones.

That ability is called clairalience. It’s a psychic gift of spiritual smells.

These folks aren’t the first souls to visit me, letting me know they’re nearby via their scents. A best friend who died suddenly owned four cats. Her home never smelled like a litter box. Ever. Yet, I always know when it’s her because of the cat smell. Over our forty-plus years of friendship, she had many cats. For some reason, many ended up sick, needing good veterinarian care, which she provided. Several died too young. I’m sure on the other side, she was happily reunited with them all. So, it made sense that a litter box was her signatory scent for me. Still is. She doesn’t visit as frequently now, but her goal has always been to push me forward with a particular pet writing project we shared. I’m working on it again, as a result of her visits, her insistence.

Another woman, someone I knew but hadn’t seen in probably half a year, visited me upon her death, but I was puzzled by the pee smell. When I asked about it with someone who was close to her, that person said yes, that was how she smelled in her last few months. Her few visits with me shortly after her death were more about her checking out the open doors than anything else.

My ex-mother-in-law came frequently upon her death. Her pot roast was phenomenal, so it only made sense she appeared with that scent. Her first visit was for a particular, personal reason. After that, she appeared a few more times, just to visit.

When my father visits, he usually comes with the smell of his early morning toast or his pipe tobacco. I say usually, because in the beginning, just after his death, he’d play with my TV or VCR, turning it on if I turned it off, or vice-versa. Spirits love to play with our electric appliances: lights, computers, TVs, stereos, etc. Because we are all energy, electricity is a natural conductor for them. With his history of repairing TVs and then later computers, for him to play with mine made total sense. I could hear him chuckling every time I called him out.

These are just a few examples of the many people who have visited me with their smells.

Have you ever noticed a familiar smell in an unlikely place or at an unlikely time, meaning the scent isn’t associated with your current location or time of day? If so, you probably were visited by someone you know. Someone from the other side.

As these people move through my apartment, I acknowledge them, wish them well, and continue to be amazed at the tremendous love that surrounds them. No doubt, there will be many more souls this coming month or two while the pandemic ravages our country.

I wonder what my scent might be when my time comes? I’m hoping it’ll be Chanel 5, my favorite cologne, and the only cologne I can wear. That or old books.

The Power of Visualization, Part II: The Power of Making It Happen

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When I was in my late 20s, I had fleeting visions of wanting educational degrees, in particular, a Ph.D. I say fleeting because I was raising a family and there was no way I could be on a college campus, let alone have a way to pay for it. This was the time period before affordable computers for individuals and before the Internet became public.

It was an idea so far out of my reach that it was an impossible dream. At that time, my education consisted of an executive secretarial certification from a business university—one where I would later in life find a career as a teacher. An irony not lost on me.

On June 29, 2013, at the age of 62, I walked across the stage and was hooded for a Ph.D. I was an English professor, overseeing two campuses at the time. In earlier years, I’d overseen three different locations, spending a lot of time traveling, in addition to teaching, and overseeing a dozen or so adjuncts at these locations.

It was my employer who had propelled me toward the degree and had paid for its tuition. How could I not want to achieve that goal with that kind of help? It was a win-win for me and for them. In exchange, I couldn’t leave their employment for five years, a price I was willing to pay.

Now that I had the Ph.D., along with my MFA, I felt secure in my career, and the university wanted me to publish. The problem was I wanted to focus on both creative writing and academic writing but I didn’t have time for both. I had to choose.

My gut told me to go with creative writing, and it was my first choice, but would the university agree? After a brief discussion, my supervisor agreed with me, saying the MFA and my previous publications created a more natural path for me. She supported me in that decision.

Life events kept getting in the way of doing that writing, however. After being involved in a 22-car pile up on the highway while traveling from one campus to another, I sent a request out into the Universe. My request was, I want writing time but where I’m allowed to live comfortably enough without horrific sacrifice.

It was late fall 2014 when I made that request.

As was happening with many colleges and universities, student enrollment was dropping and had been every year for several years. Fewer classes got offered. I watched as an organizational restructuring took place. I’d seen it happen a few times in my twelve-year employment with them and with every restructure, jobs would disappear.

The last big restructuring had taken place a few years earlier where they shut down several of the smallest campuses. We knew the Battle Creek campus would be next, and then our Kalamazoo campus after that.

Those campuses residing in community college environments were becoming partners with those community colleges. We could see the writing on the wall for Kalamazoo. By late spring 2015, we figured we had only a year left. As summer progressed, we were confident we’d be closed at the winter Christmas break. We were prepared.

Late June 2015, a meeting with all the senior administration occurred. Not usual for that time of year as we prepared for another year. A couple times a year such meetings would take place. We figured this would be the talk for the winter closing.

What some of us didn’t know is that day would be our last.

I was taken into a room with a senior human resource official. I was informed that I was being let go as they were shutting down our campus for all classes that fall. The core administrative staff was moving to another location and classes would be held on the community college campus. We were six weeks away from classes starting. When I left the room, I would have 10 minutes to gather my things and could arrange to come back later to collect anything else.

I sat there, in my usual stoic manner, thinking it all through.

I wasn’t stunned at all. Just merely surprised that we hadn’t guessed correctly.

And then I realized. I had asked for this. I said the words aloud. The HR official’s expression was one of surprise. Great surprise. “You’re not angry?”

“How can I be when I asked for this?” I told her of my fall request, saying this was the Universe answering that request. She was astonished and I could tell that she was also relieved that she wasn’t having to deal with anger, resentment, or frustration.

The good news was my Ph.D. was free and clear of any indebtedness. A big win for me.

As I collected my things, I wondered what I was going to do. Where I was going to live? How I would support myself until I could officially retire, something I didn’t want to do until I turned 66.

That’s when I heard my little voice say, Don’t worry about it. It’s going to be okay.

Having trusted that little voice in the past, I knew it spoke a truth that I couldn’t comprehend yet.

In the coming months, I was to find out.

Stay tuned for “The Power of Visualization, Part III.

The Power of Visualization, Part I: The Power of Making It Happen

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Yesterday, I traveled to Holland to meet with a friend, a former co-worker who I haven’t seen in a couple years. The visit felt like we had seen each other just last week. I love those friendships I have where the bonds are as strong as ever despite the many years between visits.

Two items on my relatively short bucket list are 1) to see a bald eagle in the wild, and 2) see a moose in the wild. For the later, it’ll take a trip to the Upper Peninsula or to Maine where I’d love to do a fall color tour since I’ve never been to that state. But for number one, I knew that the bird had returned to Michigan. I’ve been hoping…

As I was headed to Kalamazoo on 1-94 on my way to Saugatuck to visit my all-time favorite new age store, Mother Moon, before going to Holland, I decided to drive through Fennville, a small community in the middle of nowhere and which has a great winery. Out loud I added, “And wouldn’t it be nice to see a bald eagle there?”

I was enjoying the green foliage on the trees, being able to take my time as I drove in the shaded highway. I noticed lots of blossoming spirea plants, wondering how I could possibly plant one or two at my rental, knowing I couldn’t because they get so big. It brought back memories of being on the farm and the row of blossoming spirea every spring on our property, how it would look like it had snowed on the hedge.

Spirea

I turned from 40 onto 89, a straight-line of highway that would take me through Fennville over to 31. Not a cloud in the sky. The shaded forests on either side of the road diminished as I began approaching the town.

I looked up and there it was. A bald eagle overhead, soaring in a wide circle, wings spread wide. That pure white head impossible to miss.

bald eagle

I felt as if I had manifested its appearance, that the Universe heard my request and granted it.

So, why haven’t I been able to see an eagle before now? Because I never said when or where I would like to see one. I was specific this time, plus I was in the perfect place where apparently this bird resides, and I was there at the perfect time.

Any other time I’ve talked about wanting to see an eagle in the wild, I’ve been in my house, at my computer or on the phone. Impossible to see one through a ceiling, right?

This isn’t the first time, I’ve drawn something I desired toward me. I wrote about “The Winter Coat” in a blog here five years ago.

A few years ago, I wrote the blog, “Writing Down the Words: Making Magic Happen.” The coat was about imagining my vision as true. This second blog was about imagining the words as true.

And then three years ago when my job disappeared…wait, what? I haven’t told you about that desire that came about unexpectedly and in the most unusual way?

That’s my next blog. Part II. Stay tuned…

 

 

 

The Circle Crows Event

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Crows and ravens are birds of high interest to me. They’re attached to mystery, death, darkness both of night and of the psyche. These birds are extremely clever, intelligent birds who like to collect objects, the shinier the better. Science has shown that they recognize humans as individuals.

Crows and ravens are totem birds for me. As I learned about totems, it was the bald eagle that was my first totem bird. The crows and ravens came later and are still currently part of my totem clan.

Because they are important to me, I pay attention whenever I hear a caw or croak as to where am I, what am I doing, or what are they doing, and how many are there at the time as numbers have meaning, as well.  These birds are usually solitary creatures but when they are together, there’s a specific reason why.

  • They are considered messengers in many cultures and often as messengers of a future event.
  • They are the guardians of their area: they will sound off seeing someone or something new nearby, as they watch from the tops of trees or building rooftops.

Recently, I was in the process of closing my step-father’s house, removing the last of the furniture and any remaining personal items. The house was for sale and we were close to getting an offer.  My step-father who is 89 had been born in the house and lived in it his entire life, except for the few years when he was in the service during the Korean War and when living with his first wife, to whom he was married for only two years. When he and my mother married, she would move in with him, but their marriage would last only five years. They were still friends when my mother died.

I had hired a team—a middle-aged woman and an old man, as they called themselves—who were moving his goods to an auction house, where everything would be sold.

Halfway through the move, we noticed birds circling above the house. They were crows, quietly circling at the height of about two tall trees. They weren’t cawing, but I could tell they were crows by their silhouette. There were about two dozen of them. Immediately, I had goosebumps.

For forty-five minutes they circled. Continuously. Every time we came out of the house, we looked up and there they were.

We came out of the house for the last time. The two movers carried that last load to their trailer parked out by the street.

I locked the door, shut the screen, and walked out from under the porch canopy and looked up.

The crows were gone.

Goosebumps popped up on my arms and along my spine. I’d never seen crows circling like that before or for that length of time. Nor had I ever seen that many in one place, acting as one.

Suddenly, I realized that they had been signifying the end of an era for my step-father and signifying a new beginning for a future buyer.

As I walked to my car, I realized their circle had represented the ever circle of life.

The Magic of Plants

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The Magic of Plants

Once upon a time, in the world of big corporation and cubical landscapes, there was this small, dry, forgotten palm.  It stood only about six inches high and was near death.  Its owner had vacated the premises and apparently stuck the plant on the windowsill, which was accelerating its death due to continual bright, direct sun all day long and no water.

I took pity on it and took it home.

Conditions at home were just the opposite.  A small apartment that received minimum indirect daylight, as the windows faced east and the shades shut while I was at work.  That meant light only came into the room on the weekends.

Miraculously, the plant survived.  It must have liked the bigger pot,  better soil, and cooler temps.  Plus, I was talking to it and watering it regularly.  Somewhere, I had read that plants liked being talk to.  Something about breathing in our carbon dioxide exhaling breaths.  Since it exhaled oxygen, we were a good match.

I lived in that apartment for several years and the plant grew slowly.  Surprisingly, the plant blossomed a couple times, despite the darkness.

Then, I moved to a spacious modular, a.k.a. double-wide mobile home.

Spacious with many windows, at the opposite end of the front door was an enormous kitchen and a sliding glass door that led to a small porch that butted up against the trees.  Even when the vertical blinds were closed, the kitchen was still filled with light.  The plant thrived there.

Other than my watering it regularly, we shared quarters for a year.  During that time, I repotted him, giving its roots more room.  It blossomed again that year.  I began calling him Hank, sometimes Buddy.

Then I moved to small apartment again in another community, but this apartment had a sliding glass door that led to a small cement pad porch.  This time, my light came from the northwest, more north than west, but even with the shades drawn, which was most of the time while I was at work, there was ample light.

Even during the winter, if the sun was out, the room captured rays of the setting sun, even more during summer, particularly where Hank was positioned.  Additionally, he sat next to maple armoire, which reflected the heat with additional heat seeping through the armoire wall next to Hank, due to the TV and stereo equipment when turned on.

Hank thrived, despite the long days with drawn shades.  For the first couple of years, several times each year, the plant produced new fronds and blossomed multiple times.  I’d talk to it as I pruned off the lower dead leaves that appeared on occasion, telling him I was doing it for its own good.  I sensed that he believed me.  Then, he began sprouting new leaves every other month and blossoming even more during the year.

When I got a treadmill, to make room, I slid the plant closer to my writing desk.  It wasn’t long before  Hank 2012his leaves began to mingle with the leaves of my work, the books, and manuscripts.  Anytime I had to move him away from my desk, I sensed that he was unhappy.

So for the bulk of the twelve years I lived in that apartment, he thrived, turning into a blustered four-foot tall palm whose width filled the non-opening side of that sliding glass door.

And then, I’ve moved again.  Hank moved into the new apartment, in another new community a month before me.  His job was to clean up the air due to new carpet installation, the smell which I was allergic to.

He did his job well.  I placed him in the bedroom, where the brightest light appeared despite the closed blinds 24/7.  While he was helping me clean the air, I suspect the air was a bit toxic for him, too.

About a month after I moved in, I noticed the lower leaves were turning yellow.  I realized, too, that the water was different.  Not to mention having moved in the middle of winter.

Lots of changes for a creature that prefers gradual changes rather than lots of sudden to its surroundings.

I think its isolation in the bedroom was a tad depressing, once I moved in.  I was out in the living room all day, writing.  I could hear him expressing that he wanted to be near me again during the day.

For a while, he sat close to the big window, capturing the sun’s vibrant energy as the blinds are open all day.  But now, he’s back near my desk, once again his leaves touching mine.

He’s starting to get new leaves again, so he must be happy.  I’ll know it’s true once the blossoms appear again.  Today, Hank is easily five-foot tall and wider than ever, almost too big for my 520- square-foot apartment, but I won’t part with it, as he’s part of my family.

Some people have cats, dogs, or birds.  I have a plant.  I’m a nature person.  I need trees and plants around me.

More than one tree, shrub, or plant has communicated with me in my lifetime and more do so every day.  Having read The Secret Life of Plants: a Fascinating Account of the Physical, Emotional, and Spiritual Relations Between Plants and Man (1989) by Peter Tompkins and Christopher Bird years ago, I can’t wait to read about The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate Discovers from a Secret World (2016) by Peter Wohlleben and Tim Flannery that comes out this fall.  It’s always nice when science proves what I’ve known for some time.

My happily ever after?  Hank is thriving, I have a flower bed again, thanks to my daughter and grandson, and I can enjoy the beautiful red maple tree outside my front door.

As the plants thrive, so do I.

Toying with me . . .

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The other night, about 11:30 p.m., after another long day of learning as I was working on a new major writing project, I came across a photo of a storyboard that was now missing.

Diana's plotting board

Seeing the picture of Post-Its on the storyboard, I hungered after those little squares, needing them for my newest project where I was stalled.  Those squares represented a night’s worth of plotting and planning from years ago, and they were needed for this new project that has an upcoming deadline.  I really didn’t want to have to reinvent this story again.

Looking at that picture, I began making promises with the Universe that if I could find this storyboard, I would do this and I would do that the following day.  This and that being items that had little to do with my writing, and which I’d been procrastinating about.

You have to realize that two weeks earlier, I had spent two entire days tearing this place part—more like re-organizing everything—trying to find this storyboard, or thinking I had taking the Post-Its off the board, the sheet(s) of paper where the Post-Its could now reside.

I even went through all my storyboards.

This particular storyboard was missing from the pile.  In fact, I pulled out all the storyboards from behind the always-opened utility room door where I kept them and stacked them in the living room where I could work with them later.

So here I was at midnight, having seen this photograph, wanting it back in my possession, and saying to all the entities that reside here with me but on a different vibrational level, “Give me back my storyboard and I’ll do nothing but taxes and cleaning the house tomorrow.  No learning, no playing on my iPad, no reading.  I want it back.  You’ve had your fun.  I want it back.”

Driven by a sudden urge to look behind that utility room door where all the other storyboards had been stashed and were now sitting in my living room, my steps took me to the utility room.

I stood there thinking, no way. 

I pulled on the door.  Resting up against the wall, where the other storyboards had stood, guess what I found.

Yup.

 

Projected Thoughts

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Mackinac Island is one of my favorite places in Michigan and the island became more special once I learned that the all-time classical time-travel movie, Somewhere in Time, starring Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour was filmed there.  The island is magical in that no automobiles are allowed, except for the fire trucks.  Transportation are bicycles or horse-drawn carts and wagons.  In winter, the 500 or so residents travel by snow mobile.

 

My first summer visit to the island was with my first husband and our two daughters.  We were typical fudgies, staying in the downtown area, taking in all the typical visitor sites, including the fort and a short hike up to the Grand Hotel.  Then, visitors could go inside and look around, and even sit on the porch.  Now visitors have to pay a fee for that privilege if they aren’t staying at the hotel.

 

I visited the island throughout the years, several times, and always with a friend.  Often we would rent bicycles where we would travel around the island and follow all the inland trails.

 

The last time I visited, I fulfilled my bucket-list wish and stayed at the Grand Hotel.  While I couldn’t say much about our view from our room (a back roof), the food was fantastic, with the luxury of sitting on the porch.

 

During our stay, my friend went in search of the labyrinth.  I wanted to sit on the front lawn, where there is a lovely fountain and where the lawn was the location for the Somewhere in Time when the main characters, Richard and Elise, are reunited one last time, breaking the barrier of time.  Several benches sat on the lawn, circling this fountain, and allowing me a view of the famous stairs, leading up to the hotel.

 

I had just sat down, fully enjoying the sounds of the birds and water splashing, when a young boy, about eight or ten, and his grandmother sat on a bench opposite of me.  The grandmother appeared tired, probably looking for a break from this energetic, active child.  He talked constantly to her and she would reply in monosyllables.  Then, he started throwing rocks into the fountain and at the birds, becoming destructive and disregarding nature.

 

I didn’t want to leave, and I was feeling that they were intruding on the loveliness of the landscape.  Minimally, the boy was intruding.

 

Not wanting to leave and wanting the quiet back, I began project thoughts to the boy:  Grandma, I’m bored, I want to leave.  This isn’t fun anymore.  Let’s go.

 

I kept repeating those thoughts, projecting them toward the boy.  Several minutes passed, and lo and behold, I heard the boy say, “Grandma, I’m bored.  Let’s go somewhere else.”

 

Without another word, she rose from the bench, and they held hands as they moved on.

 

The quiet I had been seeking returned.