Tag Archives: trusting

Last Chat

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Once I moved back up to Michigan from South Georgia the summer of 1999, I’d go to my dad’s house and we’d visit. We’d chat back and forth, often debating issues of the day. My stepmother said she hated listening to us because it sounded like arguing.

I’m not sure she noticed the gleam in his eye during these discussions. He’d gone to college intending to become a lawyer, but after one year was drafted because of the Korean War. He served in the states, repairing the electronics in planes, along with radios and televisions, which is how he ended up selling and repairing them once he was discharged, returning to Michigan with three small children born during those four years on base. He’d had polio during that time, as well.

Surprisingly, it took some persuasion to get him interested in computers. By that time, he’d been in the food industry for several decades and wasn’t as interested in electronics. Computers wouldn’t last long, he said.

Finally, he invested in one and started writing his own programs, eventually repairing them for his friends and family. Much of our discussions then centered on DOS, disks, and drives, new programs, installing RAM and other hardware, and software.

When he’d been down visiting me in Georgia in the mid-90s, he had a heart attack. Later, he discovered he had diabetes. Having been a pipe smoker all his life, the combination of the heart attack, polio, diabetes, and smoking all took a toll in his last decade on his appearance, his health, and his ability to walk without an aid.

I lived in a neighboring community through spring 2003, where I was working and attending a community college. Despite long days of full-time retail, then accounting and secretarial work and full-time school, getting my AA and BA, I’d visit frequently.

Then in July 2003, I moved closer to the university since I’d be going to school full time on scholarship and teaching four college classes each semester. In 2006, I received my MFA.

Between semester breaks, I’d go visit. He listened while I talked about going back and getting my Ph.D. Everyone at that point thought I was wasting my time at 58, but since my employer was paying the tuition and I’d always wished it, why not?

Even though he didn’t say the words, I could tell he was proud of me for doing it, but he had this strange look on his face. His thinking-about-the-past look, I called it.

One of my last chats with Dad occurred just after I’d started taking my first class for that last degree. He was becoming frailer. We both knew what was happening and talked about death frequently.

He laughed when I told him he’d be contacting me. I could tell he didn’t fully believe me. Oh, he’d heard my various stories and events regarding other spirits, but he’d never comment or ridicule me like other family would. And, he’d get the thinking-about-the-past face. I always wondered if he was recalling family now gone ever having contacted him in the past but was something he never talked about it.

That particular day, we talked about many things. At one point, he looked at me and said, “You never did go down the normal path, did ya’?”

“You’re just figuring that out?” I asked. He had a twinkle in his eye. While he wasn’t saying it, I knew he was proud of the path I had taken, was taking–even though he had never really agreed with it much of it at the time. When I was younger, he’d always suggest safer, more practical routes for me to take. I told him I knew what I was doing and why.  

That’s when he started talking about a few of his regrets. How he let fear stop him. My stepdad said the same thing shortly before he died—how he wished he’d lived his own life instead of everyone else’s expectations.

I understood then what some of those thinking-about-the-past expressions had been about. He’d been thinking of the roads not traveled, the paths not taken.

No doubt Dad’s limitations were because of us kids. But my stepdad had no children; his limitations had to have been his parents. For much of his life, he lived with them and continued to live in that house until he needed daily assistance.

Even though Dad wasn’t alive when I received my Ph.D., I knew he was watching. I could tell when he’d visit, usually late at night as we were both night owls, because he’d mess with my VCR or my TV turning them off or on, doing the opposite of what I was trying to do. He was playing with me. I could smell his pipe tobacco or his morning toast when he was around, too.

About a year after he died, a medium told me that Dad was one of my guardians and that he was saying how I had shown them all on how to get it done—the education, the writing, to finding paths that would fulfill my passions. That they were all learning from my experience.

I can tell he’s in a happy place with deceased family he’d been talking to in his last days. The relatives are reunited, having a grand ole time together, like they did when I was young.

He hasn’t been around as much these past couple years, but when I smell that toast or tobacco, I get goosebumps knowing he’s here, watching, checking in.

We’re still chatting.

Spiritual Readings

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It was 2001 and Halloween was approaching. A good friend was helping her boyfriend host his annual Halloween party, but this year was different. She was adding fun events to raise money for a charity near and dear to her heart.

During the past two years, particularly the past year, she was witness to my premonition skills, both in how I could see and sense upcoming events for people we knew, always telling me, “No way!” and then because she was dealing with a life-changing event and was asking me what I was seeing. She was shocked as the events played out just as I had seen them.

At first, I didn’t want to share what I was seeing, but she told me that knowing comforted her. So, I told her. The events unfolded just as I’d seen them.

For her party, she wanted me to come out and act as a reader for people she and her boyfriend knew but who were strangers to me. I said no because I had never performed publicly. I didn’t feel comfortable doing it. What if I was wrong? My premonitions were always personal and focused on people I was close to. I’d never forced my insight before, not like this, anyway. The things I felt and saw came on their own.

I wasn’t sure I could manage the humiliation if I was wrong, but she stated it was just for fun and that no one would expect anything from me.

Right away, I knew that statement wasn’t true. How many times had I gone to a reading and had huge expectations?

I decided I needed to stop focusing on myself and let go of those feelings. Instead, I focused on the group of people, as a whole, who would attend and how they would see it as just a fun activity.

Two weeks before the party, I told her I was sensing that someone at the party was either being horribly abused or was in the process of ending an abusive relationship.

“You can’t tell anyone that!”

“I don’t plan to,” I replied, but I had wanted her to be aware of the situation. Since most of my premonitions dealt with the terrible things that happen to people, and which I usually always kept to myself, wrote in my journal, or confided to a good friend, I had no intention of relaying this information to a mere stranger. I would focus, instead, on little mundane things like favorite foods, colors, movies, and such.

During the two weeks up until the party, I kept receiving this person’s energy. I had a sense that everything was turning out okay.

The night of the party, I was ensconced in the bedroom, the room dark, with only a few candles lit, the curtains open against the pitch-black night and my back against the door to prevent any other energies from coming into the room even though the door was closed during our reading. On the table was a basket of objects I’d collected over time and which, for me, held positive powers:  stones, crystals, twigs, an acorn, a chestnut, and some feathers.

People trailed into the room, one at a time. Some people I immediately connected to and had a sense of something happening that I could convey. I was able to provide readings that were fun and mostly true, even surprising for everyone other than one man, because he had put up such a wall of disbelief that I could not get beyond. His disbelief was forefront with everything else about him stored safe from observation…or so he thought.

He was instant that I read him, and I tried. But, all I could tell him was that I couldn’t read him because of the wall he’d put up.

When he returned to the party complaining that I was a fraud because I couldn’t read him because he was blocking me, they laughed at him, telling him I had completely read him true.

Late into the night, I was done, rising from my seat when my friend entered the room and asked if I could do one more reading.

I was exhausted, as I’d been reading for four hours without a break. She pleaded, and I said, “Okay,” affirming this one absolutely had to be the last one. She agreed.

My back to the door, she entered the room. Immediately, the energy changed. It was charged, filled with electric sparks.

A woman, who appeared to be in her 30s, sat down opposite me and said in a soft-spoken voice that she had just moved. Her face was in shadows, so I couldn’t see her clearly. Chills ran up and down my legs, down my spine, and across my back and neck. “You’re the one,” I whispered.

She stiffened in surprise, then said, “Tell me.” I sensed that consciously, she wanted the unvarnished truth. I could feel her spirit pleading with mine to reveal what I knew. Immediately, I knew it would be wrong not to tell her the truth.

“You’re either being abused or just came out of a horribly abusive relationship.”

She gasped in surprise, then sagged in obvious relief. “No one knows this, and you don’t know how much I’ve wanted to tell someone. I knew I had to leave in order to save my life and didn’t know what to do. Two weeks ago, all of a sudden, I knew it would be okay as if someone was looking out for me,” she said. We talked at length about her fear, about finding her strength. When she got up to leave, she said, “I don’t know how you knew, or when you knew, but I believe your knowing is where I got my strength to move out.”

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.

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.

 

Lost

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There was a time when I was living in the Deep South where I was lost in countryside.  I was in unfamiliar territory, on my way to do a photo interview of Andersonville—a Civil War, outdoor Southern prison, located near Columbus, Georgia.

My getting lost had started with a detour.  I started meandering finding lots of new roads, places I wanted to return and visit later.

But now, I needed to get serious about getting back to the highway, I needed to be there while the sun was still high in the sky.

I came to a T in the road.  Decision time.

I sat there having no clue whether I should turn right or left.  That’s when the voices started.

My rational brain voice told me to turn left, and I was given all the rationalizations as to why I should turn left.  Every one of those rationalizations made sense.

But then, that little voice, that little intuitive voice I’d recently started hearing told me to turn right.  There was no rationalization of any kind.  When I questioned it, all I heard wwas, “Trust me.”

Against all rationalizations, I turned right.  Around the bend and half a mile down the road was the highway.  Had I turned left, I would have ended up in Alabama and hours away from where I needed to be.

That was the day I decided to always listen to the little voice.

Okay, so yes, there have been a few minor occasions where I haven’t listened, such as not eating the rest of that cake late last night, but which I did anyway, and which had disastrous results several hours later.  Truth be told, I was told not to buy the cake in the first place.

When it comes to my sweet tooth, that little voice and I battle, and while I might win in that moment of purchase, that little voice is always right.

Always.

Mike McGuire’s Send Off – January 19, 2016

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We said goodbye today (Jan 19) to my second cousin, Michael David McGuire, who died suddenly last Wednesday, the 13th.  The service was beautiful, the memories bringing both tears and laughter for family, friends, and his beloved working family from the Michigan State Police community throughout many locales.

My father’s family is large.  While I know my first cousins once removed (my father’s cousins) well, I don’t know my second cousins the same way.  I was the first born of the second cousins, which easily number several dozen or more, some I’ve yet to meet.  My aunt and uncle were only three years older than me, with some of dad’s cousins only eight or ten years older.  As a child in the middle of this big boisterous family, I preferred listening to the adult conversations, sitting in a corner of the big farmhouse kitchen, than playing in the parlor with the little kids.  The adults’ laughter was always infectious.  Still is today.

As for all of the second cousins’ kids, well, I can’t keep track of them all.  In fact, I’ll confess that due to my living in the South for a decade and a career kept me away from a number of reunions and family gatherings, I have a lot of catching up to do.

When I was growing up, from time to time, because I was older, I was asked to babysit for my second cousins, which included Mike and his younger brother, Robert.  The job was always an adventure, as they were close in age, would collaborate with each other and hide from me or be investigating something they shouldn’t.  They were always in action.

The next time I would saw him, over 20 years later, he was an adult, married, and with kids.

Unfortunately, because we are a large family, there are many funerals and today was one of those days.  While we always enjoy reuniting with family members and being introduced to kids and spouses we may not have met, we never like the circumstances, such as was today’s event.

I attended Monday’s visitation and while driving home, I sensed Mike’s presence, but I didn’t hear anything.  Just a comforting presence.

The next morning, however, when I got up, I keep hearing the word, “Giddy up!”  All that morning I heard it said as a gleeful exclamation.  Not a part of my everyday vernacular, I knew I was hearing Mike’s voice.

During the service, that included a bagpipe, the Michigan State Police guard,  who additionally provided a flag to Linda, his wife, recordings of favorite music, there was one particular silence where I felt the urge to say “Giddy up, boys.  Giddy up.”  The urge was strong and I sensed it would bring laughter, but I refrained.  As confident as I was that this was Mike speaking, I questioned the timing.

As fellow troopers got up one-by-one and started telling stories about Mike, including hearing he would tell them to “Saddle up,” as they rolled out on various duties, I discovered he was all about making people laugh, that he enjoying laughing as much as he enjoyed his family, fishing, and his work.  Saying “Giddy up” in that silence was something Mike would have done.

Mike was a marine who served in the Gulf War, with a commanding presence due to his height and demeanor.  He served undercover, provided governor protection, to name a few of his various teams, and had been a medical first responder with his local fire department.

The love and affection his family, friends, and police brethren have for him was easily felt.  Deemed as a tough guy, he also had a soft heart for his family, friends, and the people he served, and anyone who needed help.

Mike was only 52, far too young to be gone.  The service was truly a celebration.  As a collected group, we provided him a fitting, loving send-off, which was surrounded and sheltered with his presence.

Giddyup, Mike.  Giddyup.

 

“Take the job” My Little Voice Commanded

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The first true time I my little voice was tested in a big way that would definitively affect my future, my earning ability, and where I was cognizant of a true conflict between that little voice and my rational thoughts, or what I call my rational mind, was in 1988 when I was re-establishing myself after my second divorce.

I had just enough money start over: rent an apartment, put down deposits for the apartment and utilities, and buy groceries for about a month.  By the end of that month, I needed to have a full-time job.

The problem was I didn’t know what I wanted to do.  Previously, I worked in several fields, but mostly as a secretary or as a bookkeeper for a good portion of my adult life.  I had no degrees other than my Executive Secretarial certification obtained from a business school right after high school.  While I good at these two careers, I was bored by them and didn’t enjoy having my skills or expertise dismissed.

My real passion was in writing, but it failed to provide a stable income, plus I had no formal education in writing.  I was a self-taught writer—a successful one with various publications and genres, including three books published, but when it came to real jobs, I didn’t have the qualifications.  So, here I was needing a job but didn’t want to be someone’s secretary or bookkeeper again, and there was nothing I could do involving writing.

A friend suggested that I go to Hudson’s (now Macy’s) and apply.  Sales.  I can’t say that I had ever considered sales for myself, though I had sold Tupperware years earlier.  At the time, I didn’t like feeling I was being pushy, so I never considered myself to be sales material.  In fact, I disliked sales people immensely myself because so many were pushy.  Consequently, my interest wasn’t high.

For three weeks, I looked at ads, but the economy was tight and I had moved into a manufacturing community where jobs were being outsourced.  Jobs were few.

One day at the end of that third July week, I was in a sleeveless summer dress, sandals, and bare legs, my hair windblown from open car windows, approaching the mall.  I was running errands.  My little voice said, Go apply at Hudson’s.  Now.

“But I’m not prepared,” I argued.  “I’m not dressed properly.  I don’t have a résumé with me.”

Doesn’t matter.  Go anyway.

I knew better than to apply without looking professional.

The little voice pushed.  I argued, all in the matter of a couple blocks.  Approaching the last entrance, I found myself turning in despite my rational arguments.  Sheer gut instinct had turned the wheel of the car.

What’s the harm, I thought.  I can pick up an application and return it later when I was properly dressed.

I parked the car, grabbed my purse, sliding the strap on my shoulder, entering the closest door, which took me into the Men’s Department.  I approached the sales girl behind the register, asking for location of the main office.  Following her directions, I walked through several departments, noticing how many people were working, what they were doing, wondering what it would be like to work there, doing that type of work.

At the desk of the Customer Service desk, I asked for an application.  The gal behind that desk excused herself and came back with an older woman who was dressed in a business suit.

She introduced herself as the human resources director and gave me an application, asking me to fill it out right there.  I told her I didn’t have all the necessary information with me—all the addresses, reference information, etc., that I needed to fill out the application fully and correctly.

“That’s okay,” she said.  “You’d be doing me a favor by filling it out now.”

So, I did.  Prepared to hand it over and leave, I was surprised when she asked, “Are you able to do an interview right now?”

“But I’m not dressed properly.  I wasn’t prepared to do an interview.”

“That’s okay.”  Again, I was told I’d be doing her a favor.

We sat down and for the next ten or fifteen minutes, I answered the typical questions.  At the end of the interview, I expected her to tell me that she would get back to me.  Instead, she offered me a job on the spot, telling me that I would start in the Men’s Department.  I was surprised, to say the least.

Mentally, I knew what she was offering me wasn’t going to be money for me to pay my bills.  The pay was minimum wage and I needed a couple dollars more per hour in order to meet my minimum monthly expenses.  Minimum with no frills, no surprises.

I asked for the couple extra dollars.

I was told that no, that couldn’t happen.

My little voice spoke up.  Take it.

Mentally, I argued, saying But it isn’t enough.  I won’t be able to pay my bills.

It’s okay.  Take it.

But—

It’s okay.  Trust me.

While I had tested my little voice with smaller tasks before, this was the first big decision I’d be making based on its direction.  As usual, that little voice’s instruction conflicted with common reason and my rational mind.

As I sat there, looking at this woman who was waiting for my answer, I thought, what harm would it do?  I can always quit if I find another job or one I like better. 

“Okay,” I said, finally.

She asked me if I could start tomorrow.  I told her no, that I needed the weekend and that I could start the following week.  She then said, “Let me have you meet the manager you’ll be working for.”

Her name was Amy, but it would be several weeks before I learned what had happened.  Apparently, I already had the job, the minute I went up the clerk in the Men’s Department asking for a job application.  Amy had seen me come in.

As I strolled through the store, as I made my way to Customer Service (CS), Amy had taken a short cut, entering CS through a back door.  She told the director that if I was applying for a job, she wanted me in her department.

I took the job, working in the Men’s Department for a month, and received a raise that got me closer to my monthly minimum.  Half a year later, I moved to the Shoe Department, and a few months after that moved to Customer Service where my bookkeeping experience was put to use, as there were few employees who had that particular educated skill.  In the end, I became the department’s supervisor, which in time, would lead to other supervisory jobs, including working at Kellogg headquarters, where once again, my educational background, including my accounting background, was valued and appreciated.

That little voice had known far better than my rational mind.

Only later, as I looked back on my employment journey that would eventually lead me into education and the dream of working in the field of my passion—writing—did I understand how trusting that little voice had immense value.

Writing Down the Words: Making Magic Happen

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I make lists.

Yes, I’m one of those.

I guess it’s because I like 1) seeing tasks accomplished, and 2) having direction for my day, particularly toward specific goals.  My daily To-Do list keeps me on track . . . well, most of the time.

I’ve always been a list maker since I can remember.  I found out that when I wrote down my goals rather than just thinking about them, the goals eventually became a reality.  I now believe that writing down my desires is a magical way for the Universe to know what I really want.  It’s not enough for me to say what I want, to vocalize.  Writing these goals, these desires down creates a strong commitment, a contract if you will, with the Universe.  I want these things badly enough that I was willing to put them to paper.

I was heartened some time again when I found support in the book, Write Your Own Magic: The Hidden Power in Your Words by Richard Webster.  He states that all “creativity is magic” and practiced by “Pythagoras, Leonardo da Vinci, and Isaac Newton” and that even “William Shakespeare made countless references to magic in this plays, and was obviously familiar with the subject.”

Once upon a time in my twenties, I wanted to become a writer.  I had no training whatsoever, other than high school English, being a voracious reader, and having an immense curiosity to learn.  When I said I wanted to be a published author, people—family and friends—laughed.  Over time, the laughter stopped.  My goals were coming true.

I have a planner—the hard copy kind—where I list goals/desires for the month.  Using that monthly goal list, I create my weekly list, and from that my daily list.

On July 14 of this year (2015), I was let go from my professor/admin position at a university where I’ve been employed for almost eleven years.  I served as an adjunct for a year and a half, and then with my M.F.A. degree in hand, I hired into a full-time in a position I served for the remainder of that time.  I understand completely why I was let go; it was a restructuring event due to enrollment decreases over the last few years, decreases that are affecting college campuses across the nation.  Honestly, if I had been in my supervisors’ shoes, I would have done the same thing.

That said, over the last couple of years as more duties were assigned to me, I found myself become more tired.  The joy I once had for the job was fading, assignment by new assignment.  My career change to academics was the result of my love of teaching non-academic classes, connecting with students of all ages, helping them re-awaken an earlier joy of writing, and showing them how to become better writers.  Plus, I enjoy teaching or coaching teachers how to teach writing.

I would come home so tired from work that I often needed a nap before bedtime.  I was sleeping upwards of 12 hours a day.  As a result, my creative writing was neglected.  That depressed me further.  During that time personal life events—family deaths and a major auto accident—were taking their toll on me.  I hid this tiredness, this depression well, diving into my writing for relief, which has always served me well in the past.

But it wasn’t enough.

Back in the spring, I asked the Universe to find a way for me to be to write more, but without it jeopardizing my ability to live, to pay bills.  Close to retirement, I was still obligated to my institution for another three years due to their generosity in helping me obtain my Ph.D.

In being let go, that obligation disappeared.  I realized I was free to write and that I could retire from the daily 40-hour week grind.

I am now writing to my heart’s content.  My future isn’t nailed down yet, but that’s okay for the moment.

Today, I looked at my planner and the list I created on July 1, my monthly To-Do list, which were mostly creative writing tasks.  Sadly, I realized I’ve not accomplished one thing on that list so far this month . . . with one exception.  I know I still have time to accomplish the rest of the list this month due to that one item.

The last entry read:  Open a way for me to do more writing.

The Universe does answer.

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.

Synchronicity – When the Universe Speaks, I’ve Learned to Listen

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Too often, in our desire to be in control, we miss opportunities or messages that can lead us in the right direction.  Recently, I found myself once again amazed at the simplicity of observing synchronicity at work, which has led me to my next big project that fills me with great enthusiasm.  .

At the end of January, I was approached by the Program Director for the Mid-Michigan Romance Writers of America chapter, of which I am a member and was asked if I would be willing to do the February (mid-month) presentation on time management.  My first response was to say no based on the number of various deadlines I was facing at work, home, and other personal issues, plus feeling I was dragging my feet—okay procrastinating!—with my own creative writing projects.  Bottom line: I didn’t think I could add one more item to my plate.

Immediately though, I realized I NEEDED to do the presentation.  For me to get a handle on my own procrastination and current time-management issues, what better way to reinforce the material than to teach it?  After all, we retain 100% of what we teach.

So, I said yes.

The week before, I had found an article on the science of why we writers procrastinate, plus I had a couple of other brain science philosophies that I teach to my English composition students that I thought would be interesting in showing the why behind our procrastination.  Relatively quickly, I had several pages of notes put together for the presentation.

Delighted by that work and feeling better about moving past my procrastinating ways, I decided to tackle my piles of creative-writing projects that had been neglected for past 15 years while I was in school and began the tedious task of putting two major bookshelves right.  I sorted piles of loose papers, marrying scraps of papers with notes that contained brilliant flashes of ideas for a project—or in this case, many projects—along with articles saved, to the appropriate projects.

In that process of cleaning up those shelves and projects, I discovered a notebook entitled, Time Management for Writers.  Lo and behold, I had written a book 20 years ago on the very topic I was going to be discussing that weekend!  I’ve always been passionate about the topic and here was early evidence of that passion.

Of course, the writing was crap.  After all, I’d written it two decades prior.  Thumbing through the material, I could see that my growth of understanding about the topic and my writing ability were far removed from manuscript that looked as if it had been printed on a early Tandy computer.

But what a find!

So, here I was needing help when synchronicity struck, bringing all the required elements together and re-igniting my passion so that once again the winds of the gathering spring is loosening the winter of my procrastination.