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Word Gems
my neighbors, Felix & Gladys
return to Personal Statements home page
April 10, 2009
I don't remember the year... maybe 1985. And I'm not sure exactly why I've come here today. I have good memories of all of the old neighbors; but I am neither moved nor compelled to visit any of them - only this farm. And now I find myself driving up the familiar quarter-mile dusty drive. I hear the crunching of gravel under the tires. The old farmhouse is just ahead... and the memories start flooding back to me. It's been so many years now. There was a time, for such a long time, it seemed, when I would come here almost every Sunday. I must have liked coming here a lot, because those few afternoon hours, essentially, constituted my only free time of the week.
Down On The Farm How different my executive life is now, from that little boy's indentured-servant existence... live in Toronto... mid-30s... money manager in a blue-glass tower... hundreds of clients, calling me all the time... expensive tailored suits... Italian-cut white shirts... personal assistant for me... expensive hardwood-trim office... public speaking engagements in fancy hotels... open-ended expense account... published a book... travel... seen some of the world...
And as I continue up the drive, my eye glances off to the left, half-a-mile away... another farmhouse... my spirit is still stinging... not used to that kind of disrespect anymore... a surge of anger... But I don't want to think about that right now. And I am realizing that this old farmhouse, the one coming up fast now, is very special to me. A long time ago, my grandfather, Felix's uncle, Pa Marquart (P.S. #18), grew up here. And my childhood friends, my cousins, grew up here; in a sense, I grew up here... so many Sundays on this farm, so many games and activities, so many horse rides. That gravel I hear under the tires reminds me of those "neighbor kids." I can see them now, at the side of the road, under the hot summer sun, imbued with a prospector's intensity of purpose, sifting piles of small rocks, hunting for colorful translucent agates; and now I can hear them debating one of the mysteries of the universe: Is it morally permissible to sing a Christmas carol in July? hey... somebody's gotta worry about these things, you know. And as I approach the cottonwoods, again I can see us, hear us, in discussion ... "a friend of a friend," she says, "knows Bobby Vee," local Fargo boy. What a great artist, we all agree.
Editor's note: In 1960, while on a shopping trip to Bismarck, my mother purchased for me a Bobby Vee album. Many of his songs I continue to enjoy today. This romantic crooner, and one-time unscheduled stand-in for the ill-fated Buddy Holly, is among the best of his genre. For me, his greatest efforts are Poetry In Motion, Foolish Tears, Devil Or Angel, My Girl, Will You Love Me Tomorrow, More Than I Can Say, Love, Love, Love... but, Talk To Me, Talk To Me, with its visions of intimate pillow-talk, sublime violin accents, suggestive sensual cooings of delight, will not be set aside.
But no children live on this farm anymore. Not for awhile. The old farmhouse, just as I remember it, is only 50 yards ahead. I am passing the cottonwoods, on my right... and I see myself now.
Memories of Silver Lining It is the early 1960s. Felix has purchased a spirited, roan-colored Shetland. He knows that I've been riding for awhile, so he asks me if I would help train this pony.
I immediately agree to this proposition. I mean, what better way to show-off my super-powers to Felix's girls. The whole family seems to have gathered for this festive occasion. I'm on stage now, and mount this tiny whirlwind. It immediately bolts, charges frenetically ahead, attempts to send me skyward. Somehow I manage to avoid an unscheduled ejection. And after a few quick trips, up and down, alongside the gravel drive, Silver begins to settle down, begins to accept his domesticated fate. So, I'm heading back to my friends, waiting under the cottonwoods. This is where I get paid, and I'm assessing who's paying what; and, from most, I'm finding a general appreciation... that's nice... but there are one or two in the crowd who are offering me something more. And Felix is walking up to me. 11 year-old boys are generally not that aware, if you know what I mean. And we don't really remember conversations too much... just a little too busy for that kinda thing, you know how it is... but... we never forget how we are made to feel, at certain moments. And right now, as if it were happening this very moment, I can still feel... viscerally feel... from Felix, this sense of validation, this sense of approval. He is beaming at me... proud of me... he is proud of me as if I were his own son... I can feel that... there is no doubt in my mind. 11 year-old boys, dull little creatures that we are, are oblivious to many things... just ask little girls... and we're often mistaken; but never mistaken about such matters as those accosting me that day. And I can still see Felix's face, shining down upon me.
I have parked my car now, near the front of the house. As I open the car door, and step out, part of me feels that I have slipped into another dimension, another time; but, one so familiar to me... yet... surreal... what has happened? There's the old orchard at the back of the house... sand cherries, I think we called them... running headlong through those groves... playing hide-and-go-seek... hey, you better watch out for those low branches! Standing beside my car, I treat myself to a view of one of my favorite things in life, the rugged openness of the North Dakota prairie... wish I could ride my horse, Simcan, out there... wish I could live out there... forgotten how much I love the expansive vista... seducing me... its suggestive promise of freedom... especially alluring, now that I live in a concrete canyon where I never see the horizon.
Editor's note: Look at this unusually rocky prairie-terrain, a few miles NW of Burnstad. It used to be my Uncle Wendlin's, now Mom's, rented to Butch Schumacher as pasture... a lot of memories here for me. In Personal Statement #5, I tell the story of how, at age 12, I got myself into a dangerous situation near this field, and Grandpa rescued me. We used to try to cut this for hay, but the rocks would smash the machinery. At age 17, I suggested to Uncle Wendlin that we should just fence the whole thing off and run cattle in it. This old Lion did not encourage submissions to the suggestion box and summarily dismissed my idea out of hand. But, when he died, Dad acted according to my plan. I was proud of myself - the first time my business ideas were taken seriously.
Chasing the Golden Calf of Vanity And now I'm reminded of something else... again, I see myself. Directly in front of the farmhouse, just down the slope, Dad is helping Felix with his cattle. It is springtime, 1963. Vaccinating calves... I'm helping... other kids watching. Suddenly, one of the calves slips from their clutches... free at last, it charges away; and I can hear the groans of frustration. The men are lamenting, "now we're going to have to get a horse or pickup and go after that thing." And I am laughing now, because I distinctly remember all this... and what I did next. And now I madly sprint after that junior scrap-of-cowhide... tearing after it... but I'm wondering, if I do catch it, what am I going to do with it? It may be a calf, but it's still 200 pounds... hey, I've actually managed to catch up to it... just barely, as it's still running... and I lunge for the whiplashing tail... got it!... and now it's pulling me like a water-skier! It's still careening along, but I'm severely cramping it's style. Dad and Felix suddenly realize that this might be a real solution and come running over - and all together now, like a football team, we pile on this little steamroller. That was a lotta fun, actually - and the prospect for more showing-off was never lost upon me, either - but, here's what I really remember about that incident. Dad didn't say much, but I remember Felix... and I can still feel the warmth of his affection, his approval... his kind words... he was proud of me... I can still feel the affirmation of my person... and I am standing a little taller now after this affection.
Everything on this farm looks so familiar to me... so familiar... even these weathered concrete steps. I make my way to the top... stop momentarily... absent-mindedly peer off into the distance... gazing into the past. The lake... just down the way... several "neighbor kids"... ice-skating... the wind... so cold... whipping across the icy glass... 10 or 20 below... too cold to be out here... must have really wanted to do this... my young cousin... all bundled up against the freezing gale... my juvenile theatricalism... racing, dramatic stops, flying shards of ice, trying to impress... she's not that way... authentic... skating in measured strides... not encouraging my exhibitionism... chilled now... scarf covering her mouth, can see only her eyes.
My Sunday-Afternoon Mom I'm at the porch door now; then, the main door. Gladys is there to greet me. I call her my "Sunday-afternoon Mom." She's always been so sweet and warm to me, as she is now. I can tell she is happy to see me... she always seems happy to see me.
Editor's note: Michelangelo's Florentine Prisoners is one of my favorite sculptures, a depiction of men tearing themselves out of rock - a visual metaphor of Self-Determinism, the glory and sacred dignity of simply being human. I, the Great Humanist, have to love this stuff... but... let's get real. I became the man tearing himself out of rock, just as soon as my mother helped me to do so. And, here in Gladys' kitchen, I am reminded of certain accomplished others who also tore themselves out of rock... just as soon as this Good Lady made available and handed to them a hammer and chisel. As a young child I was unaware of a human-development dynamic in play, not only in my extended family, but, indeed, within my own neighborhood. So many of my cousins became top students, valedictorians and salutatorians. Ho-hum, I thought then... it almost seemed normal and so-what-else-is-new; and today, beyond those good grades, as I mentally survey the now-grown children of the old neighborhood - Gladys' and Betty's families (P.S. #10) - I also see a statistically disproportionate level of noteworthy life-achievement. Last autumn when I visited with Gladys I was joking with her about this neighborhood phenomenon, as I asked: "So, what was in the water?" She smiled. But I know the answer, why many of the kids here did ok. It was these ND Lionesses. We, who grew up under their watchful tutelage, did not spring from autonomic spontaneous generation; did not immediately tear ourselves from rock... not right away... I will speak for myself here and trust that my cousins will confirm. As a little kid I was made to believe, via encouraging words from my mother, that my small achievements, in first and second grade, afforded me the status of Very Bright Boy. My penmanship, she would always say, was the most beautiful in the world; my reading ability, she would tell me, was second to none. And, when I would visit Aunt Mag (P.S. #10), she, too, would laugh and fuss over my school work, and tell me that I was such a smart little boy; and I felt the same effusive approval from Mom's other sisters, Janice, Dena, and Caroline. And when I would visit, on Sunday afternoons, this farmhouse - this house of childrens' academic projects - Gladys, with her warmth and acceptance of me, would only add to my sense of growing self-worth and competence. And it occurs to me now that, among many of these Great Women, there was an unwritten code, a kind of Conspiracy for Childhood Development, by which they lived, as they interacted, not only with their own children, but with "the cousins" and "the neighbor kids," as well. And, especially in the early years, in this warm summer rain, this fertile ND soil, of their encouragement and positive energy, we all, most of us, sent down deep roots, grew tall and sturdy, and found ourselves - sometimes, even in spite of ourselves - filled with hopeful visions of future accomplishment... we began to believe in ourselves... began to believe that we might yet tear ourselves out of the rock of mediocrity, to build a good life and to be of service... Why? because we were told that we could, and were given permission to do so... by these Great Women. Today, many years after the fact, when I go "home," I enjoy visiting with some of these mothers of mine. They are always so happy to see me. I finally understand why. As a financial advisor I have learned that clients want to know how their investments are doing. [smile]
The first thing I notice... it's so quiet in here... how unlike that long-ago time when kids were running around everywhere. Gladys, as she likes to do, comments on those "good old days" - a way of life that once seemed to be as permanent and unchanging as the prairie-pasture itself. How quickly it all passed away... passed away overnight! She is missing it. I miss it, too. I look around the old farm kitchen. It's about the same, really. The old table in the middle of the room. To the left, in the corner, the door to the second floor. Upstairs, the scene of games and much intense comic-book reading... where I discovered Superman, such an interest then. "Hey, you can read Betty and Veronica, I'll read Jor-el's Robot in Superman Annual #5."
And now I have this vision of all of us in front of the house. I'm holding a Superboy comic book; but, suddenly, my pony with-an-attitude, Sunset, takes a nice neat chomp, a near-perfect cookie-cutter circle, out of the corner of my mag. Hey! you, I wanted that comic!
(1946) This confident young man is Felix. Everybody knows Felix. Those intelligent eyes offer warning to all comers regarding his famous sense of humor - I mean famous. Felix packed a wit like a Saturday Night Special, and with similar effect. If you tried to get funny with him, his deadpan sass-and-ass comic-power would waltz you around the floor a few times, and work you over. And the next morning, people would be buzzing, "Did you hear what Felix said last night?" But this man's legacy, for me, is much different.
(1946) This cute new girl in town is Gladys. Felix liked her immediately, wisely took absolutely no chances, and did his best to monopolize her time. They would be married three years later.
(1974) celebrating their 25th anniversary
So many flashbacks. 1960... there's 4th-grader Colleen at the kitchen table. This clever little girl is mystifying me with the other-worldly pronouncement that she has requested information from the Egyptian embassy; and, of all things, I am now reviewing photos of President Nasser; thinking, "wow, it's summertime, and you're doing schoolwork, all on your own!" Independently-directed research would later become a big part of my life; but, a concept first introduced to me... right here! ... at this very table, in this farmhouse kitchen. And now I'm laughing again. Off to the side is the entrance to the living room. I see myself in 1959. Another very cold day. I have walked the dirt path connecting our two farms; but, what's this? I've never seen this before! I know the village weekly Homestead, but what's the Minneapolis Tribune? Well, the wonders just keep coming in this house! Wait! there's more! a comic section! [joy] Hey, can I take a turn and read, too? And I'm on the couch now, in the far left corner of the living room, intently enjoying all this, so much.
The Two Farmhouses I am chatting with Gladys... difficult for me, as ND Lions (P.S. #8) do not chat; but, she makes it easy, so easy to talk with her, she's so nice. Felix has yet to appear, but I am now bothered by a thought... begins to weigh on me... exactly why did I come here today? because... even though Gladys is her usual gracious and warm self, suddenly I am doubting myself... just generally wary, I guess... the difficult reception earlier today... in that other farmhouse. My spirit has not recovered. Maybe, I should really be leaving for Toronto now, nothing here for me, anymore. And while Gladys is asking me if I'd like anything, I am further distracted by another thought. Been so long since I've seen Felix. He probably won't even remember me. This will be awkward. I'll have to remind him who I am. Tell him my name. Mentally preparing myself for that. Expecting too-polite greetings, perfunctory salutations, a verbal form-letter... have your secretary sign it.
Editor's note: Felix owned one these red beauties, a '59 Chevy, with a white hardtop. I always remember the fins. Funny, the things we remember. It is 1963... late May... what a glorious morning! I luxuriate, even now, in the sweetness of the fragrant air... the world itself seems perfumed with the new ND spring! But I am rushing to finish feeding the cattle. And now I see that red Chevy threatening, pulling out of Felix's yard, on its way to pick us up for school. They will be here in mere minutes, and I'm not ready at all! Those car rides with the "neighbor kids," as I think about it now, make me laugh... 4 or 5 of them... 4 or 5 of us... plus driver... all squashed into this car... all of which gave new meaning to the concept of close friendship; and, because of such tight juxtapositioning, squabbles, turf-wars, in the backseat, were inevitable. A famous one, now rising in my consciousness. I am being accused, by a fellow young scholar, of a certain impropriety. A certain indiscretion, not gone unnoticed. Loudly accused. Everyone is now quite well informed. No courtesy of a private reprimand for me. [smile]
And now Felix presents himself in the kitchen. All of this happened a long time ago. I don't remember what was said; can't remember the words; but I will never forget what happened next... to me. And as Felix greets me, I today have this mental picture of him with open arms to me. I don't know if he actually did that, or if I'm manufacturing that image; but what I am sure of is the outpouring of affection from this man ... his fervent spirit... so open to me... welcoming... warm and effusive... so happy... to see me. And as I now access my feelings of that moment, I sense my own awkwardness. I don't know how to take this! I am somewhat overwhelmed by his unguarded expression of affection. The little-boy-within is mistaken about many things; but never mistaken about such matters. Felix's visage - indeed, his entire person - transmits a warm vibrational energy, singular in character, created for and directed to... me... alone... He welcomes me as a father would a long-absent son! I could never be mistaken about this, having not received this only hours before. The heart-energy I received from Felix that day was a most rare orchid; different in kind, not merely degree, from usual greetings. And my spirit, strangely, would register this seemingly innocuous non-event as one of major significance in my life. Strange...
More than 20 years have passed since that welcoming in the old farm kitchen; and 13 years since Felix's passing. But it has been only recently that I have begun to process what happened... to me... during that brief exchange of salutations. A third-party observer might accuse me of exaggerating the effect of a few kind words from an old neighbor; but I think not. I know what happened to me, and I know how I felt. Experiences such as these, in my life - in everyone's, I believe - are so unusual; occasions when I detected, within my deepest self, that someone loved me. I mean, really loved me... exuded unalloyed joy... unmixed delight... simply to be in my presence. One can never be mistaken about a thing like that! How incredibly rare! how wonderful! an ecstasy! I recall receiving this kind of affirmation, this outpouring of approval, only a very few times - this one, a pleasant form from Felix; and from my grandmothers; and one other time, a most pure, potent version, a long time ago (P.S. #26). Philosophers speak of three kinds of love: godly-love, friendship-love, and romantic-love. But the love to which I refer here might almost warrant a fourth categorization.
This "new" kind of love, a high-incendiary plasma-fueled version, is love without conditions; love unmixed; love as irrational exuberance; an unguarded and uncalculated validation of another's very person; a cosmic acceptance; a delight and rejoicing in another; a sense of exultation, simply to be in another's presence; just saying yes to another person's being - not for any particular attribute or quality; but, just because. I daresay that some people have never experienced this kind of interaction; as such, these encounters are so memorable, so transformational - because, just for a brief moment, we are offered a doorway to another dimension, a momentary glimpse of what life could be like... in a World of Love... maybe, I suspect, what life will be like in the Next World... and all of this becomes the meaning of Life itself, the memories of which will be the only enduring artifacts to survive our trip to this world.
Editor's note: Sometimes, on warm summer evenings, the conditions, apparently, just right, I could actually hear ordinary conversational voices on your farm... the stark openness of the prairie... nothing to stop the sound waves, gossamer-like, floating over to our farm. But this particular summer evening was no halcyon day of youth. In a short time, I would be leaving, about to embark upon a long journey, would go far away; driven out, actually. Dad told me that he didn't want me talking to my brothers and sisters. Dad, on his deathbed, 35 years later - I can see him now, reaching up to me, sorrowful, tears - would seek my forgiveness concerning dark things of that dark time. I well remember this evening. Many things going through my head and heart. I would miss my horse, Simcan. What a beautiful animal; the sense of freedom that it offered. But what I really remember about that evening... I was so angry... so angry! You can see it on my face. No longer that beaming little sonny-boy. I am sneering, daring anyone to cross me. My anger was not Dad's fault, it's how I chose to react. But this rage in my heart would plunge me into a kind of spiritual darkness, for many years... blinding me... separating me... from the good person that I was; severing me from something else, most important in my life... can't remember what, or who, it is... my rage has suffocated it... almost within reach, not quite apprehended, to exceed my mental grasp for some years to come. I am so blinded, so isolated and alone, so terribly cut off... from myself.
We never really know how we affect others in the daily course of our lives. Over the years, while studying the many AfterLife testimonies, I have discounted certain statements as hyperbole; such as, our smallest gestures of human kindness toward another - a smile, a word of encouragement, a listening ear - can often become more efficacious for good than some of our more dramatic efforts at altruism. But I think I'm starting to understand. I'm sure that Felix had no idea that his small manifestation of authentic human interaction would have such a meaningful impact on me. He may have sensed some of the inner turmoil that I was working my way through. I have this theory that the more psychologically put-together one is; the more open-hearted and unguarded one is; the more one will be able to sense, in others, a lack of the same. It has been only quite recently that I have finally begun to understand the mechanics of the pathology that afflicted me in those days; and, why kindly people in my life, such as Felix, and their positive energy, would be such a healing balm for me.
Editor's note, March 19, 2009: - a few minutes before midnight - I have been editing the final draft of this essay. And that final statement of Welwood catches my eye: "the loving openness that is our very nature." I suddenly recall, many years ago, in my theological studies, the words of St. John, "God is Light." John wrote this within the context of certain self-exalted gurus claiming to have special knowledge about God, the kind obtainable only from them. When John says that "God is Light," he means something different from "God has Light." To say that "God is Light" is to say that it is God's very nature to be open and self-revealing. In other words, you don't need a guru, someone who claims to have a 'red phone' to God, to tell you the most important things about Divinity. This is why John goes on to say: "the anointing you received from him remains in you, and you do not need anyone to teach you" (I John 2:27). In essence, he is telling us that anything truly important and worth possessing - things like Wisdom, Understanding, Peace, Faith, Hope - are utterly incommunicable in terms of simply receiving them from any human guru. The "anointing" - your own soul, your own willing heart, in communion with God - is all that you need to learn the highest of mysteries. Because it is God's very nature - God as Light - to want us to have such spiritual knowledge. And, we, made in God's own image, will also seek to be open, seek to reveal, seek to be unguarded and to disclose. And when we are not open and guileless like this, we can know that we have somehow short-circuited and blocked our essential natures, the Light of our own souls, with our fears, our anger, our unlove.
I discovered Welwood's comments after I wrote the above photo caption - he seems to be speaking directly to me. When Felix conferred upon me status of persona grata, treated me like a son, in the kitchen that day, something long dormant within me began to stir. I was not healed immediately, no instant make-over. It would be some years still before I would even process what had happened. But the vestigial memory of the kindly affection from Felix that day - and, indeed, his warmth in previous years; plus, the goodness of others -began to awaken me to what I had allowed to happen in the deepest part of myself. How I had strayed from my essential nature. My recovery, having begun over 10 years ago, continues to this day. And, more and more, I see many things now; things that I did, and did not do; all of which instruct me, as I endeavor to make the most of these lessons during my remaining time here.
Dr.
Newton is a counseling psychologist who helped pioneer a
method of hypnotically regressing clients to a point between
lives; in other words, he helped patients access hidden
memories about their lives on the Other Side. His books
represent a distillation of 7000 interviews and 30 years of
work. Allow me to summarize the essence: It
doesn't matter whether one is an atheist, an agnostic, a
Catholic, Protestant, or whatever - under hypnosis, all speak
of and describe the same place! the same general process
regarding spirit life! Newton remarks: "People even use
the same words and graphic
descriptions ... when discussing the [Other Side]."
See this youtube interview of
Newton.
I am thinking of a story told by Dr. Newton. One of his clients was suffering from depression. She had been tempted by thoughts of suicide, so troubled and burdened was she in her chronic loneliness. Newton, early in his career, an atheist at that point, had not yet developed his regression techniques. Frustrated with his attempts to help this girl find the origins of her malady, he simply stated, "Go to the source of this problem." Immediately, under hypnosis, she saw, in vision, members of her soul-group, seven or eight of them, and she began to weep deeply, so moved was she at their presence, these loving kindred souls, whose affection she was so desperately missing. From the AfterLife research we learn that groups of souls, ones who love each other in a special way, often come to this world at the same time, as if to make a difficult journey more palatable. There are cases, it has been discovered, where large numbers of soul-persons, even comprising most of a small town, have journeyed through time and space together. Read of this amazing story in Marge Reider's Mission to Millboro.
I have one more brief snapshot-in-time of Felix, one that speaks of his true nature. In 1983 Felix and I served as pallbearers at the funeral of my grandmother, Ma Marquart (P.S. #18). While riding in the hearse, on our way to the cemetery, Felix suddenly speaks to the rest of us: "I wish we had a better reason to get together. Why do we have to wait until somebody dies in order to see each other?" And Felix offers these words with a certain passionate intensity; and I can tell that he really means what he's saying. His frank and heartfelt pronouncement shakes me, his words so unlike the interactions of my normal work day.
Editor's note: These lyrics speak of the mystery of universal love, universal connectedness. I have learned that all advanced souls speak of little else; their desire to see all peoples come together in harmonious concord. The poetry here is highly suggestive, subjective; some of it, not easily deciphered. But McLeish taught us that "a poem should not mean but be," a principle pushed very hard in All This Is That. I am surprised at how much I like these simple but utterly beautiful words: "Dusk time, the shadows fall, Into the timeless time of all"
I don't remember the other fellows of our group - only Felix. I had not been thinking such magnanimous and out-going thoughts as those on his mind; but, with Felix's warm gesture of friendship, I could feel my spirit being stretched out of its usual egocentric posture; stretched, now, for the possible inclusion of others. It is truly amazing... one person, with just a few words, can set in motion, thoughts that might eventually soften the petrified heart. All of this, these brief, but intense, seemingly unnoteworthy, interactions with Felix, all these seem so remarkable now. I am approaching age 60, which, in itself, seems very strange. Superman under the red sun. But I am starting to see, as my life begins to wind down, that when I leave this world, I will be travelling light. I think I'll leave on horseback, not too much in my saddlebag, just a few memories; among these will be the times when I either offered, or received, authentic love and affection, being-to-being, soul-to-soul, genuine interaction.
Editor's note: Leaving on horseback is not quite as far-fetched as it might sound. Dr. Newton's research reveals that there are designated persons on the Other Side who look after the "soul fragments" of our beloved earthly pets; and, at times, these creatures, as we enter the Next World, will be among our "receiving party." Simcan was my noble Arabian-Palomino, an incredibly powerful horse, and how exhilarating to ride this spirited animal! How I wish I had him today. Memories of Simcan lead me to thoughts of Summerland, discussions of which were reported to you in Personal Statement #7. I recently added further testimony there about that Realm, the findings of Sir Oliver Lodge, knighted British physicist, one the great scientists of history, who lost his son Raymond in WWI, and, thereafter, in order to contact his son, devoted himself to researching the AfterLife. Allow me to share a few personal plans regarding Summerland. I offer these because, just maybe, some of you might also have some unfulfilled dreams when you depart this world. If I choose it to be so, Simcan will be with me in Summerland, that place designed to resolve unfinished business. Summerland is an idealized earth, much of it a replica of this world. This means, if I so desire, I can live on that same piece of ground, a representation thereof, where Grandma and Grandpa Becker had their farm. I sense that I need to do this for awhile.
In fact, I have a number of unresolved issues, holes in my heart, that require tending to. In a larger sense, I am just where I need to be this moment, in terms of lessons to be learned; however, in another sense, my early-teen life was violently jerked apart by consuming questions at the time; but, I'm done with those things.
Addendum, February 18, 2009: I finished writing this pericope of Simcan and Summerland a few days ago. My old horse... and the future... have been on my mind. This evening, David (PS #7) invited me to his church discussion group - which turned into a remarkable encounter. Several psychic mediums were in attendance. Most of you, having learned what you presently know about religion from Institutional Ecclesia, have not heard what the early New Testament Church was like. Have a look at what the Apostle Paul describes in I Corinthians 14, which I suggest you read in a modern translation in order to catch the flow. Paul says that this small church-in-the-home was rich in what we today would call psychic abilities: see chapter 12: 9: "a word of wisdom"; "a word of knowledge"; "a gift of prophecy"; but the Corinthian congregation was immature, egocentric, and would use these gifts to "show off" to each other, for which hubris Paul corrected them; nevertheless, a church service in Corinth would involve various ones in the group offering to others messages from the Spirit World (14: 26). And that's what I experienced tonight with this group, but without the immaturity. (A street person wandered in, wreaking of urine and alcohol, but he was not offered a literal bum's rush; instead, given a meal and included in group prayer.) Fifteen of us sat with chairs positioned in a circle. Michael said he was receiving something for me, sees this image of me... I am sitting on a horse... thinking, quite pensively, about something... Michael says he doesn't know what it means. I tell him what it means. Said that I had just finished my writing of Simcan, thinking about the practical details of Summerland, and so this metaphor-image is a very good symbol of what had been going through my head in the last few days. Another medium, Carol, said that I was given this as evidence of the reality of the Next World, an image that would be meaningful only to me, encouragement from the Spirit World, to strengthen my faith. She smiled and said that my horse is there for me, waiting, ready to be with me again. This makes me laugh, reminds me of Gene Autry kissing Champ - but Simcan and I are only good friends. [smile]
Special note, August 22, 2009: I have to smile as I write this. Michael seems to have a special connection with Simcan. Today he informed me that he received a kind of message from my old horse, indicating that he anticipated my return; and I was left with the impression that Simcan, on some level, had sensed that I, as a teen, was going through a difficult emotional time.
Michael adds that my Guides, those in Spirit who look after me, "love me" very much, that they "delight" in me ... wow! Carol offers one more thing, says that she, in vision, saw around my head a swirl of question marks; that this is my nature, to analyze, to seek for understanding. I had never met these people before, but they immediately sensed the true essence of my person.
Reunion Often, when I hear the word "reunion," the cynic in me pipes up and suggests that you cannot have a re-union if you were never united in the first place. Yes, you're right, I am very impolite. But, I think, when I see Felix again, it will be a reunion. I was too chaotic and unformed, too distracted, too immature, to appreciate, or really know, my friend and neighbor Felix, during those old days. But now, it is finally evident to me, he always knew who I was. And, after so long a time, I realize something else. One day, I will have a friend, waiting to greet me, when I shall visit him; visit him, once again. Yes, I can see, even now, that radiant visage, those twinkling and intelligent eyes, offering threat of dangerous humor; but most of all, those open and outstretched arms... for me. But this time... this time... I shall reflect, and return to him, some of that radiance, once invested in me; and this time, along with some humor of my own, I shall do my share of the reaching out... for him.
Jor-el really needed to get out more, don't you think?
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