A Unique Look at Reincarnation

I loved reading “John Lennon and the Bronte Connection," by Jewelle St. James who persuasively establishes (1) that artist/singer/songwriter John Lennon was the reincarnation of artist/writer Branwell Bronte, brother of Emily Bronte, author of the acclaimed novel “Wuthering Heights;” and (2) that Jewelle herself is Emily reincarnated.   

In an earlier book, “All You Need Is Love,” Jewelle wrote convincingly about a prior life of hers with one John Baron, another previous incarnation of John Lennon (as established by Jewelle).  In reviewing that book, I stated: “Jewelle St. James follows her heart, obtains psychic readings from a number of gifted people, and painstakingly seeks out evidence to test the accuracy of the information gathered, and the validity of her beliefs. A sincere and honest approach that totally satisfied my Doubting Thomas aspect! Along the way, Jewelle digs deep into her own intimate issues, the resolution of which provides a glimpse into the mystical workings of the Universe. A truly courageous and inspiring work. I loved it!" The same can be said about Jewelle’s “John Lennon and the Bronte Connection.”  And as with her previous works, the writing here is succinct, and the research meticulous.

From the outset, I recognized that one of the ways in which Jewelle gets signs from “the Universe” is very much in sync with the way signs, at times, come to me—via a chain of insistent synchronicities.  With regard to myself, it’s as if my spirit helpers have to work hard to penetrate my Doubting Thomas default.  Thus, as with Jewelle, “an avalanche of multiple messages will appear” (page 10) to finally convince me that my Sixth Sense is on target. 

Chapter Two includes Barry McGuinness’ engaging analysis of the premise that Jewelle is the reincarnation of Emily Bronte. I found Mr. McGuinness’ presentation to be highly persuasive.

I especially enjoyed Chapter 3, about Jewelle’s journey into New York City (my home town, Brooklyn being one of the five boroughs of NYC) in the Spring of 2012.   Included in this chapter is a passage stating that, “John Lennon was (obviously) John Lennon until he died, and then he returned to all that he is—to all that he as ever been, like we too will one day reunite with the larger part of ourselves.”  That “larger part” being our “oversouls,” altho Jewelle never uses that term (which comes from the Hawaiian kahuna tradition.  On this point, see the works of Hank Wesselman). 

Especially noteworthy in Chapter 3 is Jewelle’s observation that because John Lennon’s “spirit now encompasses his many lifetimes of ‘expression,’ he can communicate with me (and others) through his various past-life personalities.”  This is an extremely astute observation, and universally true, I submit.  Prior lives can communicate with us here on Earth, from the Other Side, even when an aspect of the oversoul has reincarnated.  I have written about this in my own book (“Into The Mystic, From the Streets of Brooklyn”), and it’s wonderful for me to have the concept validated by Jewelle, a person whom I highly respect.  In short, lifetimes are not boxed in by our linear constructs or the laws of physics. After all, what we are talking about here is metaphysics pursuant to which a person’s prior life can still communicate with us from the Other Side, even tho that person (or, more accurately, an aspect of the oversoul from which that person has incarnated) has reincarnated.  In short, our souls can be in more than one place, at one time.

Here, as in her prior works, Jewelle notes how hard it was for her to accept that an incarnation of the great John Lennon was communicating with the presumably unworthy Jewelle. But the assessment of her friend Christine on this point nails it: ‘May I suggest that had John Lennon been anyone other than John Lennon, it may have been easier to accept the synchronicity of all that has happened.’

Like other chapters, Chapter 5 includes an intriguing photo—this one of the Bronte parsonage.  Jewelle relates that she walked thru the parsonage with a group of tourists, and noticed that, “The kitchen is wrong.”  Seconds later she saw a sign on the wall stating that the kitchen had been renovated since the Bronte’s had lived there.  For me, this is a spontaneous and honest validation that the messages coming to and thru Jewelle, were valid.

In Chapter 6, Jewelle notes that on her visit to the Bronte Parsonage Museum, being featured was an exhibition: “Sex, Drugs and [not Rock-and-Roll but] Literature.”  Sound a little like John Lennon?  The details are enticing. 

In Chapters 7-9, Jewelle delves into an analysis of the Bronte family that is, in a word, captivating.  Chapter 9 reveals why Jewelle cannot read “Wuthering Heights.” Why?  Well, I don’t want to resort to a spoiler, so suffice it to say here that Branwell prominently figures into the explanation.  In any event, I would agree with Jewelle’s assessment that she proves her case “well-nigh to certainty.”

In Chapter 10, Jewelle focuses on the traits that Branwell and John Lennon shared.  Very interesting also how the two men looked so much alike (see especially Branwell’s drawing of himself presented on the book’s cover, and compare it to the photo of John on page 35).  This begs the question: Can facial resemblance or other physical characteristics in one’s current life serve as an indication of who one was in a prior life?  For me personally, the answer is yes, given that the man I “know” to have been me in a prior life, bears a striking resemblance to the me of yesteryear; or should I say that I, in my youth, bore a striking resemblance to him?   (Birthmarks can be an even more trustworthy indicator than facial similarities, see the work of Dr. Ian Stevenson.)

In Chapter 11, Jewelle notes how a certain “little connection seemed huge.”  This is exactly how my own Sixth Sense operates at times.  And I believe that’s true for many of those who are psychically inclined.  As world-class medium Suzane Northrop (who has endorsed Jewelle’s work) often says, “It’s the little things” that really count. 

Jewelle also notes at one point that she was “so caught up in the wonder of the signs that I often missed the actual messages.”  Been there, experienced that.  The process can be mesmerizing.

Chapter 12 delves further into the mystery of knowing who you were in a prior life.  Jewelle writes, “Of all the clues [of which there were many] and evidence pointing to me as Emily, it was actually this sudden love of birds that convinced me. . . I felt as if they were my friends.  It was like looking at the world with someone else’s eyes and feeling with someone else’s heart.”    The Universe works in mysterious ways.  What Jewelle effectively captures in words is that which, in reality, can usually only be learned by experience. Readers in tune will get this.  Those out of tune, will not.

Jewelle ties things together nicely in Chapter 13, in a most insightful way.  She begins the chapter with the observation that “In this world of their own making, events seemed to show that Branwell, on a subconscious level, possibly remembered his past life as John Baron.”  The analysis supporting this observation is convincing.  Further, the way in which Jewelle expresses her opinion here, i.e., “events seemed to show” [emphasis added] is reflective of how Jewelle modestly expresses herself throughout the book, an approach that is very much welcome.

Chapter 14 begins with “a heart-stopping ‘coincidence’” that will resonate with in-tune readers.  As will Jewelle’s statement that “Spirit-John [Lennon] has cajoled me into ‘owning’ my past life. . . It has taken my whole adult life to know myself.”  I’m certainly glad that Jewelle not only got to know herself, but especially glad that she has shared what she learned and experienced within the pages of “John Lennon and the Bronte Connection,” a book which reaffirms my own spiritual beliefs and experiences.

In short, “John Lennon and the Bronte Connection” is a wonderfully efficient and spiritually educational work. I would strongly recommend that all open-minded people of a spiritual persuasion read this marvelous book, especially those who are interested in reincarnation.

Itzhak Beery's “The Gift of Shamanism” Is a Wonderfully Inspiring Read

I’ve known Itzhak Beery since early 2001, when I first attended the New York Shamanic Circle (“NYSC,” then actually called the “New York Drumming Circle”). I had gone there at the suggestion of Edy Nathan, a powerful healer in her own right, because she felt that shamanism would do me some good. It certainly did!  

I was an active member of the NYSC for a good twelve years before becoming what you might call a “lapsed shamanic student,” participating in the monthly circles only intermittently (at best), and rarely attending workshops and other special shamanic events as I had in the past. (I do keep up with my daily morning shamanic ritual, however, calling in the spirits from the seven directions, and offering thanks while seeking continued protection and assistance.)  

From my time at the NYSC, what I remember most about Itzhak, a founding member of the group, was his warmth and friendliness, and how he made me and others feel so at home from the very beginning, month after month, year after year. At some point, I learned that Itzhak was a shamanic practitioner, but I had no idea of the depth of his involvement until I read his inspiring book, “The Gift of Shamanism.” Nor had I ever heard Itzhak (or other members of the NYSC leadership) share his (or their) own shamanic journeys or mystical experiences. Till now.  

In his thoroughly enjoyable book, “The Gift of Shamanism,” Itzhak shares his awesome experiences as a shamanic healer, providing so many wonderful insights along the way. Highly recommended for anyone with an interest in, or curiosity about, shamanism, as well as for those deeply immersed in this ancient spiritual practice.

In the introduction, Itzhak reveals that he has gone from skeptic to believer. This was news to me. Nor did I realize that Itzhak had been raised as a Jewish atheist. I’d never heard of Jewish atheists before!  

In the intro, Itzhak also writes that “[T]he shamanic experience is truly about learning to surrender to the magical and join in the workings of life’s mysterious forces.” This resonates with me completely, tho, as an editor, I’d change “surrender to” to “accept.” It’s a subjective matter. I don’t like the idea of surrendering, and I don't see a need to here.

Later in the introduction, we encounter a subchapter on “WHY A BOOK OF STORIES?” Itzhak answers his own question with, “I choose to write a book of stories that might connect with you emotionally and guide you indirectly into the shamanic way of ‘seeing’.” I agree wholeheartedly with this approach, an approach I followed in my 2007 book “Journey Into the Mystic (From the Streets of Brooklyn)” which (in the interests of full disclosure) Itzhak had so generously endorsed.  

In the first chapter on “How It All Started,” Itzhak begins with a story about a chance encounter at a local bookstore, which rings so true. The author mentions how his upbringing (as an atheistic Jew on a kibbutz ) was the “perfect introduction to the basic principles of shamanism: deep connection to nature, close encounters with death, boundaries of imagination, a sense of history, and the importance of community and storytelling.” The tie-ins are, in a word or two, highly synchronistic. His Albert Einstein quote falls right into place.

In Chapter 2, “Dreaming,” Itzhak begins with a John Lennon quote on how John believed in everything, “until it’s disproved.” I love Lennon, but can’t go along with his philosophy here. As a lawyer (okay I’m a lawyer, I confess), I understand that the burden of proof never rests on one to disprove a negative. It is the responsibility of the person offering the positive version (e.g. “Fairies exist”) to prove his or her point. All that aside, in this chapter, I found particularly interesting Itzhak’s account of a “scary dream that followed me on and off for more than eight years.” The details are intriguing.

Chapter 3 presents Itzhak’s work with past-life regression. I’ve been down this road myself. As the author notes, “Most indigenous societies hold a deep belief in reincarnation.” So do I. And the stories that the author relates support the premise that we have all lived past lives. Captivating!

“Soul retrieval” is the basis of Chapter 4. As Itzhak notes, “It’s hard to describe exactly what a soul is,” yet he achieves that objective. His stories and experiences regarding soul loss and soul retrieval are most illuminating.

Chapter 5 is about plant medicine to which I have never been drawn. Quite the contrary. The plant medicine promise reminds me of the Sixties’ rap which proffered that LSD was the gateway to Nirvana. Didn’t turn out that way, at least, not for me. More like a horror trip thru Hell. From the messages and lessons that Itzhak reports he came back with from his ayahuasca trips, well, frankly, I already knew all that. Granted, it’s one thing to know, and another to experience. And thanks to Itzhak for sharing his ayahuasca experiences which confirm to me that, I’d rather take a walk along the summer shore of Brighton Beach after a glass of wine on at Tatiana’s on the Boardwalk, then embark on a trek thru the Amazon jungle to ingest ayahuasca.

In Chapter 6, the focus is on shapeshifting, with which I am very familiar. Here, as elsewhere, Itzhak’s description of his experiences is very detailed and vivid, adding even more credulity to his accounts.

I very much enjoyed the chapter (7) on “Seeing,” with the mind’s eye. I have never heard the concept expressed more effectively than how Itzhak describes it. Impressive is the stat which Itzhak gives, indicating that “In my workshops…96 percent of the participants successfully see one or true elements about their partner.” I appreciate statistics like this—could have used more of them (e.g., for X number of success stories presented here, there were Y number of failures).  

Chapter 8 is about shamanic journeying, the hallmark of the NYSC. The chapter begins with a quote from Michael Harner, who spearheaded the interest in shamanism among Westerners. ‘All of nature has a hidden nonordinary reality,’ Harner states (via Itzhak). Yes, to be sure. Itzhak writes of journeying to other realities, and while this may sound far fetched to the uninitiated, Itzhak’s experiential stories demonstrate, individually and collectively, how effective and healing shamanic journeying can be.

Candle reading is the topic of Chapter 9. This is a process in which we have occasionally engaged at the NYSC. I like Itzhak’s intro, stating that “[A]round each person’s physical body there is an invisible energetic body or illuminated body, sometimes called the aura, which houses our memories, emotions, traumas, and the spirits of our ancestors and the living. ” The personalized stories are quite moving.

In Chapter 10, Itzhak embarks into psychonavigation, i.e., long distance viewing. Interesting in particular how Itzhak recalls one experience that “had a strong impact on me and that was quite terrifying.” It’s not all a ride down Easy Street, as Itzhak points out (and as I have learned, the hard way).

The experiences Itzhak shares in the chapters on holographic experiences, house clearing, healing ceremonies, Aztec seeing, and using shamanic vision in business, are—like all of the discussions in the book—easy to read, crystal clear, and highly inspiring. I especially appreciate how, throughout the book, Itzhak humbly admits that he continually experienced self-doubt, and would at times dismiss his visions as “a fluke.” Been there, felt that.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Itzhak’s illustrations, which are interspersed throughout the book. His artwork effectively captures shamanism in the act, something I’ve never witnessed before. 

“We Are All Shamans” is the title of the book’s epilogue, which begins, “Learning from my clients’ life stories and from my own childhood, I believe that as young children we come into the world highly open to the world of magic and mystery.” I couldn’t agree more. Itzhak continues with “a few suggestions to help you develop your intuitive skills,” including “Take notes of your life’s strange ‘coincidences,’ [aka, synchronicities] accidents, or flukes. Nothing happens without a reason…” I tend to agree, for the most part, but as Itzhak indicates in his book, sometimes it takes a while to figure out the reason.

In sum, Itzhak Beery’s “The Gift of Shamanism” is a book well worth reading for anyone at all interested in learning about the shamanic way. For those of us who’ve been at it for years, the book is an insightful excursion into, and meaningful validation of, that which we have experienced.

“I love this book,” says premier shamanic teacher/author/anthropologist Hank Wesselman, on the acknowledgements page.

“Ditto!” say I, here.

Beatles and Stones

Thought I'd post two of my recent Amazon book reviews, one on the Beatles, the other on the Rolling Stones.  For what it's worth,
--D

 The Best Book on The Beatles, March 27, 2015

They say that you can't tell a book by its cover. But the photograph on the cover of "Beatle! The Pete Best Story," speaks volumes. The photo, taken circa 1962, shows John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison sporting early versions of the famous Beatle haircuts that would help usher in "The Sixties." Meanwhile, the hairstyle of their drummer at the time, Pete Best, the most handsome of the four, has an iconic Fifties look. In short, Pete just didn't fit in.

Flashback: November 22, 1963. President John F. Kennedy is gunned down in triangulated gunfire in Dallas Texas. The TV networks cancel their regularly scheduled programming to cover the assassination. Two days into that coverage, JFK's accused "lone-nut assassin," Lee Harvey Oswald--later shown (for anyone truly paying attention) to be a patsy for the coup d'etat that eliminated JFK and launched the Vietnam War--is shot dead by Jack Ruby on live TV while Oswald is in police custody. Numerous replays follow. The country goes into shock.

About two months later, in January 1964, the Beatles exploded onto the American music scene and began to change the world. "I Want To Hold Your Hand" zoomed to Number 1 on the Billboard charts, and held that position for seven weeks. In February of 1964, the Beatles performed on The Ed Sullivan Show and their popularity in the U.S.A. soared beyond anyone's expectations. They seemed to be just what was needed--a breath of fresh air that literally helped lift the country out of a state of dazed mourning and into a positive reality.

Back in 1964, here in America, we knew the Beatles as John, Paul, George and Ringo [Starr]. Initially, there was no knowledge of prior drummer Pete Best, or bassist Stu Sutcliffe. The "Fab Four" seemed so perfect together, and in retrospect, they were. Only later would there emerge mention of Best and Sutcliffe, and the Beatles' early exploits in Hamburg, Germany.

In his book, Best (with Patrick Doncaster), gives us the early Beatle backstory--the inside look into the heart and soul of the Beatles during their formative years. We get to know them as people, not images. It's truly a great read, if you (as I do) prefer fact to fiction. Highly recommended, especially for Beatle fans. Early photographs of the band (and other people, places, and things), interspersed throughout Best's book, help bring this entertaining tale to life.

In the chapter entitled "The Bombshell," Best explains how he was cut from the band in 1962, as Beatlemania was just taking off in England. Beatles manager Brian Epstein broke the news to him, this way: "The boys [John, Paul and George] want you out and Ringo in...They don't think you're a good enough drummer." Best writes that he was shocked as he considered himself as good as, if not better than, Ringo. Other accounts of the Best-era Beatles--one involving a quote from a music insider describing the Beatles as having `a pounding pulsating beat which I knew would be big box office;' plus quotes of producer George Martin saying that he never wanted Best out of the group--support Best's position.

Best states, "A conspiracy had clearly been going on for some time behind my back, but none of the other Beatles could find the courage to tell me. The stab in the back had been left to Brian...Even Ringo had been a party to it, someone else I had considered to be a pal...I had been betrayed." (Until reading Best's book, I had no idea that he and Ringo had been friends, or that Best later successfully sued Ringo for libel over comments Ringo made about Best.) As Best explains, he had been good friends with the rest of the Beatles, not just some hired hand, as has been implied. Thus, Best's allegations of conspiracy and betrayal ring true. His friends and bandmates had turned on him.

As has been reported elsewhere, Best points out that John Lennon later admitted, `We were cowards when we sacked him. We made Brian do it. But if we told Pete to his face, that would have been much nastier...It would probably have ended in a fight.' To which Best replies, "What would have been so terrible about that?"

Indeed, the early Beatles were no strangers to violence. In fact, during the Hamburg days, Lennon (later to champion "Give Peace a Chance") and Best actually tried to roll a sailor who had befriended them (after McCartney and Harrison had wisely backed off), according to Best. Long story short, the sailor won, and that was the end of it, except for the grueling fears Lennon and Best held that the sailor would one day return with reinforcements.

This was clearly not the sanitized version of the Beatles adroitly packaged by Brian Epstein. Indeed, Best's account of the group's Hamburg days portrays the Beatles as being often wild and out of control. Orgies were common in the Beatles' uninhabitable living quarters, not only with female fans but also with the local prostitutes who, after working hours, would pursue the boys in the band. The Beatles' bizarre antics on stage included masturbatory pantomimes, mooning the audience, and mock and real (Sutcliffe vs. McCartney) fist fights. Their conduct off stage was even worse: they incited a riot, and one Beatle (guess who) urinated from a balcony onto nuns who were passing by.

It was news to me that Best's mother Mona (aka, "Mo") had opened a night club ("The Casbah") in the cellar of her Liverpool home where the Beatles and many other local stars performed the new emerging brand of music.

Interesting to read how Best actually became the original "fifth Beatle" when the band needed a drummer to be with them on their trip to Hamburg. (Stu Sutcliffe was the bass player at the time.) Best's description of the loving relationship between Astrid Kirchherr (who "gave" the Beatles their mop-tops) and Sutcliffe, is quite endearing.

At one point, Best describes how he and McCartney were together arrested for arson and deported from Hamburg. All in all, stories like this demonstrate that Best was not just some drummer the lads picked up until they could find a replacement (as has been propagandized), but one of the boys in the band, a friend, whom John, Paul, and George simply discarded in ruthless fashion.

Other points of interest (fully detailed in the book) include: how Best was the acting manager of the Beatles before Epstein came along; the Beatles' complaining of Sutcliffe's bass playing but (apparently) never complaining of Best's drumming (to his face, at least); the Beatles recording and other adventures with Tony Sheridan; the emergence of Beatle boots; and how Best was the most popular Beatle in Liverpool among the girls, as acknowledged indirectly by McCartney's father, and also supported by the photo on the book's cover, with Best upstaging the others looks-wise.

So sad to read that when Best was trying to make it with his own band after being unceremoniously discarded that "The Beatles contributed to [Best's band's] destruction with their readily-printed gossip that I had never really been a Beatle, that I didn't smile, that I was unsociable, and definitely not a good mixer." I have always loved the Beatles, but love them less after reading Best's book.

Years ago, when I became aware of the Pete Best saga, I wondered how he managed to go on after being deprived of such unimaginable fame and fortune. He writes, "In the depths of depression I decided to take my life, a secret I have kept closely until now," i.e., until the publication of his book. Read about Best's attempted suicide, how he was saved, and later came to write the best book on the Beatles I have ever read.

 The Rehabilitation of Brian Jones, February 7, 2015

I was thoroughly enjoying this book until the author started using the pejorative "conspiracy theory" to describe the accounts of those who say that Brian Jones was murdered -- after the author had set up the discussion with mention of 'JFK-like conspiracy theories,' as if the absurd official story of President John F Kennedy's assassination were true. Given his apparently mainstream-news induced perspective, Trynka's credibility suffered when it came to his analysis of the Brian Jones murder allegations. Indeed, it seems that the author delved into that analysis with an all-but-closed mind. (Still, Trynka's tackling of the issue was most welcome.)

In contrast, the author's perspective of Brian Jones as a highly charismatic musician who could upstage Jagger and Richards is totally in sync with my own view. I will never forget a 1965 Stones concert I attended at the old 14th Street Academy of Music in NYC. There was a magic about Brian on stage that you could sense from the audience, and by just standing there and playing guitar, Brian most certainly did outshine both Jagger and Richards.

Trynka's portrayal of the unholy Oldham-Jagger-Richards triumvirate ganging up on the frail Brian (who, tragically, was too weak to fight back) also rings true because these three back-stabbing mega-creeps are still ragging on the founder of the Stones to this day, some 45+ years after his death. How low can you go? Recently, I heard Oldham on his Sirius radio show "favorably" describe the late Keith Relf--the Yardbird lead singer who was electrocuted while playing guitar--as "a grounded Brian Jones." After that most tasteless putdown of Brian, I can no longer tolerate listening to Oldham's show.

Wonderful to have Trynka set the record straight about Brian's song writing ability and contributions to the Stones' music, but disturbing to read how Jagger and Richards were relentless in their abuse, spiteful dismissal, and ultimate abandonment of Brian. Sadly, having gotten to see Jagger and Richards in this light has dulled my appreciation of their music. I couldn't even watch an early Stones Youtube clip that a friend sent me the other day--the sight of Jagger mugging for the camera during "Satisfaction" made me sick. But if that's the price I have to pay for witnessing the rehabilitation of Brian Jones, I'll take it. Thank you, Paul Trynka.

A New Divination Procedure Inspires Love

As most of us realize, having somebody to love is a precious commodity, especially in today’s world which so resembles the Matrix.  And, as we also know, finding that special someone is no easy task…unless perhaps, you have the help of Spirit.  Recently, Spirit helped me find Love via a new divination procedure I discovered, involving, of all things, an iPod.

It was the Spring of 2014, and softball season had just begun.  I was feeling like I did not belong on the field anymore.  For years I had been competing against players half my age, and most recently the competition had all too often seemed to be about a third of my age, which was bothersome conceptually.  Had I retained my abilities to pitch, field, hit, and/or run, this would hot have been such an issue.  But my skills were fading, and aching parts of my body were telling me to hang up my spikes, and save myself for other activities, Argentine tango primarily.

I was resisting the messages from my body.  I knew deep down that I…was still the best third-base coach the team had, could deliver a hit in the clutch, could cash in on intangibles, and was quite adept at helping Dave—the manager of the team and a close friend—do his job.  Thus, my logic continued to prevail.   But my spirit helpers, and/or guides, and/or higher self (collectively and individually, “Spirit” herein) were joined in disagreement with my conscious self.

I had gone to the first (and only) softball team practice and did very well.  On opening day, I did alright as a designated hitter, while not hitting with any authority, but netting one gift-hit in three at bats, ably running the bases, and scoring a run. 

A key personal moment in that opening-day contest occurred when a fellow teammate chided me (not the first time) over how I had circled the bases, station to station—right after I had scored a run!  His “good-natured teasing” brought out in me feelings that I thought I had left behind after abandoning the dubious goal of becoming a street fighting man, so many years before. I literally had an urge to punch him in the mouth.  Fortunately, the urge was easy to resist.  Nevertheless, there was no denying that the urge was there, serving as another prompt to leave the team (who wants/needs those impulses?).  

Still, in true baseball fashion, I was “hanging in there.”

Then came the moment on the job when Spirit really began to go to work, apparently because I wasn’t getting the message. I had an interaction with Dave that, long story short, became the impetus for me to quit the team.  A couple of days later, I walked into Dave’s office, handed in my uniform, and told him that I was resigning from the Pubs.  I offered no explanation and he, in shock, didn’t ask for one, until at the end of the day when he came into my office and asked, “Is everything alright? You quit the team so suddenly.”  I didn’t want to get into the specifics and so I replied, “Yeah, everything is fine.”

Problem was, Dave is a great friend, and it was gnawing at me that I had not been completely forthright with him.  And so a couple of days later, I went into his office and offered him an explanation of my take on what had occurred. Dave responded with an apology for words and an attitude he never meant to (and likely didn’t) convey.  A long discussion followed, and we ended up telling each other “I love you,” something I have never before said to a man who wasn’t my father or brother. 

During that conversation with Dave came a key moment of Truth.  I was mentioning to him how Spirit had used him to bring me to two key facets of my life—my connection to, and relationship with, world-class medium Suzane Northrop; and my delving into 9/11 Truth, the specifics of which I have written about in my book Into the Mystic… and here on this blog, respectively).  What I got during that discussion with Dave was that Spirit had (in a decidedly unique but highly effective and personalized way (they know me too well)) used Dave by getting me to wrongly perceive what he was conveying, and do what my path demanded:  quit the team.  When I stated as much to Dave, a powerful wave of emotion overcame me, and brought me to tears.  In that moment, I knew I had nailed it (tears, in certain contexts, as here, often serve as a validation)—Spirit wanted me to leave the team.  But why?  I went on alert to watch for the reason.

The answer came a few weeks later.  As part of my usual morning exercise routine, I was riding my stationary recumbent exercise bike and about to listen to my iPod on shuffle play.  I had some time ago discovered a personal divination procedure involving the iPod: I would (1) mentally focus on a question or topic, (2) ask Spirit to come and provide some guidance, (3) hit “Shuffle Songs” on the iPod, (4) see and hear what songs came up, and (5) receive whatever message was attached to the songs.  I would often gain insight using this procedure, and used it that Friday morning. 

Had I remained on the softball team, there would have been a game to attend that Friday night.  But since I had left the team, the only activity options were the usual tango parties, and the monthly journeying event at the New York Shamanic Circle (NYSC).  I hadn’t been to the Circle in some time, I knew, and was wondering if I should go.  That was the issue I had in mind when I asked for an answer to come from Spirit, via my iPod.

After I hit “Shuffle Songs,” the first two songs to play on the iPod were Cherokee Nation (by Paul Revere and the Raiders) and Indian Giver (by the 1910 Fruitgum company). Both songs are American Indian based.  Of course, American Indians are associated with shamanism, and so I easily got that I was to attend the NYSC that evening. I checked the NYSC website for their (then-current) location, where I had never been.  The Circle was to be held at the American Indian Community House.  A spirituality trifecta!  No doubt about it, I was being prompted to attend the Circle, and would do so—despite the fact that I would have to take a strange elevator for the first time (usually a deterrent. I’m elevator-shy, to put it kindly).

{Note: I have over 2,200 songs on my iPods.   Only four songs involve Indians: the two mentioned above and two others.  The odds of one Indian song playing at any given moment are 4 in 2,200.  The odds of two Indian songs playing back-to-back are (4 in 2,200) x (3 in 2,200) =  12/4,840,000 = or about 2.4 chances in a million.}

To the Circle I went, after a stop-off at a nearby wine bar for a glass of cabernet sauvignon. (It’s not really advisable to drink alcohol when you are about to embark on a shamanic journey, but old and new habits die hard, and it worked out great here, as indicated below.) 

Upon my arrival, Kathy (not her real name), a lovely member of the Circle with whom I had been acquainted intermittently since 2001, wished me a “Happy New Year.”  I thought ‘What?  Happy New Year? I was here three months ago, in February.’  Later I checked my notes.  As it turned out, I hadn’t been to the Circle since February 2013, some fifteen months before!  And so the “Happy New Year” comment from Kathy was actually appropriate.  As was the observation she made after hugging me hello: “You’re damp.”  I was indeed a tad soggy; it had been drizzling outside. 

I took off my shoes and settled in, as the actual circle of participants began to form. There were about 25 of us, most of whom were new to me.  I couldn’t help but wonder, ‘Where have all the regulars gone?’

During one of the journeys (with a partner who was new to shamanism), the red wine I had consumed earlier began to make me sleepy.  As I was lying down and closing my eyes, Kathy came by, barefooted, and stepped on my feet. “No sleeping on the job,” she directed good-naturedly before quickly moving on. 

‘Hmmmm,” I thought, ‘Is she flirting?’ because that seemed a bit too familiar an act for a relationship that had been nothing more than an acquaintanceship previously.  From that moment on, Kathy was on my mind for the rest of the evening. 

The three journeys that evening were mostly mother-oriented, as Mother’s Day was approaching.  For me the journeys went well, including the partner-with-a-stranger journey which always triggers performance anxiety (needlessly, as it usually turns out). 
 

At the end of the evening, as the Circle was wrapping up, Kathy was speaking to someone nearby and I heard her mention “my fiancé.”  Reflecting on the attraction I had felt toward Kathy since 2001, I figured, ‘Oh well, strike her off the list [of potential love interests].’ I approached and teased Kathy about being “violent” in her manner of ordering me to not sleep.  She laughed, and we hugged goodbye.

On the drive home, I remained focused on Kathy and our exchanges earlier in the evening. We were distant friends on Facebook, and I decided to message her there.

I wrote: “great seeing you tonight.  i re-checked my notebook.  the last time i was at the nysc was february alright, but of 2013, not this year!  i had no idea that it had been that long.  so right... happy new year!  and thanks for all the hugs and even the step-on.  love your energy and touch.  if i don't see you before you leave, safe travels out west!”

Kathy replied the next morning: “Dennis, I was so glad to see you last night and squeeze you. You bring such a great &clean energy to the circle. I am sorry if my teasing and stepping on your toes hurt your feelings (& toes).  I know you are in your mastery and don't need to even close your eyes to journey. Most times my best info comes while sleeping through a journey. I hope it won't be so long until I see you again--at least before I leave in July. Xo”

I laughed and decided to chance bringing up Kathy’s mention of her “fiance’” in my next reply. “Thanks so much…You are a joy to hold and behold.  You did not hurt my feelings or toes, I enjoyed it!  I just turned it back into a tease of you when you brought up the violence thing. Did I hear you right when you seemingly mentioned having a fiancé?”

“A fiancé, not yet! Do you know something/someone I should know?” Kathy wrote back, while following up her reply with a picture of a joyous Snoopy simply walking and smiling.

Not really getting what the Snoopy image was all about, I thought, ‘No fiance’?  That’s good news,’ while wondering whether Spirit had been at work getting me to hear something that was not said (as had happened with Dave); and if Kathy were the reason Spirit had gotten me to give up softball and go to the Circle on a night that I would have been playing in a game had I not left the team.

Feeling my suspicions were correct, I replied to Kathy: “hmmm...i guess i mis-heard.  i do know that i would like to take you out to dinner sometime.  interested?”

“Would love that!” was Kathy’s response. 

“Great! Would this coming Friday work for you?...”

 “Friday is good…”

We made arrangements for that Friday but as fate would have it, ran into each other two nights before at a Susana Tapia Leon event at the Subud Center, one evening after the full moon.  The setting seemed so magical (as is always is the case at Susana events) with Kathy arriving late and sitting down right next to me at the only open seat left in the circle.  I flashed on the fact that  Susana had played such a pivotal role in my becoming a 9/11 Truth activist, back in September 2008 (as discussed here).  

After the Susana event, I offered Kathy a ride home, and she accepted.  We enjoyed each others company and got to know each other a little better on the ride back to Brooklyn, which made our dinner engagement two nights later go that much more smoothly.

As of this writing, four months later [but see my update in the comment below], Kathy and I are a couple.  All thanks to Spirit who, thru Dave, had gotten me to resign from the softball team at a crucial moment (by getting me to misinterpret Dave's communications), led me to the New York Shamanic Circle for the first time in 15 months (via the iPod divination process) so I could meet Kathy on a night that I would otherwise have been playing softball, got me to mis-hear Kathy say “my fiancé’” which in turn triggered a Facebook message exchange that led to a date, romance and ultimately Love.  Along the way there was the “chance encounter” of meeting Kathy at Susana’s Subud Center event (which leads me to theorize that by getting me to connect with Kathy, Spirit (here including the spirits whom I have encountered at the New York Shamanic Circle)  was rewarding me for all of the extra 9/11 Truth work I had done, with Susana’s encouragement)—all  which paved the way for a fabulous first date.

Or so it seems.

Thank you, Spirit.

And thank you, readers, for getting to THE END of this article.

Special thanks to Kathy and Dave for contributing to this article.

A Screaming Synchronicity

A week ago, a tango friend with whom I feel a positive connection invited me to an unveiling of her rock band’s video at a bar on the Bowery, in Soho.  It was a Facebook invitation and there I declared myself to be a “Maybe” attendee, as I was unsure whether or not I should go. 

The day of the event began as a tough one.  My early morning head was blown by my own caretaker impatience, and maniacal screaming.  Then, when I got to work, the negativity was further exacerbated by the voice mail revelation that one of my key reports had suffered a fall and “a few fractures” in her elbow, and would be out for days, if not weeks.  Meaning we had to improvise throughout the workday to meet the newsletter deadlines, which we did.  But it was a long and arduous day.  

Came the evening and I was still unsure about attending the rock video unveiling.  I left work around 7:45PM.  On my way to the parking garage, I picked up a bottle of Malbec in the event that I was to head directly home and wine and dine with moi. 

My Prius took me onto the FDR, and I realized that I was heading to the Bowery.  I wondered what parking would be like in that part of town (unfamiliar territory for me) at that hour.  As it turned out, parking was not a problem.  I got a spot right on the Bowery itself, famous for its bums.  There was an alternate side of the street parking restriction that kicked in at midnight, before which I would be long gone, but after which locals would have to move their cars.  Hence, the available parking spaces.

I got to the bar a few minutes after the scheduled start time, 8pm.  Recorded music was coming from the area in the back.  The volume was reasonable.  I felt an urge to head to the back but resisted the impulse, and decided to check in properly with the bartenders.  Mistake.

The lovely female African American bartender told me that the event would start at 9 (which turned out to be inaccurate; the event actually started at 8:15 in the back, I would learn the next day).  I figured I'd hang out as the music in the back wasn't excessively loud. Suddenly one of the other bartenders turned on different music up front, BLASTING!!!!! It was absolutely awful music (in this man’s opinion) that clashed horribly with the music coming from the back, to the limited extent that you could still hear the music coming from the back.

Ear-splitting cacophonies are not my cup of tea.  It was time for me to go.  Even with my custom musicians earplugs and 25 decibel reduction capacity, this event would be undoable for me. 

I got in my car and started driving, and reconsidering, wondering whether I should just putter around Soho for a bit and return to the bar at 9, or just head home.  As I was stuck in traffic on Houston Street, around Chrystie, I heard my rear door open.  I turned and saw a big burly Bowery bum , in a hooded sweatshirt, getting into my car. Horrified, truly fucking horrified, I screamed, “What the fuck are you doing? Get out! Get out! Get out!...” And the Bowery bum is just standing there, hunched over, half in, half out, with a “What’s your problem?” attitude being transmitted from behind the hooded sweatshirt that concealed most of his face.  Finally my relentless screaming like a Banshee got him to turn slowly and leave, casually closing the door behind him as he did.  I watched him walk off, ever so slowly, and begin to rummage through some construction paraphernalia along the side of the Houston Street.

I breathed a sigh of relief, and locked my doors with the manual door controls on my left (the doors on my 2008 Prius do not lock automatically).  Traffic started to move.  I wondered where to go.  Should I return to the bar and the video unveiling, or head home? 

I drove along the path of least resistance and ended up on the Bowery northbound, in the lane that takes you to the Manhattan Bridge, and back to Brooklyn.  I followed that path.  Soon I would be home.

One of the freakier aspects of this experience was hearing the register of my own voice when I was screaming at the burly intruder, whose presence reminded me of the figure of Death, only meatier. My screams of horror, I must confess, sounded borderline female.

Once home, I decided to tell no one about the incident mainly because I was embarrassed by the overtly female screams that projected out of my horrified male body when the Bowery bum was making his way into my car.  That at some level, the idea that I was anticipating being murdered, was of little consolation to this alleged street fighting man.

The next morning I was to take my mother to the hearing doctor.  Came 8AM and I picked up Mom and her nursing attendant at my mother’s apartment.   Spontaneously I revealed what had happened the night before, leaving out the part about my horrific “Get out!” screams sounding female. 

In the car, on the way to the doctor’s office, my mother (a very psychic person) revealed that she was following a murder case, and that the defendant was banking on a “screams like a woman” defense. Specifically, in that case, Oscar (“Blade Runner”) Pistorius, a leading South African runner with partially amputated legs who competed in the Olympics, is on trial for murdering his beautiful girlfriend and model, Reeva Steenkamp.  

As my mother—who has been following the trial—told the story, Pistorius says that he thought his girlfriend was an intruder.  He admits that he shot her, but claims that it was a terrible mistake. Here's a key: Neighbors testified that they had heard screams, and that they were screams of a woman.  Pistorius says that the screams were his own screams of horror, upon realizing his mistake!  Expert testimony is to be presented stating that when a man is truly horrified, his screams can sound female. 

I had never heard of the proposition that when a man is truly horrified, his screams can sound female, but my own “Invasion of the Bowery Bum” experience proved quite convincingly to me that a horrified man’s screams can sound female.  If I were the judge trying the Pistorius case (there is no jury, as I understand it, the case being tried in South Africa)—I’d have to consider, along with all the other evidence, whether or not the “screams like a woman” defense, being ridiculed in the wholly untrustworthy mass media, is in fact legitimate, and whether or not Pistorius is actually telling the truth. 

Just putting it out there, to the Universe, as I’m feeling compelled to do, the synchronicity of my horrific experience with the Bowery bum dovetailing curiously with Pistorius’  “screams like a woman” defense.

Submitted for what it’s worth.  Thanks for reading.