Window to the Soul
Iris B. Struller
Window to the Soul
Copyright © 2017 by Iris B. Struller
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
This book should not be used as a substitute for the advice of professional medical or spiritual counselors. You should never delay seeking professional help, disregard medical advice or commence or discontinue any medical or spiritual guidance because of information in this book.
Cover design by Iris B. Struller
Interior Layout by Iris B. Struller
ISBN 13: 978-0-9996682-1-4
LCCN: 2017918072
Got The Memo Press
Satellite Beach, FL
To JS, who opened the door
To MA, who picked up the baton
To AA, who will heal all
Introduction
I remember the day my mother handed me the audio cassette tape. She said it had on it the session she’d mentioned earlier, about my husband and me. I was curious to find out what this entity, speaking through my mother, had to say.
For a period of time, my mother received insights from an entity she sensed clearly. These visits occurred inside her mind and presented her with ideas about universal questions and ways of life. She explained that, for her, the experience was seeing pictures that formed into words in her mind.
She taped her sessions. As a story came to life, she began to drop hints of their existence to me. After weeks of silence, she’d slide a fragment my way, mentioning casually the information she’d gleamed, summing it up in a handful of words.
Over time, she passed me some of the tapes on subjects she thought I would find interesting. Still, I knew she felt uneasy about their existence. Would I believe her? She would have preferred to keep it secret, but felt it was too big for that. Her major concern was being “found out.” A medical doctor in a small town in Florida, she was afraid her patients would think her a quack, and leave her practice.
When she finally handed me the case holding the remainder of her tapes, I promised to just transcribe them. Her heavily German-sourced-and-accented English lilted haltingly to form sessions easily spanning thirty-five minutes at a time. I had my work cut out to edit her very own literary expressions while keeping the meaning she intended. As I worked this rich material, I sensed an inner green light when I got it right, and could then proceed to the next paragraph.
I also sat with her to discover more of her daily life, and her interactions with some of her patients as the sessions were coming in. She shared bits and pieces; I took notes, observing her mannerisms and expressions as she recounted her life. It was unusual for her to do this; she was an intensely private person. I came to more deeply understand the impact of her experiences.
While she shared some of her stories with me, her strong desire to remain anonymous inhibited me from telling it fully. Her great need for anonymity also opened my eyes to the need for privacy of others mentioned in the story: I have changed all the names, any situations involving patients or doctors are fiction and fictionalized. A session with a psychiatrist I describe as her initial encounter is actually a composite of multiple sessions, focusing on the significant insights.
Her wish to be unrecognizable in any way remained paramount; on my second try I created a protagonist quite unlike my mother. “This is how you see me?” she asked after reading the pages I’d faxed her. Her reaction drowned me in guilt. “No, Ma, I’m trying to make her very unlike you. Didn’t we talk about this?” When I reworked her character yet again, softening the edges, sculpting a new personality. “This is too much like me. You must change it,” she exclaimed months later. What to do?
I decided to take out her personal story altogether and just leave the sessions intact. The resulting skeleton was just that: a lifeless scaffold with nothing to hold. I put the manuscript in a drawer.
Mom passed away in 1998. Part of me felt the relief of her restrictions falling away with her passing, another was still bound by them. I picked up the manuscript again and again, but was never quite able to finish: it just didn’t feel right. I put it back in the drawer before starting again in early 2000.
My father passed in 2004, unleashing an avalanche of personal challenges for me, marked by divorce, an intervention, emotional turbulence triggered by revisited childhood home and situations, guilt over my shortcomings in supporting my own children during this upheaval, followed by a new life direction, and overcoming my own health issues. Window stayed in the drawer, while another story took the forefront: the emotional journey triggered by my actions during and following my father’s passing.
I returned to Window in 2016. Reworking it from scratch, I used my earlier version as a guide and left the originally-edited sessions untouched, including any titles she had chosen for the tapes. I’ve filled in the blanks from memory referring back to what she told me, what my parents both shared with me, how I’ve known them to be with each other and others, how they’d lived their lives and regarded those whose lives they touched. I’ve tried to keep true to their generous spirit, their way of life, the love they shared, and hope to have succeeded in that.
In re-telling my mother’s journey, and passing it on to you, the reader, I hope you will find inspiration in it. While it is part of my immediate story, considering how we are all connected, it is also a part of yours.
Iris Struller
October 3, 2017
Chapter 1
Waking Up
1989
There it is again, this hush of quiet that makes her hair stand on end. And yet, for the moment, her breathing slows, her heartbeat softens at its edges. Sitting in her spot on the couch with the twilight blinking through the window shades, she relents, leans back, and allows this feeling to caress her.
“Hello, Harvey,” Erika says softly to herself, a quick mutter into her chest as she glances around to make sure Ruppert isn’t near. She’s not ready to share this, this sense of someone in the room, someone near whom she can’t see, even though she senses her husband might understand. At least she hopes he would.
She leans back and closes her eyes, wills herself to be open to the sensation that has become familiar: an odd sense of peace, a tranquility entering her chest and seeping outward into every limb. She breathes deep, slows her intake, breathes out again. In a moment it’s over and the shimmer surrounding her disappears. She sits a moment longer, still immersed in the otherworldly peace that seems to energize her being, so innocuous, and wonders why it is so out of reach at other times. “Thanks, Harvey,” she smiles into the ethers, picking up the magazine she meant to read.
For a moment, she turns into herself and takes another look. This sensation, it started with her operations, those ghastly nightmares that upsided her life. And she can’t get back to the ‘before.’ How did her life become so strange? In a blink, she sees herself running up the path, and her skin prickles with the movement of a thousand ants. What does it mean? Again, she goes through this film in her mind; the fear that comes with it now softened a little.
Breathe, she tells herself, just breathe. Still, her mind’s eye tells a story as a flood of heat blasts her face and she tries to cough the lump out of her throat, but nothing moves. Clamping her eyes shut to recapture calm into her limbs, she sees the fire lapping at her feet that race up the hill, acrid smoke searing the skin on her arms. She knows it’s just ahead, senses the heavy presence of this sacred temple even though the smoke is too thick to make it out now. Up, up, she must hurry; the flames have already surrounded the sacred site. No! It can’t be! A brusque shove from behind and she’s knocked to the ground, agony pinning her breath in her chest just so and she can’t move an inch. A bloodied blade sticks out her front, a vise of pain, and blood so much blood! Muscled arms are unable to move her body crumpled in place, all strength seeping into the packed dirt that cradles her head. She must breathe! With all her might, she pushes to expand her lungs, seared in this grip that rasps a gurgle amidst coppery gag in her throat, thick and sticky. Silent struggle fades her sight of the temple so near, and at last, her throat is clear.
She breathes in deep, unable to move in her chair, the images straddling her chest. Quetzacoatl, this strange sounding name is on her lips just like it was when she awoke from anesthesia, and she shakes her head in the dim light. What does it mean, this strange vision from her operation three years ago? What does it have to do with her, this odd scene from some place in Mexico? A warrior killed, the strange knowledge that she was him. And it keeps coming back to her, even after all this time. She wants to know more, needs to know.
Yes, Ruppert’s been a dear, this loving, kind man by her side. He scoured the Mexican travel books and even went to the library for her. That day sent chills down her spine, told her the image of the temples held her answer. But still, nothing. And still, more.
Her mind slides back to comfort as her body still resounds this gentle touch of no one “real.” Harvey. A chuckle bursts from her lips. Harvey. She came up with the name because it reminded her of the imaginary rabbit, Jimmy Stewart’s best friend from the 1950’s comedy of the same name. She found it funny then, her own invisible friend. Harvey. He’s been visiting her since the last of her operations.
She scratches her cheek, leans back once more into that dream-like state of floating, watching her own operation as if on screen. A surge of energy had pulled her upward. She remembers the weightlessness, the calm, the comfort, better than an embrace of an old friend.
She sees them again in her mind’s eye, the four figures, light-colored beings, the soft glow emanating from each. She had the same soft glow within herself. As they came closer, their lights melded with her own, and she wasn’t afraid. She knew she could trust them, sensed love and spirituality, knowledge and wisdom. Old friends. Funny, she thinks now, how in that moment, all those details were so clear.
Hello, dearest friend, we meet again. Even now, she is smiling, filled with this incredible joy.
It’s been so difficult lately. Is it over? Am I back?
Not yet, not if you’re not ready: You’ve come a long way, you’ve accomplished great things, helped many people. In the latter years, however, you’ve returned to a well-known path of materialism, which is easy to do in such a materialistic learning place as Earth. But this time, you wanted to accomplish so much more, so much more spiritually. You set such high goals for yourself. You haven’t quite accomplished those goals yet, so you have the chance to go back and try again. If you want to. If you feel up to it.
The big house, the luxuries, the material possessions she had accumulated: she knew what they meant instantly. She always thought all those long hours of helping others balanced out her accumulation of wealth and comfort.
You have time; you can become more spiritual. Through your spirituality, you’ll have the chance to open the door for others, thereby completing your own lessons. You can reach the goals you set for yourself, for your own experience, your own growth, the type of development we talked about before you entered this lifetime. You can reach the next level, where you want to be. It’s up to you.
Will I have the strength? I’ve felt so alone lately.
It won’t be easy. It will be difficult but you can do it, you have the strength to do so. You won’t fail, you won’t be alone. We’ll be by your side at all times, as we have always been. You’ll feel our presence more strongly than you have in the past, we promise you that.
Even now, she wants to believe it. She so wants to succeed.
If you want to go back, you can go back. Finish what you started. Same body, same life. Make it different. It’s up to you.
And then, she was whisked away by epinephrine entering her body, and the bleeping of the hospital machines was the next thing she remembered.
She takes a breath, gets up from her chair. She knows, somehow, this is not the end, this is some new beginning. She senses, this part of her life won’t be so much about herself, no matter how packaged. For a moment, a thread of fury slides through her. Hasn’t she given enough? What more can she do? As a doctor helping others, whether people can pay or not, she helps. If she can’t beat the cancer, how can she continue her work? How can it not also be about her? For a split second, she wonders if even this thought is selfish.
You’ll feel us more strongly than you have in the past, we’ll be around you, you won’t be alone. The promise chimes in her ear and she clings to it now, allows herself to believe.
Chapter 2
Opening Doors To Acceptance
1989
Erika approaches her husband as he pours the last of the coffee into a cup, and rests a soothing hand in the middle of his back to announce her presence. “Ruppert, I’ve made an appointment with the therapist. The one Michelle referred me to.” The words spill quickly towards the last threshold as she mutes her voice. “He’s a psychiatrist.” Funny, saying it has left an odd tenderness within her. She’s not sure why the words would have this impact.
“A psychiatrist?” A fleeting concern has pushed his eyebrows a fraction above their normal resting place, giving his eyes a comical bracket, somewhere between disbelief and wonder.
“Yes. You know I’ve been struggling with this for a while, really, but it’s time,” she says now, staring at the coffee machine as she fits the filter in place and begins scooping the grinds. She turns to him. “You’ve been wonderful, helping me with this,” she says, pauses then, a curious torment edging into her. “But I need to, I want to speak to someone outside of us. There are so many conflicting thoughts inside my head . . . I need some input, a different perspective altogether. I think we’re both out of our league; I know I am. I no longer know what I’m feeling. I’ve never felt like this. And those images, the fires, those visions from Mexico, I can’t get rid of them.” The inner turmoil has rushed her over the edge again, taking with it a tender part of her, and she’s startled again by this sudden anguish. She steps back, retreating to safe distance. “Some input from outside might help, shed some light.” She squints as she turns to face him, bringing his blue eyes into focus, the joyful crease on each side of them behind glasses, and she pushes aside unease over rejecting him in this role.
“You don’t think we can work this through ourselves?” He has slowed for a moment, observing her more closely.
“We’ve tried so long to get to the bottom of this, some explanation, but it’s just not enough. It’s not getting me the answers I need. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to minimize our efforts. You know how much I appreciate your support, and I love you so much for it, but I think this is bigger than us.”
“Ok, I get it,” he says then, holds onto her eyes with steady gaze. “You know you can always talk to me,” he adds. It’s a casual tone that’s submerged any sense of betrayal, she senses, and pushes her further along.
“I need to do this,” she says with much softer voice. “You know, this guy apparently uses hypnosis or regression or some way of getting into the past. I’m not sure I’m sold on that, but I’m hopeful.” She chuckles a nervous hiccup. “I want to try, want to be open. This is making me nutty! I need to get to the bottom and I hope this will help. I’m sorry, I’m rambling? I need a new perspective.” She turns toward him directly. “Reassurance, maybe? I guess I need to know I’m not losing it.”
He embraces her with tenderness in his response. “Ok.” He nods her into his chest. “You know I support whatever decision you make.”
She smiles softly at him. For catching her, for holding her, for being there. “I know. I love you for that.”
* * *
A few days later, she enters a comfortably furnished office that walks the line between professional and inviting meeting place and sits down opposite the slim man in his forties. Intelligent eyes assess her from behind round spectacles, and she finds herself breathing a little easier. She likes this man already.
“Three years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I went through moderate mastectomy and reconstruction. The anesthesia never agreed with me and I had severe reactions.” She slows, reaches for the glass of water, takes a sip, and recollects herself when she replaces the glass on the table. “I decided to handle this on an outpatient basis. I didn’t want anyone to find out. I was worried my patients would leave and I’d lose my office. I’d only just opened my practice in town. And anyway, who wants a doctor with cancer?” Even now, she stumbles over this word, this death sentence. She shakes her head, a rustle in the air. “I couldn’t take the chance. My mother died of colon cancer discovered too late.” She slows again, searching for words. “I don’t know what to do anymore.” Stillness settles in the room. She watches him expectantly, partially deflated and exhausted by the effort it took just to describe this part alone.
At last, he moves. “Erika, you know I use hypnotic techniques in my therapy to help my patients through very difficult experiences. I’ve had very good results. You seem so very distraught at the moment, and I’m wondering if some of the relaxation techniques wouldn’t be helpful to ease some of the tension you’re experiencing now.” He leans back guardedly, watches her.
“Is that possible? I mean, really possible?”
“I could guide you through it, perhaps it might help you.”
She takes a moment to touch this idea, and finds herself wanting to embrace this possibility that sounds almost a little too easy in a way. But, what if it could help? She inhales deeply.
“I’d like to try it.”
“Alright, why don’t you sit back in your chair, take a deep breath and listen to my voice. You may close your eyes if you wish. If not, focus on something in this room, say the figurine of the two little birds here on the bookcase. Can you see those?” Erika follows his eyes, nods then. “Just look at those, let your eyes close a bit so the birds go out of focus just a bit and just keep looking at them and relax, just let the tension go.”
“Now, focus on your head, let the tension go out of your head.” He pauses, giving her time to do just that. “Now, let the tension go out of your neck, feel it flow out. Now your shoulders, let the tension flow down your arms and out of your hands and relax your arms.” He pauses again. “Now feel the tension drain out of your chest, your abdomen, and your legs. Just let it drain out, let it all go out.”
Erika follows his words, emptying out her mind. As she waits for further instruction, she lets herself float within, when a faint hiccup trips her throat shut and she can’t breathe. She tries to cough, but it won’t dislodge as she wrestles with it, a breath for air the only struggle, but her throat is fitfully closed.
“Erika, Erika! Erika, wake up.”
Loud voice filters through the darkness, pulls at her and she startles, opening her eyes. She clears her throat easily then, finds him leaning forward in his chair. “What happened just now?”
“I think the tension may be overwhelming for you at this time,” he says in returned monotone. “I think we should wait a while before we try this again.”
She leans back, takes in a deep breath, and lets it out completely. “My throat closed up. What does that mean?” Her mind has returned to the moment of no air, and she can feel it even now.
“I think your situation is so great for you that you may have panicked the moment you relaxed enough to give you the sense of losing control. An anxiety attack, perhaps,” he says, his voice smooth and distant, yet perched and present. “Because you were doing really well and seemed to be able to completely relax and able to let go, until that crucial moment. But that’s ok. It shows us that you are able to let go of the tension. In fact you relaxed so completely you were almost in a light trance.” His clear eyes are focusing on her, and she thinks she notices mild surprise at this accomplishment. Then he jots down some notes, a few erratic movements onto the pad on his lap. “How are you feeling now?”
She knows she needs to answer, but she’s still unsure. “Ok, fine, I guess. I don’t understand how my throat could close so completely. Why would that happen? But, alright, maybe an anxiety attack could explain this? I’ve never had one of those before. Could it be something else?” Her eyes are on him; he is putting his pad on the table next to him.
“Let’s talk more next week.”
“Oh.” She can’t hide her disappointment. “I see.” She gathers her things. “I’ll see you next week.”
* * *
Thoughts of the session won’t leave her alone, but she makes light of it to Ruppert when he asks about it. She can’t bring herself to share these doubts within her, muffles them until the following week when she returns to the therapist’s office.
“I trace some of this back to my second operation,” she says while looking at him squarely as he picks up his pad to write. “When I came out of it, I had some sort of flashback or something. Everyone tried to convince me it was a dream, but I don’t think so.” She leans back, tendrils of thought streaming into consciousness, devoid of color, and then, bursting.
“Who was trying to convince you?”
“Well, my doctors for one, and,” she hesitates a moment, “Ruppert, too.” She pauses again. “I don’t think he knew what to do with all of that. I can’t blame him.” She retreats, then presses on. “Even I have my doubts on some level, but I can’t let it go. It’s so real, so familiar, like a memory. I can barely grasp it, but it’s there, present all the time. I can’t seem to shake it. I find myself questioning it relentlessly.” She stills her fidgeting hands by clasping them together. “And since that operation, other strange things have started happening.” She shifts her body uneasily. “I sense . . . it feels like someone is around me all the time.” She shrugs, shakes her head again, this subtle attempt to shake off doubt. “I don’t know if I’m just imagining things, but I sense this energy or presence or . . . I don’t know. It’s very real to me, like the feeling you get when someone has come into the room and then you turn around and see that person. Only I never get to see it.” She rubs her eyebrow. “I’ve felt it now every day since that operation, a shift in energy, I guess. It lasts maybe five to fifteen minutes at a time. It’s like I’m visited by Caspar the friendly ghost. Or Harvey.” A faint chuckle, and for a moment there’s a true joy creasing her cheeks.
“Go on,” he says at last, this neutral presence observing in the stillness.
She takes heart to tell him all, decides to fly over her fear of sounding odd, dives in. “It started with the experience I had coming out of anesthesia when I was a warrior of some sort, trying to reach this temple, and I think it had to do with Mexico, because I saw that temple in a book on Mexico Ruppert dug up when we got home.”
His eyes rest on her, the quiet in the room stretches uncomfortably.
“Is there a way to find out more?”
He studies his notes, puts down his pen, looks up at her. “Let me ask you this,” he says, settles in his chair. “What are your thoughts on reincarnation?”
She blinks, holds his eyes. “I believe it’s possible,” she says at last, self-assured. “I’ve been reading books that have shown me more of this possibility. Ruth Montgomery and the Seth books.”
“Does this idea frighten you?”
“Living again? No, not really.”
“Ok, well, the reason I’m asking is that there is a way to find out more. With hypnosis and regression, we could try to place you at the time prior to the incident you’ve remembered to see if there’s anything else.”
“We could?” Hopeful, and then, something in her pulls back urgently. “Let me think about it. It’s a big step. I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“That’s ok. Give it some thought. We don’t have to do it today.” He shifts in his chair, relaxes somehow.
She watches him, stuck in this ramble inside her head. Suddenly an urgency grips her tightly, nudges her again. “No, let’s. Let’s do this today. Is that possible? I have to find out what happened to me, what’s happening to me now. I need to know. Please help me find out.” She seems to hold her breath again, that pause in time when her expectations rise and she’s just waiting.
“Ok,” he says casually. “You’re ready?”
“I am.” She shifts and settles again in her chair, finds a comfortable position, listens to his words guiding her to relax each part of her body, just like before.
And, instantly, her throat closes. Holding off the stench of fear and burning flesh, she grasps herself into sitting still within the now familiar scenes of flames and pain and death. A surge of energy, and she’s pulled up and beyond.
His voice comes through and she opens her eyes. Her mind replays pictures; she tries to hold onto the details. Stillness within her, then the calm of understanding floods the empty space.
“Ah, I think I know now,” she speaks almost automatically, her mind lagging on all she is sensing. She pushes away from it a little, works to focus on him. “Thank you. I understand now,” she says softly more to herself than him.
“Can you talk about it?”
She replays snippets in her mind to guide her. “What I understand is that I was the last of my tribe, the rest had been killed. Spaniards had discovered our village and plundered everything. They’d found out about the gold we’d hidden for Quetzacoatl and wanted that too. They’d already tortured and killed so many. They’d burnt the village. I’d gotten away but they came after me. I was running to the temple. I’d kept the secret and I knew that if I reached the temple, Quetzacoatl would save me and reward me with everlasting life. I couldn’t believe it when he let them kill us all. But they never got the gold. That secret died with me.”
He’s taken notes; she pulls into herself.
“What are your thoughts?” he asks.
“It was so real, so very real.” She looks at him with eyes gazing as if at stars. “I understand what happened now. This wasn’t a dream. It feels like I really lived through this.” She seeps into herself, following images still lingering, this silent film of some other life. Then, a snag. “Could I have made this up?”
After a moment’s consideration, he shakes his head deliberately. “I don’t believe so. At least not from what I saw as you were in trance. I know you felt everything you saw. I do believe this was an experience from another life, and I suppose the anesthesia woke it up in you.”
“Really?” She tilts her head, narrows her eyes. “A memory then?”
“I believe so, yes.” He leans back into his shoulders. “This is not so unusual, Erika. Anesthesia has been known to affect people in all sorts of ways. You’ve heard about out-of-body experiences? Well, they happen during anesthesia as well, many times without the person knowing about it.”
And as the words straddle her mind, she feels floaty, as though she stepped into peanut butter, and the walls are moving fluidly toward her. She gets up, needing to escape quickly, needing to breathe.
Chapter 3
Stepping Through The Door
She’s not sure how she’s gotten home as she unlocks the door and steps into the cool twilight of the house. She fills a glass with ice and water and gulps it quickly. She fills it again and takes it with her to the couch. Almost immediately, the sense of comfort surrounds her, a nesting into embrace beyond the softness of the pillows. Fleeting images of Mexico pass her eyes, and new understanding fills her.
Suddenly the feeling of not being alone. She scans the room, as an urge to write this down pushes itself into the forefront, this need for pen and paper beckoning her, and she searches the room for both. Is that how you want to communicate? Her thought is instant, an unspoken request within her. She gets up, finds the blank sheets on the kitchen counter, picks up the pen and returns to the couch.
She gathers herself, hovers the pen ever so lightly at the top of the page, breathes evenly and deeply. Go ahead, she invites and listens into the stillness.
She waits, and still, nothing. “I need your help,” she says then through closed eyes, allowing her pen to keep hovering over the page. And as she relaxes her body in waiting, she notices impulses, fragments of feelings coming to focus, and writes down what she senses.
“. . . helping, giving strength, peace, relaxation, floating. . .”
She pauses, looks at the words. Her hand feels a little stiff; is she so anxious to get it right?
She inhales again, relaxes just a little into the tenderness embracing her, and floating her thoughts, as images come, swiftly, smoothly, vivid. Her pen moves into action, lending words to impressions she receives, as it glides across the paper without any effort at all.
“We are explorers from another galaxy, from the direction of the Milky Way. We are lost; our exploration has gone awry. Our group consists of ten to fifteen ships. We lost power and had to float to this planet for an emergency landing, hoping to survive.
“The gravity of this planet, the third planet of the solar system, is pulling us down. We are having trouble breathing and moving. We are sending signals to our friends to warn them not to come too close, knowing that otherwise they will be caught, too. We will return to free you, but you must stay away. There are two of us. We look around; the planet looks inhabitable for now.
“We have to stay here until we can repair our ship. We have difficulties breathing and walking and the sun’s rays are hurting us. We must find tunnels to hide in. We can move mountains and stones with our thoughts alone.
“We sense that there are animals and primitive inhabitants who are small and naked and have spears. We are tall, of light color, almost translucent.
“We are trapped. We cannot take off. Our mind power cannot overcome the gravity of this planet. We know that another ship has crashed. We have to find them and will have to wait for the return of the rest of our group. We have to build signs so they can find us.
“Venus, green emerald, why did you lose your eternal way?
“We communicate telepathically; we know each other’s thoughts and feelings instantly because that is the creation of our lifeform and our reality. Our ships are energy circulations formed for transportation by our thoughts. They take us wherever we want to be in the universe and return us to our home galaxy.
“Star Sirius was our temporary operating station. We live without time, we use expanding thought realities as our experience and for our learning process.”
The flow of images and thoughts pauses, and she waits into it. As her eyes stray over the paper, she resists breaking her relaxed focus to read it, marvels at what has come out of her, knowing, at the same time, it isn’t hers. Curious, she remains still, holding her pen over a new sheet. As the energy shifts, the comforting feeling blends out, is replaced by the simple empty space of her living room. She puts down the pen, and leans into the cushions, eyes holding the table in front of her.
At last, a stir within her. What is this? Can this make sense?
She looks at the pages she’s just written, this scramble of words poured out of her unhaltingly, and, still, it doesn’t seem to be hers.
What’s going on? And in that moment, thoughts collide, slices of memory sweep into her sense of the unmistakable.
“Harvey? Do you have something to do with this?” She listens into the silence; her heart throbs loud within her chest. Then, this unholy calm overtakes her and presses gently against her, this hug she feels undeniably and through its weirdness it brings her peace.
She exhales, a final push after a marathon of holding her breath. “Oh god! Oh god!” she wheezes, sobs dispersing the tension tearing out. “Oh god!” She stares at the pages. “Thank God it’s you! You scared the hell out of me. What is going on? What are you doing?” She sits a moment longer, and, at last, touches the pages, her eyes glued to the words, and she reads them once more, as if for the first time. She puts them down in front of her, pushes them away, shakes her head in disbelief.
“What on earth do you want with me?”
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