"September 11th" by Seattle client/French American painter artist Isa D'Arleans. See more about her mural on the Photo Album at "Exotic Places, Interesting People and Wonderous Things"
The last installments to Louise's account of the NYC Disaster: "The Jolly Green Giant" and "Leaving NYC" have been added to the earlier posts.
Here you will also view new mural, "September 11" by world acclaimed Seattle French artist/client Isa D'Arleans
"September 11th" by Seattle client/French American painter artist Isa D'Arleans. See more about her mural on the Photo Album at "Exotic Places, Interesting People and Wonderous Things"
T
hank you all who have tried to call or email me. I haven't been able to call out, nor use my usual email. Earthlink cables were housed in the Trade Center and all of Manhattan users are attempting with futility, to share one access number.
I am so grateful for your love and concern. Have no fear. I am fine, while attempting to integrate surreal images of Tuesday's disaster into my daily reality.
I try to avoid glances out my window towards the Twin Towers. I now realize how effectively they anchored me at the start of every day. When I do look, the reality hits and I feel sick. I find myself obsessing about little things, when my psyche cannot wrap itself around the reality of the big thing.
From my rooftop, I watched people jump from the second tower just before it fell. It is so true, how indelible the images remain when viewed in person. I sobbed as I felt (and watched) a herd of souls catapult from their bodies just before the building collapsed. I continued to send the message, "GO TO THE LIGHT!" I sensed that one particular soul shepherded them to the Light with tremendous focus. His name was "David."
I stood in line to give blood but they were inundated and ran out of plastic bags. Unfortunately, too few people have been found to use the generous donations. I'm praying to be shown how my gifts might be used to help, mindful of the necessity to respect and support others through the important grieving process and not rush in too quickly. I long to assure those left behind, that their loved ones still exist; that death is an illusion.
I live on 13th Street—one block south of 14th—the boundary that separates the eerie silence to the south, from stores to the north. Today, those shops and restaurants attempted to rev up to a semblance of business-as-usual. Traffic on those streets was halted sporadically for National Guard trucks, police-escorted Metro buses—used to carry medical personnel and rescue workers—and screaming ambulances, fire engines and police cars.
We all know what each other feels when we stand in any given crosswalk on 6th Avenue—"The Avenue of the Americas"—and look south. The Twin Towers were our compass that directed us north and south. Yesterday, I stood in the middle of the vacant intersection at 6th and 13th, beside an elderly woman who dropped her bag of groceries on the street, freeing both hands to cover her face as she wept at the sight.
Uncontrollable grief overcomes many of us at the most unexpected times, overriding diverting thoughts with powerful emotion. It happened for me today, while waiting for the overcrowded "F" train, one of the few currently in operation. A young man from Japan sat on a crate, playing "Oh Danny Boy" on his "erhuir," an odd looking stringed instrument. All who sat on the bench with me—to my right and to my left—cried without embarrassment. A burly man who waited near the tracks wiped his eyes with his dirty sleeve.
One of the most heartbreaking stories I heard on the news last night, came from a rescuer at "ground zero," who reported that a Hispanic man had grabbed her, crying that his brother had reached him on his cell phone, trapped in the rubble and aware that rescuers were trying to reach him. His cell phone cut off, and Verizon Phone Company was able to beam a signal to his phone.
The woman and the man's brother waited until enough rubble was cleared that would allow them to approach the location of the renewed signal. Suddenly, the rescuer heard the three horn blasts that warned of an immanent building collapse. Two blasts indicated a building already falling. She ran for her life. She never found the man who led her to his brother, and the tumbled building buried the location that they had just approached.
We are energy, and we beam telepathic signals to each other all the time, beyond time and the illusion of death. I knew that my telepathic signal did reach those who left their bodies at the moment of the collapse of the second tower. Your prayers and thoughts will reach the thousands who have died in the last few days, as well as those who remain.
In Beyond Boundaries, I related the story of a consultation I did for a client years ago, a woman who is an FBI agent. In her session, I viewed the projection of a soul and relayed the image of this man with a white beard, blue shirt, carrying a paper under his arm. He said to my client, "Your thoughts helped us know where to go."
My client knew the identity of this man. She said that he was a scientist from Cal Tech in Pasadena, CA. who was on a flight from Los Angeles to San Francisco. He was to deliver a paper at a University in the Bay Area. A disgruntled airline employee took control of the plane, forcing a nose-dive into the ground in San Luis Obispo. She said that she heard the alert about the incident on her car radio and knew immediately, that she would be called to the scene.
She remembered that as she searched through all the rubble at the site, she contemplated all the souls who must be going to the Light at that moment. She was astonished to learn that just those thoughts guided so many of them to the Light.
Amazingly, my daughter was able to call me from where she is living in Jerusalem. In that tumultuous country, she has found tremendous joy and serenity. Her conversion to Judaism and marriage into the Hasidic community is the subject of my next book, The Israel Story: Roots and Wings, A Hesitant Journey into the Land of Hasidism. She said that Joseph, her very kind and loving husband, had been worrying about me all day. "What can we do for her?" he was asking, over and over.
Finally, he came to my daughter and announced (in Yiddish), "I have decided that we shall invite your mother to come stay with us for as long as she wishes. She can be here where she is safe and loved." I asked her to please thank Joseph for his kindness.
I laughed and said, "I now have a most generous invitation to come stay in the most dangerous country in the world, for my safety."
"I know, Mom," my daughter replied, "there are many terrorist acts committed here on a regular basis. But Hashem (God) watches over us. More people were killed in one day in New York City, than in years in Israel." Maybe she has a point. Today I heard that more people have died here, than the numbers that perished in Pearl Harbor, a major airline crash and on the Titanic, combined.
I have decided to dedicate my Fridays—my writing day—to consult for those who have lost loved ones in this disaster, at half price. Please leave a message at the Illuminations number—or email us—if/when you know of a victim's friend or relative who is being challenged by this disaster, and for whom a consultation might assist in their spiritual awakening. I will respond through individual consulations or in small groups, similar to the "Reading in the Round" format.
I've seen contracting fear transform into expanding love and hope when people are shown specific examples of their intimate connection to the Source, moments when they experienced an awareness of that connection, but did not define it as such. And I've seen peoples' lives change and gain meaning when they receive evidence that death is, indeed, an illusion. And I've seen countless numbers of people awaken to their spiritual paths, with the loss of loved ones.
As always, I ask, and will continue to be shown how to serve. And you will be shown. So don't hesitate to ask. Please send your thoughts and prayers to all these souls—the grieving friends and families, and to all those who are going "home."
One more thing:
Before forwarding any more Hallmark Card-ish platitudes, please ask yourself where and how the horror of this tragedy affects you, personally. What is it stirring up in you? What does a particular feeling—fear, anxiety, anger, sadness—remind you of? When have you felt this before? Where does that thread lead you?
It is only by accessing and processing our own personal emotions about this—by reaching deeper within ourselves—that we can get to the root of our personal darkness, all that we've returned to heal and evolve on from. This is the only way that we can avoid reflexive reactions of judgment, hatred, bigotry, and vengeance. Quite often, those emotions are our projections (or should I say, projectiles?)—into our world and onto others—of our own, unprocessed baggage.
Indeed, we have returned to this physical dimension to unpack our bags of fears, mis-beliefs and perceptions of separation of (or abandonment by) the Source. Let us take this opportunity to sort through all that has held us back—all that has delayed our soul's journey—and take another look at untruths that we have carried to our graves. When we follow those revealing threads, then healing can begin. Only then, can fear transform in to love, forgiveness, compassion and understanding. Only then, do we become the receivers of truly intuitive, divine inspiration.
PS: Regarding political and sociaI sentiments, I cannot say it more heartfully nor succinctly than Michael Toms (below), the founder of New Dimensions Radio, PBS
Much love
This is almost the hardest time, when the reality is starting to sink in with painful effects. The result of last Tuesday's bad Hollywood movie with excellent special effects.
One thing I love the most about living in Manhattan, is being able to cover all my errands by walking no more than a (long) 2-3 block radius. Now, on every corner building are stabbing reminders of all the beautiful young (and older) folks, the radiant and personal portraits of individuals who are/were so loved by other real people, bringing to mind the hundreds—thousands—who are grieving so very, very deeply. Everyone I've bumped into in the last few days has a best friend who lost a son or daughter or husband or wife.
The smoke still rises in the near distance out my window, from where the monoliths stood. My window now frames the plumes, dramatizing a full view with the recent removal of my A/C from the lower half. More frequent hints of Fall in the air add to my confused mix of emotions and muddled expectations.
Every day gives rise to a different emotion. Two days ago was befuddlement and yesterday, agitation. It took me two hours to get things sorted enough to make it out the door to meet with a friend of Dylan's (my son, who slept in on 9/11, the morning he was supposed to consult below Canal Street) who is helping me develop a new promo video—a request from my literary agent, who hopes to get me onto a major talk show. How do these actors in Broadway shows—the lucky ones whose shows won't shut down—up their energy to continue on, so soon?)
The day before, anger was the emotion de jour. I really snapped at the young sales gal who mindlessly yammered with one of the well-known local accents, "We jes' need to sen' alla da Palestin-ians, da Jew-ses, and da Muslums outa heah!"
"And you keep talking like that and people are going to want to ship you out," I snapped. "And where are you from?" I added, topping off with my own emotional projectile.
And then I see the glory of the bigger plan, the tons of souls who will awaken spiritually from this calamity, who already are asking life-changing questions about life's meaning, their meaning, all the while looking for a Higher Power to embrace them and make sense of this. So many people are already are reaching deeper into their hearts to participate in and contribute to this lifetime in more meaningful, wholesome and enriching ways. So many are so ready to toss out all that that they have made their God.
We'll see what tomorrow brings.
I ate more ice cream in the two weeks following 9/11 than I've consumed in the past 10 years. Hagen Daas: Vanilla Swiss Almond and Mint Chip in a sugar cone. I took note of this somewhat addictive behavior one morning, when I noticed very dark circles appearing under my eyes—accompanied by a dull headache—since that disastrous day. I normally eat wisely, and I haven't experienced headaches since I started meditating ("checking in with headquarters") almost 30 years ago.
Lately, haunting images delay my sleep at night, until, after a few prayers, I consciously breathe into my self-healing-cleansing-relaxation visualization and drift off for at least six hours—only one or two short of my usual rest requirement. No, the dark circles were not from sleep deprivation, but from too much dairy and sugar, consumed in orgy quantities.
That same morning, one self-observation followed another, such as a recent tendency to trip on craggy sidewalks and bump toes and knees on objects that are normally unobtrusive. I'd forget what I had walked to the other side of a room to retrieve. I was not naïve about the stress reactions that hundreds of we New Yorkers are experiencing, as well as anyone who has watched the TV coverage around the country—around the world.
Reflecting on my less-conscious choices and unfocused behavior one morning last week, I surrendered to the Source in meditation, and asked, "Show me what I need to know, (gently!)"—a familiar suggestion that I often make to clients and audiences—and I asked "What is the truth about all this?"
It came to me, that after observing daily reports from "ground zero"—and the resulting aftermath—that a major part of me had "left the building." A dastardly campaign invaded our country, and I was feeling not so much fearful, but rather, that all of this was bigger than I. I was operating in a way that would appear that I'd relinquished a portion of my own personal, spiritual space to the affects of a force that is not greater than my connection to the Source! There is no one and no thing that is greater.
Not occupying my personal premises—distracted by the horror—I let "out there," override my better choices for my personal well-being, caught in the undertow of mass overwhelm. I would still be the one to wake up with dark circles and dull headaches the morning after unconscious eating. I would still be left to hobble about after a spill, not focused on where I was on the street—or in my body.
Since then, I have factored in my resolve to stay in my personal power. I'm back to greater ease in accessing my Spiritual Warrior Self, with necessary doses of compassion and patience with my Mortal one. I'm still dealing with what everyone around me is also challenged by—but certainly not to the degree as of so many who are hurting so terribly. I feel greater intent to stay present, occupying my true and allotted space on earth, fully. Increased strength and faith will be my reward.
I encourage you to simply observe (without judgment) the moments when you sacrifice a present one to what feels bigger and meaner, unexpected and unholy. And be gentle and respectful with your Selves.
All the while, it amazes me that there is still a Higher, more expanded, highly intuitive, overseeing part of my consciousness that continues to operate, unfazed by all of this. That aspect of your Timeless Self will continue to be in tune and to thrive in these times, while all that is not divinely inspired or in truth—illusionary—in our world, is falling away.
Last week I did a consultation for a new client who was referred by a co-worker. Both employees work for a disaster agency. They are currently in town, assigned to the "site." I had read her co-worker last month in Chicago, a long-time client who I'd only "met" over the phone all these years. She drove 6 hours from her home in order to finally meet with me in person. I felt honored, to say the least.
When the Twin Towers went down, I had a vague recollection of having viewed the scene of "a tree or tall building" falling in several consultations that week in Chicago, as well as in a consultation I gave the night before the disaster at the NYC Marriott hotel, uptown. At the time, I interpreted the images more as a time-sequence signpost, rather than imminent disaster. "And after a tall tree or building falls, you'll be..."
I remembered that context within which I relayed this information. That is, when I did happen to mention these images—rather than discarding them for others that seemed more important. When I reach the moment of "downloading" collected information in consultations, I have to decided how to select and arrange the information in the order of what appears to be most significant. As my apprentices learn, most information comes in neutral. The interpretation that we give it, is unavoidably filtered by our own repertoire of experiences. Terrorism has not been part of mine.
I asked my new client if her friend (my old client) heard me mention that image in her reading, unable to recall whether I had happened to give it emphasis.
"Yes!" she said. "She listened again to the tape and heard you saying that after tall building with a tall antenna (you weren't sure what the antenna was) falls, that she would be working by water. That's where she is today, at the site."
Trust your increasing expansion into the highly intuitive being that you're here to become. Stay focused and observant of the moments when you get caught in the undertow of consensus reality, going momentarily unconscious and surrendering to less wise—even self-destructive—options for yourself, instead taking the Higher road. Yes, it may take a smidgeon of self-discipline.
Come back into the present moment and out of fear by feeling gratitude for anything that you can bring to mind—a most powerful antidote. Then raise your own, personal antenna and let the Universe transmit to you and allow the Source work through you. Make more conscious and deliberate choices and you'll feel so much better in the morning!
Last night I was invited to attend a wonderful concert with Tony Bennett and K.D. Lang at Radio City Music Hall. Most of you know that New York City is offering some excellent shows at prices that you cannot refuse. The increasing patriotism in our country, a willingness to contribute in incredibly generous—and unique—ways. added to boundless compassion for families and friends of victims—is restoring the spirit of the City beyond anything I have personally experienced in my going-on seven years here.
Ticket holders stood in line for over an hour, shuffling patiently down a three block stretch and winding back for the security inspection, after removal of cell phones, Palm Pilots—anything electronic—from pockets and purses. Sitting in this grand auditorium among hundreds was reminiscent of a sensation that I experienced at the performance of Les Miserables that I attended in London, years ago. It was the day after the horrific soccer tragedy in Liverpool, when so many suffocated, crushed against fences by a stampeding crowd. I watched it happen on the "telly" in a pub where I'd stopped for a "plowman's" lunch.
The matinee's audience was moved and reminded of the previous day's event by certain scenes in the musical that afternoon. We sighed and we wept in the same moments. Last night was no less a feeling of "all in this together," all recognizing what the other was feeling.
What most others felt. A very reserved woman sat to my right. She seemed unyielding when I accidentally dropped my program at her feet, with apologies. Her hair pulled back in a sophisticated, smart bun, she sat erect and reserved.
My sensitivity and respect for however any individual is coping and getting through this difficult time is no less than most, and certainly heightened at this time. (On a larger scale, I've become fully aware of how a metaphysical approach, lending to any version of a "Guess what! We don't die!" perspective could be received as extremely flippant and cavalier right now.)
Most of us dabbed our eyes and muffled quiet sobs during "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" sung by Tony B. I felt the pain of abandoned husbands, wives and children whose dreams won't be realized in this lifetime, even while (privately) knowing that some great and brave souls volunteered for a greater mission.
The woman was unmoved, or in too much pain to react. Either way, it was really none of my business. Intermission arrived and the lights turned up. I leaned towards her and said, "Quite a lot, we've been through."
She said nothing.
I continued, "I will never again take for granted any stranger who sits beside me, whether to my right, or to my left."
"Thank you," she replied, continuing to look down at the empty stage. Respectfully, I raised my antenna and let my Higher Self give hers a hug. That's when she turned to me and smiled.
"Finding that which connects us all..."
Last Sunday night, I volunteered at the switchboard for the Salvation Army's Emergency Command Center. Dedicated workers sit at their stations in one very large room, partitioned in the middle by moveable room dividers. On the far right side, 20-30 chairs are arranged, theater style, facing the farthest wall from where I entered.
I was directed over to the left side of the room, to one of several long, collapsible Formica tables, arranged in a large, open semi-circle. Hand-written signs, scotch-taped to the outer perimeter of each designates "donations," "volunteers," and "supplies."
I was invited to sit down at the farthest station, next to a retired "Army vet" of 30 years, a woman—maybe in her early 70's—with striking white hair and a kind smile. Charitable in her dedication to the cause, her main focus is programs and gifts for children. She cut out paper forms for felt Santa hats while she instructed me. It was the night shift, and a very slow one, given the time of the day. She munched on Fritos and sipped Sprite, selected from the table that displayed an ample supply snacks, leaving Oreos, chips with and without Olestra, and every other imaginable kind of soft drink.
Given the briefest of briefings, I was told where to refer callers who sought to donate used—as opposed to old—clothing to the rescue workers (we can't take used clothing to our firemen, for heavens sakes!) I glanced over towards the partition, and saw that an orientation meeting was about to begin. The chairs were now filled with the incoming group of volunteers.
When it was clear that there was little need for my services on this late-night watch, I moved my chair closer to the partition to listen to the meeting that had begun a few minutes earlier. A short, stocky, middle-aged man stood before the group, conducting the meeting like a pro.
This man had obviously oriented many since disaster day, briefing on the procedures and responsibilities involved in manning the canteens at "ground zero." His audience had just arrived, men and women ranging from 30 to 50-years-old, and a few hearty males extending in years beyond that. This group came from Michigan, Ohio and Indiana. Western battalions were to follow in the next few days.
He looked exhausted and numbed by the horrors of recent days. His voice betrayed his efforts to sound detached and focused, quivering every time he let himself feel the harsh reality of his words.
"At this point, rescue workers are only finding whatever hasn't burned—fireman hats, coats, keys..." He paused for a moment, wincing, as if accessing unforgettable images in his mind. "These men are driven," he continued, "and many are hiding their injuries to avoid being pulled out. They won't stop searching, even though they know that there can't be any survivors by now. You may wonder why the canteens aren't closer to the center of 'ground zero.'
We're gradually moving the canteens further and further out to the periphery in an attempt to pull these men out. The victims were fathers and brothers and partners. Some have driven across country to do whatever they can. When they take a break, they cannot sleep. When they stop and go home, unbearable pain will distract them from their need to be strong for their families." His voice trembled, and then he cleared his throat and began again.
"When the firemen find a hat or a coat—even a badge—that belonged to one of their own, you'll see them immediately fall to their knees, remove their hats and motion for one of you in your red jacket to come over and say a prayer. It doesn't matter if you're a trained chaplain or not. The Holy Spirit will come through you to serve these people. It's there for everyone to bring through. You'll find the right words."
He went on to discuss the logistics involved in getting these people to and from the site, and the importance of securing their passes, attached to thin ropes worn around their necks. "There are only 150 of these passes, and we're not getting any more. If your bus driver asks to collect them at the end of the day, do not refuse. If you do, you're out. Do not attempt to keep them for souvenirs." He instructed about meal deliveries that would arrive three times a day.
When he concluded is talk, he thanked them all, then turned the meeting over to a Salvation Army uniformed woman who would coordinate additional details for the group. He glanced over my way, then walked over and pulled up a chair beside me. He reached over to grab a package of Oreos from the closest table. After popping a few in his mouth, all at once, he introduced himself as "George." He chewed the cookies for a minute or two, then he slumped down in the metal chair, looking as if he's mustered enough stamina for the talk with none leftover. He sat silently for a moment, staring at the floor. Then he looked up at me and smiled in a sad sort of way.
"So many stories. I need to tell the stories, but I'm too tired. You should hear the stories of the rescue workers, the firemen. Someone will get very rich when they collect the stories. Just set up a camera and let them talk. A news person will probably do it. Speilberg should do it..." Once again, he became lost in his thoughts and (I imagined) distracted by indelible images. He looked back down to the floor. And once again, he seemed to shake them off, and returned his glance back my way.
"There will be cancer, you know—twenty years from now. We're going to see cancer in these people, with all that they're inhaling at the site. Pulverized steel, plastics, human dust, insulation—God knows what else."
We talked for awhile, about what he is doing for himself, for his spirit. I longed to suggest that he feed his body better nutrition than the available junk food, but it wasn't time for a lecture on his eating habits. Mostly, I just listened.
New Yorkers are becoming attentive and compassionate listeners. Employees at Mail Boxes, Etc. are extra patient when you make your request and debrief about your personnel experience of the disaster—what you saw, what you're feeling—in the same breath. Waiters and waitresses don't roll their eyes if you can't remember what you decided to order, if you are able to make up your mind. Phone company employees understand if you repeat the report of the trouble on your phone lines, more than once. We do the same for our insurance carriers and bankers, knowing that they lost colleagues in their main offices in the Trade Center.
My prayer is that this increased sensitivity—the love and the compassion—will last and sustain. And that our lives will be changed, forever. And this will be the gift to ourselves that can come from this tremendous challenge.
I'm feeling some aftermath stuff, that's for sure. Ever-striving to be awakened in processing whatever the disaster continues to stir up in me, the ice cream run has certainly become a valid indicator of emerging, emotional unpleasantries. Fur balls, to be coughed up.
I try to pause—mid-run—to get to the bottom of sudden feelings of urgency and the desire to numb or replace painful recollections with pleasant, instantly gratifying sensations. In the observer mode, an unconsious stimulus-response reaction is finally becoming a conscious one. I walk to 13th Street, look right, see no Twin Towers, then turn left and approach Hagen Daas, half-way down the middle of that block.
I'm running a 75/25 success ratio with my ability to pause long enough to a) process and embrace the feelings at the time and b) direct myself to some nutritious food, coaxing myself with the bargain: "Ok, wee self. If you still want the ice cream cone after we've gone down just two blocks farther—to Sammy's Noodles—when, after having consumed nutritious veggies, sautéed tofu and brown rice, or after proceeding to Joe Jr's diner for a bowl of soup (only just one block away)—then, upon eating until well-sated (but not stuffed), then, m'dear, you may proceed with the cone. When I am successful in coaching myself through this progression, the Hagen Dass In The Sky is long forgotten.
I was forwarded a letter that a friend's sister sent to NBC. Barbara wrote, in part:
"Wednesday 10/3/01 on the news at 6:00 PT was the most shameful journalism have ever witnessed. Other stations also ran the same. This was a recording of the voices of those in the Twin Towers AS THEY WERE DYING—the last panic we would all experience in that type of situation. The newscaster was all hyped up as well and his voice sounded very much like a sports announcers at a football game. I was tuned to NBC but my husband heard it on another station as well. I was not actually watching—just listening.
THIS IS PRIME TIME TV. The children—the families and certainly the people of families who were deeply affected by this tragedy were listening. THIS IS EMOTIONAL RAPE of our people—especially the people who have lost the most.
I am old enough to remember troop convoys in WW ll going past my home. I remember radio broadcasts when I was a small child. I can still hear Roosevelt's voice and Churchill's and radio news casts about the war. The sights and sounds are still in my head of the tanks going up our street on their way Fort Lewis. (Our memory carries sound longer than it carries pictures.) I remember all the sounds of wars and 'conflicts' we didn't call war from then to now.
I remember the dear ones I knew who lost their lives fighting for these United States in some of those conflicts. I remember the grieving we all did for them. It would be absolutely horrific to hear their voice as they were taken prisoner or as they were shot down echoing now in my mind. I would not be able to eliminate that from my memory —not forever. This is why I say these sounds now, as people are starting or are struggling to gather their lives back around them is an act of rape on their emotions......those who already went to the memorials of their loved ones killed Sept. 11, 2001.
These sounds have now been imprinted deeply in the spirits of our people—probably people around the world at this point...children around the world."
Many of us now hold shocking visions and the echoes of unforgettable sounds in our attentive minds. The media gave us details beyond our wildest and worst expectations. Police cars, fire trucks, ambulances on their way to St. Vincents—even horn-blasting delivery vans—passing by on 13th Street, just below my window, shriek with amplified urgency now. Their intrusive sounds trigger unavoidable and immediate flashbacks to all that they rushed towards (and ducked to avoid) such a short time ago. We're definitely on sensory overload. I hope that these associations won't last forever.
Barbara's letter brings to mind two parts of myself that play against each other: the one that yearns for, seeks for, obsesses for missing pieces. The part that doesn't want to be left out of any information, or else my imagination will try to fill in the details. And it knows no boundaries. To make the unknown real. To resolve a major contradiction that I experience in this third-dimensional (illusionary) reality: death appearing as real. While my soul knows that it is not. This is why I personally believe that we gawk ("rubberneck") at horrific sights, such as car accidents on the highway. We are trying to resolve that contradiction.
And the other part of me that knows that that other part of me often does not know what is good for it—for me. And that many of these sounds and images are becoming indelible in my psyche. And I will wish that they were not.
Already, those blending impressions are becoming a sort of desktop icon that I can click and immediately access the sick, sinking feelings of the horror, the reality of the devastation and the losses. Not unlike the feelings that snap back when I look out my window and see what's not there.
At the same time, that icon also triggers reminders of important changes in myself that were jump-started that day, that will never let me return to who I was before 9/11. And that's a good thing.
I will continue to work with my ability to re-frame sights and sensations in a way that promotes transformation from dark-to-Light. I will continue to observe when passing—or triggered—images spiral me downward as they are doing so, to pause, surrender to the Source, and allow them to transform into insights that re-direct me upward. And I pray for parents to learn to do this for themselves. And for them to pass this power on to their children.
I've received many inspiring epistles from awakened, conscious "Light workers," in the aftermath of 9/11. Some encourage us to "hold that line!" for peace in order to counteract our country's reflexive, retaliatory response: a show of force—a war that many of us would have avoided at all costs.
I feel an undercurrent of disappointment—even failure—that we have somehow fallen short in spiritual and global efforts to bring about an alternate solution, where we might have found a way to invite our adversaries to the table and negotiate a peaceful settlement, one that would reflect our soulful intentions—our life's work!—to facilitate peace on earth; to bring heaven to earth.
Nothing promotes more frustration in our lives, than living with assumptions of what woulda/coulda/shoulda been, that events might have been other than what we see before us, daily. That if we'd if we'd prayed harder, meditated longer, been more proactive in reaching our politicians, that peace might have triumphed over the violence that we find in our face every time we turn on or listen to the news.
I'm often lecturing about specific ways to hasten one's ability in becoming a receiver of highly intuitive, multi-sensory information—so very necessary for our survival in times ahead. Important on the list: to be fully present. Maintaining a feeling of life by default, that our failed efforts are relegating us to a lesser road, will not let us be present and face forward to deal with what is truly being presented. We won't be properly positioned to participate in our intimate, infinite, ongoing communication with and guidance from the Source, from the Universe.
This physical, third-dimensional reality is one of duality. It is intrinsically, one that contains the dark and the Light. Our soul's journey evolves us most effectively when it pulls us through a very dark tunnel, in order to find the Light at its end. How many inspiring testimonials do you encounter, where one survived his/her "dark night of the soul," in order to discover truth, inspiration, new faith and motivation, beyond insurmountable challenges and the illusions of this material world?
What if we accept that these horrific events, now occurring on a daily basis, not complacently (for there are many proactive, humanitarian, creative and truly inspired ways to contribute) but more as confirmation that the dark side is, most definitely, getting darker, thereby providing a more distinct contrast, a backdrop, that is meant to reveal to us with greater certainly—with so much sharper clarity—where there is Light! Observe the incredible, amazing ways that humanity is now showing itself at it's very best. Hearts are opening! Souls are awakening and remembering what's true!
If we can shift our focus in this way, I'm certain that we will become increasingly proficient in observing on a daily basis—yes—that the dark is getting so very dark, while developing a keen and focused eye on this ratio of dark to Light.
In this way, we can move forward with an ability to identify, promote and hold the Light, from a place acceptance of "what is"—powerfully and fearlessly—and continue to build that bridge to the New World, where the physical and non-physical dimensions will blend, where love, acceptance and peace will reign. Where we will have played a part in bringing of heaven to earth. Where we will have evolved beyond the need to experience the backdrop of the dark, in order to discover the Light.
With this perspective, rather than living with a sense of "life by default"—not what we might ever have imagined this lifetime could become—I believe that we will be able to face forward with a focus on the Light that's growing ever so much brighter, as the dark, ominous events continue to appear darker and more foreboding. Instead of lamenting what we might have done to dismantle the dark, we will become "entrained" into a more expanded perspective that will help us hold the Light and be guided in our every step, towards it.
Onward and Upward!
For years, I emphasized to clients and audiences, "I only receive positive or preventative information." I felt very good about whatever divinely inspired transmitting-and-receiving devices had been put in place for the work that I'd been assigned (and signed up) to do this lifetime.
Over time, I continued to receive distinct and synchronistic confirmation that my work was, indeed, "In the Light" and from God. Later on, I would coach apprentices on how to position themselves in order to receive information clearly and accurately. Ongoing practice—along with confirmation that I can give, from what I intuit as I monitor them—is the most important tool that helps them to leapfrog over self-doubt. Finally, the most involved and ongoing challenge in this work is interpretation of the information, itself.
Prepped with individual invocations and mindful of these things, my words to the apprentices have been, "The information comes to us, neutral. Unavoidably, it passes through our own personal filters that are shaped by our own repertoire of past experiences."
Up until 9/11,terrorism had never been part of my repertoire. Earlier here (see "Aftermath" above), I mentioned that I read a client, (I'll call) "Sue" in Chicago, one week before 9/11, when I picked up specific images that I could not have defined as future terrorist activity.
Sue is still working here in NYC, near "ground zero," with her disaster work. She may be here for several more months to come. A couple of weeks ago, she scheduled another consultation. When I saw on my calendar that Kathy had scheduled this as a phone reading, I called Sue to say, "If you could drive six hours to meet with me in Chicago, I can certainly take the subway up to Times Square to deliver your next consultation!" She thanked me, and gave me directions to her hotel.
When I came off the elevator at Sue's temporary home, I walked to the end of the hall to look through a large window, down onto Times Square. The colored neon lights below were dazzling. Then I proceeded on to Sue's room, where she welcomed me in.
Sue confirmed more of the information that I'd given her in Chicago, and mentioned that additionally—along with viewing that she would be working by water (after the tall building fell)—that I'd also seen her around a ship. At the time, I speculated that she might be invited on a cruise, or some such. (When I do consultations, I always like to bring clients into seeing what I'm seeing, to accelerate their own multi-sensory awakening. Then we try to interpret, together).
Sue said that she had recently eaten on the U.S. Naval Ship Comfort, a naval hospital ship that was anchored near her work. We discussed more of the details from the Chicago consultation.
I don't access global—political predictions, international events, high profile people—type of information. I view images through a client's consciousness, which I can move forwards and backwards in time. It is through Sue's future consciousness, that I have viewed scenes that are turning out to be global in nature, because she happens to work for an agency who deals with national emergencies. It's Sue's job to show up at disaster sites.
Once again, through Sue's future consciousness, I saw images: I said, "By this future moment, you've been pulled from all the colors. [She reminded me that I've seen this before, a time when she would find herself around many colors. Going into decorating? Or could this be flower essence bottles?"] We attempted to interpret this within the context of what was known or familiar at the time—the only way we can interpret future information, in the present. "Geez!" I said, opening my eyes to look out her hotel window. "Here are the lights in Times Square! I admired them when I got off the elevator!"
I continued: "At the time, you're aware of a jet flying overhead. I don't know if it's headed for another country, or if it's a flight path to/from an airport. There is a pyramid, a bridge, water (naturally), a "MAC"—or "Mc-something"—and an 'ST,' as in 'Steve' or 'Stan.' I remember feeling that I was seeing all this through her eyes, as if facing an event's direction. I waved my right arm far to the right, as if the 'ST' was over to the right. Later, Sue told me that when I turned off the recorder, I said, "That 'ST' just won't go away!" as if I was trying to shake it off.
There was one more image that I really had a hard time in describing. I said, "I'm seeing something that's sort of like a slice of mousse cake." I saw the V-shaped outline of the slice. I said, "It's as if the filling sinks down."
Sue contacted me the next day, and reported that she had just spoken to a friend. She recounted the images that I had relayed. Her friend's name is Bill MAC Arthur. He happens to be from the New York area.
Apparently, at one time in his life, he commuted over the Verrazano Bridge, that connects STanton Island to Brooklyn. Aside from the ferry that transports commuters from the Island, it's the only link to the mainland—to Brooklyn. Many of the Island's population were commuters to the WTC (World Trade Center). And many perished on 9/11.
Bill told Sue that on one side of the bridge, there is a mountain (or hill). At athe foot of it, there is a pyramid-shaped structure. He remembers it as an apartment complex.
Then he mentioned a community center that sits under the bridge. From the Fort Hamilton website:
Since the spring of 1998, Fort Hamilton Military Community has been home to the North Atlantic Division, U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. The post is located in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn, N.Y., at the base of the world-famous Verrazano Narrows Bridge.
Bill recalled that it is a circular building, with pie-shaped rooms inside.
November 4th is the day of New York Marathon, when hundreds&—;maybe thousands&—;will run across the Verazzano Bridge. It begins on the Staton Island side of the bridge, allowing the runners to travel through all five New York boroughs.
When I arrived home the night of Sue's consultation, I felt very uncomfortable holding this information. The next morning, I remembered that my client, the FBI agent (see first segment of this ongoing account) had been transferred to another state. We had been out of touch for several years. I recalled the location, and called the FBI in that area. The operator rang me directly to her, and she exclaimed, "Louise! I can't believe it's you! You've been on my mind this morning, and all yesterday!"
"Yes," I replied. "I think that we're supposed to talk!"
She laughed, and I realized how I'd missed this old friend and client&—;the agent who trusted how and why I do what I do&—;and what I get. She told me that in spite of skepticism about intuitives and psychic work in those previous years, that she had shared the recorded tape from her last consultation in California with a few of her colleagues.
"Do you remember, that I was working on the Unibomber case then?" she asked. "I asked you about him, even though I knew that you don't choose to "deal with mayhem."
I vaguely recalled giving her some impressions, almost off-handedly. What I remember vividly is that when she started to leave, she turned back to me and said, "You know, there's a $2 million reward for information that leads to his capture." Jokingly, I said, "Say, why don't you just come on back in here and see what else I might see..." We both laughed, she left, and that was the last I saw of her. I assumed that I'd "struck out" with whatever I told her about the Unibomber.
Now on the phone, she said that I had given several accurate impressions, and that I'd tried to put together several syllables, that in retrospect, added up to the Unibomber's last name. But unfortunately, it is so easy to place this kind of information, in retrospect. I shuddered realizing the impact of what my friend was saying to me. I had no idea.
All those years that I claimed, "I only get positive or preventative information! It had more to do with not having had past experiences that would let me interpret in the context of terrorism or mayhem."
I told her, "Now I have some more information for you."
I feel so very relieved that I have this "friend in high places," who has re-entered in my life in such a timely fashion. She assures me that she will route this information in appropriate directions, once she has cross-referenced it with 300 pages of threats. I feel safe with that. Now I can try to let go of the images, the information that I wouldn't have chosen to receive through anyone's consciousness. Sue remains so helpful and willing to be a "conduit," if necessary. I'm so reminded, why I've chosen not to do this kind of work with the police.
I recently happened to turn on the TV to get the news. It was tuned to the channel that hosts John Edward (on TV's "Crossing Over") a popular "medium." I'm envious of his New York ability to talk fast. Telepathic communication comes in so very quickly. It's difficult to relay information as rapidly as it arrives. People often ask my opinion about him. (There was a serendipitous incident that involved him, mentioned in Heart-Links). I feel that he does very good work and makes my job so much easier, orienting folks as to how we have to interpret images while doing our best to make them tangible and linear.
At the moment that I tuned in, John was saying that a colleague recently told him, "You're just the medium. You're like a postman who delivers the friggin' mail! Don't try to read it!"
How well I can relate to John's admonishment. Now I face the challenge of trying not to speculate about what will evolve, from what I've delivered.
Update: September 27, 2001
I finally did leave a message at the offices for the NYC Marathon. An official called me back, and, though overwhelmed with tons of security issues (as one can imagine), he said that he would relay my information to his colleagues. Later on, I spoke to a friend who works for the NY Daily News. I briefed him and asked for his impressions, given that he is New York savvy and a Brooklyn native. He listened with interest, with a promise not to print the info. A couple of hours later, he forwarded me the following report, "hot off the wire." I believe that it is from the official with whom I spoke.
NEW YORK (AP) The New York City Marathon on Nov. 4 will feature tighter security for runners in a race that draws more than 2 million spectators. "Obviously, the world has changed for all of us since Sept. 11," Alan Steinfeld, president and CEO of the New York Road Runners, said Wednesday. "This race is going forward. We've been given permission to go forward."
"This event brings together the people of the world," he added. "It will be dedicated to the victims and the heroes who worked to save others."
Steinfeld said he expected an increase from the 2,300 police who usually patrol the 26.2-mile course. "I have no ideas about the numbers," he said. "When you're dealing with security, everything's not in the open."
Runners will be required to present photo identification and wear their bibs to board buses for the start. The list of participants is being screened by the police department and other agencies. Runners also will be issued clear plastic bags for their belongings with no knapsacks or duffel bags permitted.
"At the start (on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge) the harbor will be closed with the Coast Guard patrolling it," Steinfeld said. "There will be additional security at all the water stations along the route, and we are suggesting runners take fluid replacement only from official New York Marathon stations."
Steinfeld said the race adopted the motto "United We Run," a version of the "United We Stand" theme that followed the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. A number of marathoners were lost in the attacks and Steinfeld said family members have been granted permission to run on behalf of those victims.
Prayers all around.
THE DAY AFTER THE DAY AFTER
This is a sad, terrible and pivotal time in my personal history, as well as our Nation's history. I grieve the senseless loss of life and for the families affected. My sympathies are with them. At the same time I condemn the inexcusable acts of violence that have occurred. My mind is swimming with the images that I have been seeing on CNN, FOX, NBC, CBS, and ABC. As I surf these mass media outlets, I find that they are all saying pretty much the same thing and recycling it every 20 minutes or so, along with the horrific images of the destruction that has occurred. FOX seems to be especially adept at milking the emotional depths of people's grief and pain, bringing us images of children holding up photos of their missing daddy, etc. Together, almost in unison, they are fostering mass hysteria with their focus on fear and anger, while they repeatedly bring us the most horrific images of what has happened, and now are broadcasting "instant polls" based on soundbyte journalism that tell us 90% of Americans are for retaliation. As a longtime journalist, myself, I have serious questions about what we're receiving from the mass media. Please understand that I also see the value of the common sharing of grief being afforded us through the mass media at this most extraordinary time as well.
Late last night as Peter Jennings was handing off to Ted Koppel on ABC, there was a moment of reflection that provided a glimmer of light through the mass of darkness being presented on our television screens. Jennings spoke of his service in the Middle East and reminded Koppel of his service in Vietnam and Africa. Jennings mentioned how they both had been exposed to the depth of hatred and anger that some other peoples and societies hold towards America/Americans because of the foreign policy actions of the American Government. As he was revealing his truth, I was remembering the CIA's role in the death of Patrice Lamumba in the Congo, their role in the assassination of Chile's Salvador Allende, the Iran/Contra arms for money deal, our support of dictators like Trujillo, Pinochet, Batista, et al. Our hands are bloody. My hands are bloody because I am an American, born in Washington DC and raised in northern Virginia, the country of Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, Patrick Henry, James Madison, James Monroe, and others who helped to ground me in the original vision of this nation.
It is this original vision of "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," the Bill of Rights, freedom and justice for all, education for every citizen and so much more that is our salvation. It was a dream 225 years ago, a vision that had never been attempted in human history before. Although imperfect in its various manifestations at the time and since, it is a spiritual vision of the highest order. Through some mysterious grace there were assembled a community of men and women who came together and were able to envision the future in a way that had never been seen before. They were human just like us, with frailties just like us, hopes and fears just like us. And yet, they were able to accomplish something never done before in the midst of enormous challenges, and a crisis situation through holding to a vision from the deepest levels of their souls. They were willing to face death for their beliefs.
I believe that we can take sustenance from the Declaration of Independence, a spiritual document, and the Bill of Rights, as they were originally drafted and approved after intense deliberations. It is also my belief that we, as a nation, have strayed far from our original founding vision, both in spirit and action. It is true, as President George W. Bush has recently stated, freedom and democracy are under attack, but not just from external forces. Freedom and democracy are also under attack from within. We must search our own hearts and minds, because the common ground we all share is that at the deepest level we want spiritual freedom and liberation. Thomas Jefferson wrote of this freedom.
It is a time for deep reflection; a time for me to look in the mirror, and see how I may be contributing to what is unfolding around us. It is a time for humanity, compassion, forgiveness, and love. We have suffered an horrendous tragedy with countless loss of life. The waves of this disaster that will continue into the future, are unimaginable. I struggle to get my mind around it and I can't get my mind around it. All I can do is go deep within myself and seek the sustenance of my spiritual depths. We are at a crossroads; I am at a crossroads; you are at a crossroads. We are in the midst of an ages old story, the forces of light versus the forces of darkness. Will we choose the path of fear, anger and revenge or will we choose the path of love? It is THE question. May love prevail. May the grace and blessings of ALL THAT IS be upon us and may God/Goddess and the fullness of what that means to you and me have mercy on all our souls.
Love,
Michael Toms
The Jolly Green Giant breathed smoke onto me today. Well, not really smoke, but his smoky breath did spew into my face, once he got to snoring. This giant in a green tee shirt was easily over six feet and 300 pounds. He squeezed into the middle seat on my flight from Denver to Portland, while I quickly grabbed my belongings—freshly stuffed into the kangaroo pouch before me—and slid out into the aisle to make room. Passengers stared from seats in view and gasped audibly enough to have embarrassed themselves (hopefully, upon reflection), as this man-o'-war squeezed and maneuvered his ample width and breadth into his miniscule seat and over our shared armrest.
By now, the man seated in our row's window seat had flattened himself against his window and closed his eyes, appearing suddenly asleep. I tried not to lean conspicuously out into the aisle to give Mr. Giant more room, in my effort to avoid burrowing into him. I had offered to trade seats and he declined, apparently ready to accept the consequences of traveling on "stand-by."
Mr. Jolly Green reminded me of the hearty red-bearded warrior who was loyal to Mel Gibson's character in the movie, Braveheart, unto his death. Once nestled in—well...smushed, really—we exchanged passenger pleasantries. I meant it, when I vowed to myself to never take anyone seated to my left or right for granted, since 9/11.
Suddenly, I felt quite safe and protected. I told him, with a grateful smile, that I felt like United had arranged a personal bodyguard for me. It felt good. I did not realize how unprotected I had felt in NYC, since 9/11. During the initial boarding, I had sneaked a peek at the cover of a gentleman's New York Daily Post across the aisle. Another building had fallen down, back in town.
Once our plane was safely in the air, I chatted with my unassuming protector. He is in the computer industry and was traveling from Georgia, back to his home in Portland. We chatted while until our snack boxes were delivered. I usually specify "Hindu" meals on economy flights, preferring this more vegetarian and flavorful fare for the full meals. That is, when I'm unable to upgrade to Business Class' quite decent offerings for the elite with miles to spare. I assumed that "Hindu" would triumph in the snack boxes, as well.
"Creative, yes, edible—no," I concluded, shutting the lid on two strips of green pepper, one quarter of a lemon, and what looked like a soggy falafel burrito.
I gazed around me, longingly, eyeing the gold-wrapped desert that I watched roast-beef-and-roll eaters place with delight to the side of their boxes. I had only slept four hours on departure eve, and still was not completely withdrawn from the Hagen Daas empty caloried comfort food that still beckoned me since 9/11. And Halloween was approaching in just a few days. I was in real trouble.
A flight attendant caught my wandering, longing glances and brought me one of the "Harry London's Mint Cookie Joy's Quality Chocolate" delicacies for which I lusted. The reverse side of the wrapper reported the nutritional (zilch), caloric (150) and fat (8 grams) content. While crunching and savoring, I read: "United Airlines' purchase of this product helps thousands of promising students realize their dreams of higher education through The United Negro College Fund."
"Can you beat that!" I mused, quickly developing a chocolate high and sugar rush from devouring the three chocolaty, chunky morsels faster than any of my neighbors. "Pigging out and benefiting the down-trodden, all in one scrumptious gulp."
I was a happy camper. I laughed with Mr. Jolly about how I had instantly been transported back to grade school cafeteria life, searching for anyone that I might cajole into trading me his or her cookies for my horseradish sauce packet. I found no takers, all my neighbors hiding theirs from my roving eye.
First trip to the back of the plane for a necessary visit, I spied another one of the golden treasures on the flight attendant's station counter. "Yes, it's a spare..." replied the gal who was brewing coffee to accompany desert. She handed it to me with a patient smile.
There I sat, next to Mr. Giant, gobbling every cookie in sight, while he sat like a gentleman, exhibiting far better airplane etiquette than I.
"I am getting a running start at Halloween," I explained to all my neighbors, wiping chocolate crunchies from my mouth.
Early on in this seating adventure, when I moved out into the aisle to let my seatmate in, I recalled hearing a heart-breaking account from the brother of a best friend. An obese man, he had never recovered from the embarrassment he experienced several years before when he flew to his sister's wedding. Unable to fit into his one assigned seat, he was devastated. Of course, I would like to think that I unintentionally set about to lessen the attention that this man would unavoidably draw to himself with my own unleashed, scavenger behavior.
I remembered a flight earlier in the year, when I was making a three and one-half hour connection from Columbus to Phoenix. Once again, United (or destiny/my Higher Self) placed me in a compromising position. I was seated between three (count them) crying babies, all on the laps of different parents. A mom and nine-or-so-month-old not-so-little girl sat in the middle seat—next to my aisle one—and another mom and her twelve-or-so-month-old son sat in the middle seat in the row before me, giving me clear audio and visual input from between the seats before me. A dad and his two-yr-old daughter sat cattycorner across from me, on the aisle.
"Why me?" I thought, nearly out loud, before take-off. Then in the same thought-breath, I answered myself, "Why NOT me!" (rather, "Why not I?") Who is a better-designated passenger attendee than another mom, who has "been-there-done-that!" In my mind's eye, I replayed a viewing of an unforgotten vignette from over twenty years before, when I flew from Orange County, California to introduce my first-born six-month-old daughter to meet my grandparents in Boulder, Colorado. With both of my parents deceased, I felt compelled to get Grandmother and "Grampsy's" blessing.
That scene featured me perched at the foot of a long flight of stairs in (I cannot remember which) one of the airports. I was immobilized as I stood with umbrella stroller, my carry-on bag and baby travel bag at my feet with fussy babe in arms. I nearly prayed to get arrested for some infraction, so that someone might help me carry something!
Compassion is defined (Merriam-Webster Dictionary) as "the sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it." I believe that we can only relate to another in the context where we ourselves have been. I mentioned earlier, how I could never have interpreted intuited images in the context of terrorism, until it became part of my own experience. Well, flying with a baby in a fully passengered plane certainly had been part of mine, yeserrie. I was certainly feeling compassion.
By mid-flight, the mom next to me had filled her little girl with her total emergency supply of apple juice in her nervous attempt to keep the baby from whining, crying and disturbing surrounding passengers. Just before lunch was served, the baby had a diarrhea explosion. Thank God (and I did) that the food carts had not yet pinned us in from both ends of the aisle.
As I pulled myself out into the aisle, I glanced at all the faces looking my way. In an instant, I clearly found myself in a very strategic moment. It seemed as though everyone was looking to me to see how to take this situation. The plane was suddenly very still and all passengers—already annoyed by the noisy nursery commotion in my sector—were most attentive to what was going on. I was being targeted by their attention and felt suspended in a distinct and pregnant pause. It was one of those powerful moments when populous consensus is up for grabs.
I felt a déjà vu, recalling a similar moment when I first moved to New York City. I was stuck on a jammed subway car, my head squeezed into the armpit of a Wall Street commuter. An accident by the Brooklyn Bridge left us stuck on the tracks with all the doors closed. "How shall we take this?" all the passengers seemed to convey by their momentarily non-committal expressions, while each checked out the other's reactions to the imminent situation.
"So, what is it going to be?" my fellow passengers' glances seemed to say.
Taking a precious deep breath and looking around, I saw a fellow looking directly at me, from across the subway car. He smiled, then said, "Nice day for a subway ride!"
"Great way to meet people!" I yelled back, my head still stuck in the underneath of my neighbor's shoulder.
Then everyone laughed and the more alert passengers joined in, some snickering, some chortling, but most lightening up in this tight situation. The shift in the energy of the car was unmistakable.
Now I found myself in such a similar kind of moment, this time, juggling a baby in the air, rather than jammed on the tracks. I looked directly across the aisle at a man whose stare was the most obvious.
"Tough job, bein' a mom!" I said much more loudly than normal across-the-aisle conversation.
"Uh, er, oh, YES!" answered the man, now smiling very sympathetically and nodding more than once.
I turned quickly to the anxious mom and said, "Here, you hand me the baby, come on out into the aisle, then I'll hand her back to you!"
Up and down the aisle, I felt the cabin fill with harmonious and heartfelt compassion. Better than a sugar (or chocolate!) rush. Suddenly, we all were one.
It was time for me to leave the constriction I continued to feel in NYC. I didn't want to abandon the now-so-challenged city that had been my home for nearly seven years, but all road signs were most certainly guiding me out of the Big Apple. John Hughes, my coordinator in Australia, who lives between "OZ" and the UK, was very concerned and caring about the toll that the city and 9/11 had taken on me. He kindly offered me his home in London in which to "download" and regroup until my cruise "gig" out of the UK in March. Fortunately, phone consultations continue seamlessly from the US (with nifty discount phone codes).
On December 10th, United Airlines lifted me out of NYC towards Heathrow. As I watched the war-torn city below me—challenged again by yet another airplane crash—it felt like I was being "de-Velcroed from (and the words that came to mind were) the morass and the miasma." Later, I looked up both words in the dictionary, and sure enough, they fit quite appropriately: morass: a frustrating, confusing, or unmanageable situation that makes any kind of progress extremely slow; miasma: 1. a harmful or poisonous emanation, especially one caused by burning or decaying organic matter; 2. an unwholesome or menacing atmosphere.
NYC had become frustrating, with phone cables still not operating properly and too many businesses now defunct or operating at reduced speed, even while the city bravely struggled to it's feet. Many of we small business owners experienced an amplified version of the country's collective gasp, inhaled since 9/11. We were waiting for a unified exhale. All the while the city had become more compassionate and yielding—even among the cab drivers.
Everyone had more patience with those (myself included) who simply needed to talk. I was finding greater allowance from fellow passengers whenever I'd traveled after 9/11. We now all found ourselves in the same boat (or plane) of delays, long security lines, reschedules and jumpy passengers. With new luggage restrictions I was finding that others waited more patiently when I hoisted my overloaded carry-on into the overhead bin, and scrunched my computer backpack (now combined to included purse contents) at my feet. I felt part of a distinctly kinder brother and sisterhood of humanity.
The miasma of NYC continued to feel intrusive and pervading. Shortly before my departure, I made a final farewell walk down to "ground zero." The surreal specter of the Twin Tower skeleton still reached to the heavens, having delivered its human offering to God. It remained in a smoky mist, backlight by the eerie light from tireless, ongoing demolition. I felt even still, an atmosphere of shock and unearthly confusion. I breathed in what continued to feel like the unhealthy air of pulverized debris of glass, aluminum, asbestos, plastic, and I-can't-allow-myself-to-imagine what else. I said my prayers, thanked all the souls who sacrificed for the spiritual awakening of so many, and said goodbye.