Thursday, 7 October 2010

I heard you were coming

My dear friend,  in the solitary lull of sweet silence, as the clock's hands move in mesmerizing synchrony... daring not disturb this ethereal moment... I have a gentle notion to call you to me, as a whisper at first, almost, but then a pressing of something important against the periphery of mind.
I look out at the streets with brick-red houses laid out row upon row, with amber flames of  fading sun- light igniting the back drop in the far distance, where golden leaves of old Oak trees nestle together like a patchwork quilt against the River Tyne...  like a scene from a photographer's studio ...and I begin to wonder...

  "What is it that prompts one to 'recapture' a moment"?  As a mirror stores each graceful reflection.  Surely it is in truth, a well-spring of unending definitions reaching forth in to infinities mind... is it not.. ...I shall shelve that photographic negative in my mind stored therein with all the others,  where it shall remain.
 I smile to myself now, watching a speckled wood Butterfly teeter over a honeysuckle as it climbs almost to my window ledge,  it's delicate pink petals blushing crimson next to the brown and cream of the butterfly's wings. The irony and injustice of the ending of Summer... and perhaps the last little butterfly to visit my garden.

 I would like to begin by sharing with you some thing here, something I feel will be of benefit to you, in your work and in life....lately I have had the  feeling  that I need to 'do something' constructive with the time that I have as opposed to having such 'fun' meandering on the wonderful social networking site of 'Face Book' ( the grateful blessings of the modern age).....

Lately....  I have been aware of a very special presence near me for several weeks now.....a presence and  benevolent being who has come to be as much apart of my life as any of my  friends are who know me indeed he has been apart of it since my earliest recollection. So it's not unusual for me to sense his nearness insofar as being gently guided, assisted or prompted even... to do 'things' which benefit my highest good.  I have wondered if it isn't because I am slowly becoming incapacitated with pain and immobility within my body, that his presence is making himself more felt.
  I am being inspired once again to take up my pen (or the keyboard) as is more apt in these times and transcribe the thoughts that filter through my mind.

 We are each born with a purpose and a mission in this Life, I am certain.
  The dramatic entry of the tiny child being born in to this physical world is not without undue hardship for how else would the infant leave the cocoon and safe haven of it's mother's womb? If not by being thrust forward by nature's demand?
 Greater still is the reluctance of leaving behind the form-less world of Spirit! to the vacuous open space.. and to a world motivated by materialism.  The Child is born with great reticence!  ....  however, what is beautiful and notable is the unquenchable insatiable drive the child has to explore and create! ...  from the earliest opportunity, the child takes advantage of that moment when he or she discovers for them self that which they already 'Know' they can achieve.... and they set about on that path of endless self-discovery.
The latent strengths lie in each and every child, likely handed down from aeons of past generations and in-born naturalistic tendencies... If guided with care and love by those who are parents and guardians of that child then naturally the course of the life will run in accordance with their highest principles.  This is true and always has been from time immemorial.

... but what happens if that life path is thwarted? ... does it mean the purpose and mission is lost to the individual forever? ..    I think not...   What is certain though, is that the hardships will be greater for it and the residual scars may resurface many times before finally healing over forever.

I would like to share with you my friend, the 'beginning or preface' of my story, my book in fact,  which is by no way finished.   ..And not for reasons to be self-indulgent or a desire to be categorised as somehow 'different' do I share it now,  but only because  I feel emphatically, that my story will serve a purpose in helping others.

My mission was always to write from the time I first held a pen in my hands, I knew that I wanted to reach others with my thoughts and stories. For reasons that are dear to my heart, I cannot at this time reveal the title here of my story,  for there is no certainty or guarantee that it will surely be finished..... however in the Spirit of service I offer it to you and  welcome warmly you read the introduction for yourself.


How wonderful that the course of one's life should run in such a way as they might be privy to witness the Creator's dream.  |Yes, it sounds ludicrous I know, for how can anyone ever fore tell the journey laid down by that far greater mind?  Are we meant to interpret the ingenious symbolism thus representing the inner core of man's heart?  It is legendary that 'he who seeks truth shall be set free' and just what does this mean?

For years I asked the question many times.  I pondered on the injustice of my captivity for I was, I felt, imprisoned, not only because of the isolation I felt throughout my childhood being different to my siblings, who seemed not to experience as I did, the unusual and often frightening episodes of seeing 'Spirit' or 'ghosts' as they called them; but also and perhaps even more debilitating, was the isolation and overwhelming sense of sadness that came from being locked in the restraints and conditioning of my Mother and Father's warring marriage; which at times to me, was like being trapped inside a cave without an entrance.

My Father's penchant for alcohol made it ever less likely that I would ever be able to escape.  Sometimes surviving the hurt of seeing the unthinkable was the greatest challenge of all.
Pronounced pathologically psychopathic in nature as a boy, my Father's unshakable strength of mind and iron will masked a much greater man he could not reveal.  It saddened me greatly, for the occasions that he did, though rare as they were few, revealed a man of great sensitivity and tenderness.  His love for nature and to be left alone to walk his dog, gave him the freedom from the incarceration I believe he felt, from living in a society where rules are made and laid down by others.

After a major head injury as a teenager, when he fell down five flights of stairs on to a concrete floor, fracturing his skull and jaw, his personality changed so greatly as to be unrecognisable by his own relatives.
His aggression turned against anything and anyone who tried to force him against his will.  He became lawless, detesting the establishment and everything it stood for.  At seventeen he was sent to Borstal and then to Durham Prison for Armed Robbery.  From there he was drafted to Germany to do his two years mandatory National Service, of which he spent most of it in solitary confinement for disobeying army rules.

Watching him through a window in the door of his cell, Corporal Generals vowed to break him.  He was fed on bread and water for six weeks and punched and kicked so hard that his own mother did not recognise him, yet still he refused to give in, saying that no matter what they did to him they could never break him.
By his own admission, he hated people, but his fight was always one with himself.

Married to a devout Catholic and raising six children in Catholicism, his atheism and blaspheme and cursing of Christ made it very difficult.
  Only after yet another major accident in his thirties, when he fell through the roof of a two storey colliery building and survived what on-lookers called a 'miracle'. my Father changed his opinion of God forever.  Later he would tell us, that the night before it happened he awoke and heard a man's voice, loud and powerful tell him, "Tomorrow you will fall, and  nothing you can do will prevent it".
My Father to this day, believes it was the voice of a Being far greater and more powerful than anything he had ever known and from that day onwards he vowed to stay on the right side of it.

The journey of uncovering answers to the questions of truth and freedom has been one of unimaginable joy and pain, for the two are intrinsically linked at a level of love.
  To the child, the love of a parent is the cornerstone from which his understanding of the world and all its inhabitants originates.  It is his breath and his essence and primary source for existence.  I recognised sadly, like many others, too early on in life, that Love is not equal in measure.  That heart ache is real and a very painful condition that effects not only the physical body, but also the mind and spirit.
When the child is denied and with held love, it binds the emotions in to a state of chaos and confusion, with insecurity being the by-product of that lesion.  His grasp on reality is altered, the moulding of his character and behaviour is affected for all time, unless he is led down a path in his thinking that re-structures the way he perceives the world and himself within it.

My story is truly one about compassion.  The inherent and innate desire to love when love felt wrong and cruel.  It draws upon personal experiences of growing up in the late sixties in North East England, when times were indubitably hard for many; especially for large families such as mine was, where money was hard to come by and happiness depended upon it.

Desperate attempts to understand my father's violent outbursts led me to seek knowledge of my spiritual nature, as a way of drawing from inner strength and resources in order to learn how to cope and survive emotionally.
I am certain what aided me was my ability to write and journey within, for throughout the tumultuous years, my journals were not only a source of contentment, but also, an opening up of portals and doorways that led me to discover the realms of Spirit.

Visitations from Spirit continued throughout my teenage years and later manifested more frequently in  the form of dreams.  Sometimes they revealed the nature of the problem I would be facing at the time and I'd wake in a state of deep relaxation, translate them and write them down along with their content and meaning; thus, a journal of dreams emerged.
Writing continued to dominate my life. In the solitude of my thoughts I found freedom from the shame and endless sadness I lived with. However, despite these reprieves, most of the time I struggled with anger and sorrow, sometimes manifesting as a black pit of depression.
The struggle to find expression for my pent up anger, especially in relationships with the opposite sex, led me eventually to seek help, but only after slipping so far down the ladder of despair and coming close to taking my own life, that I realised I had to communicate my inner most feelings to someone.

I embarked upon a quest of self-discovery, which involved me spending time in Counselling and hundreds of hours of reading religious literature.  I wanted to know the truth about life, about  the inner core of man's heart and soul and what happened to him after he died.  My therapist left me dried up emotionally.  I didn't want to relive the passage of my youth again and again in order to understand it. It was futile.  I couldn't carry on blaming my Father for everything I felt or did and yet I seemed unable to escape from the endless loop  of continuing pain that presented itself over and over as though I was trapped in a time warp that played the same old pictures again and again.  I had to leave it behind and yet I didn't know how.

'White Feather' showed up one evening not long after my daughter Annelleise was born.
  The evening began like any other, I sat with my pad and paper and began jotting down my thoughts, much  the same as I always had as a child.  After a short time I felt compelled to close my eyes and let thoughts spring to mind unhindered by conscious censoring; it felt different from other times. My mind went incredibly blank, as though I had pulled down a shutter on all other thoughts.  I at once became aware of a man in my mind's eye.  At first the image was blurred, colours appeared muted and changing, I suppose I felt uneasy at the time when I recall now.
The time it took was probably no longer than thirty seconds in total, before emerging and standing before me was a North American Indian with a feather standing up from his thick black hair.  His native rugged complexion with off set nose, attempted to smile at me through a plume of thick, chalky vapour that seemed to wrap itself around us both.  Though completely taken aback, I choked back tears, he immediately seemed recognisable. It was his eyes, deep set and alive with compassion and understanding.  I knew him, but I didn't know where from.  I wanted to hug him and yet somewhere deep inside me, my inner voice screamed that this was ridiculous.  I felt my body become weighty from my feet upwards, my limbs not belonging to me, a strange tingle of electricity coursed through my veins and my heart began to beat quickly.  My hand gripped the pen and took on a life of its own, I wrote speedily for a long time.  It was as though I was aware of what I was writing and yet my mind was blank, I couldn't think of what I was trying to say and yet my hand continued to write words.
  These 'sittings' with White Feather continued for several years and what emerged was lessons in the art of Relaxation and Meditation.  Comprehensive studies of the journey of the soul in dream state and it's continuation after death.

These messages of guidance  and love have been a life line, offering support and advice and at times, a critical eye cast over areas in my life or beliefs which I held, where I obstinately refused to bend.  White Feather never imposed his beliefs upon me but encouraged me actively to test the theories he presented and consider the possibilities of other ways of thinking and behaving.

During the early part of this Channelling, another presence made itself know, a Physician, 'Dr Sertram Keyes' who recommended areas of study, to aid me to channel energies that were building up and needed to be released.  He advised me to undertake a course in the study of 'Reflexology'.  It was the greatest endeavour I ever made.  I found profound relaxation as a therapist and euphoria that superseded anything I had ever known.  My spirit Doctor guided me with my patients, as I manipulated their feet, he revealed insights about their physical condition and emotional body that benefited them tremendously.  I qualified in Indian Head Massage and used both treatments in my work as a therapist which I continue to do.

This book is a recorded account of my life, from the many journals and diaries I  kept from childhood.  It's a dialogue between me and my spiritual self, the way in which it was perceived and experienced.

Actual events and the relationship between me and my Father dominate the pages, and it would seem that much of my anguish was bound up within that relationship.  It is true.  Yet, the love and pride I felt for him which is evident upon reading, is immeasurable.  It strengthened more deeply when he underwent major surgery to remove Cancer from his stomach and later, removal of his entire face from Cancerous growths.  Massive reconstruction followed, to create a jaw, pallet, mouth and nose from tissue, skin and bone from his body.  It was a period in my life of sadness of catastrophic proportion.

This exploration has taken me to the deep mystical recesses of mind and spirit, the journeying of one's inner self to places far beyond the reaches of the mortal world.
~Some may say to delve in to such hidden identities is mad enough but to believe in it all is insane, then I am both.  Mad, to contemplate that within the structure of my physical autonomy lies and lives a far greater expression of my being.  One that encompasses every living molecular structure, cell and atom, which shares the diversity of this planet.
Only those who have ever felt the rush of excitement tingle in their veins as they witness the earth forces through the elements, can truly participate in this journey.... I expect that excludes no-one then.... Share with me.


  1. Hello Diane, thx for sharing not only your book but also part of your life and soul, the way you write is a blessing because You do it from your heart and so everything that emanates from You is true and consequently beautiful, I couldn't stop reading once I started and for sure I can't wait for the next time You embody not your thoughs but your heart, love and pece be with You.

  2. My dear friend
    Thank you for sharing your words.
    I so enjoyed walking with you as you journeyed through moments seeing them as a young child yet now as a woman.
    Being as you an author I to know what you share on your pen takes a life of its own. Yet mine is a pencil.. Source brings the words from without and from within when you allow it to occur. How does one truly understand this concept unless they experience it themself? It is hard yet maybe the reader will see the words arent as coming from this realm yet from the other. Since it stands out among the worlds recognized writers saying who is this that writes? She is not of the elite? Yet the words captivate them to continue. It is the way of communication, via script via words via a white feather or sensing of a presence other than your own. Sensing of a feeling we are being attended to by source of all living. For what reason? It inspire, to make the world see life through different eyes. Such as your experience of a counselor saying go back to the moment that tramatized you feel it again and again.. Your soul stirred to doing this knowing that isnt truly what was well for you. Nor for I..
    I share the joy with you as you begin this journey. Feel the reasons for your doing this and know that your guides, your angels will be by your side as you do.
    We are anam cara's though in this realm in this time never having met face to face we know.
    If any assistance is needed on this please dont hesitate to ask I would be honored to tell how the process was for my book. I have three more to write! They are inside and I feel them patiently waiting to be scripted.
    DBLorgan author of The Memory Barrel