Tell me your compelling ghost story, we all have one, and I will well up - eyes bigger and bigger trying not to let those droplets of fear and awe spill onto my cheeks. You’ll see that tell-me-more, can’t-look-away look in my eyes. And when I can’t hold them back any longer, I’ll start dabbing at my tears with my shirt sleeve. Tell me your ghost story (please), but no-way-Jose do I want to meet your ghostie.
That is profoundly ironic. I should explain.
When I go to work every day, my coworkers are - well, ghosties. I prefer to think of them as folks like us. Big difference, I hasten to add. When a beautiful (living) person walks into my studio for Shamanic healing, sometimes I see tiny sparkles of light darting between us. Like Tinkerbell fluttering about, smaller than the head of a pin. It’s a sign that we are about to get some help seeing the details of my client’s journey along their soul’s path. This kind of help is always welcome.
In my Shamanic work, I journey with you to the place where your soul’s path is laid out ahead and behind. When I close my eyes, we emerge on a gorgeous, high mountain plateau, standing in knee-high grass on the well-worn path. I know that the dear soul who darted between us as a flash of light will be there too. Visible somewhere out on the plain which safely bounds each soul’s journey. That dear soul may be entering or exiting through the trees at the horizon. Behind us in the past or ahead in the future. And I know exactly why they are there in that seeing-not-seeing way of mine.
I am eternally grateful and comforted by these folks like us in vaporous form, because they are helpers. Just like me. Not ghosties. We meet intentionally because there is good work to be done, out there on the plain.
Ghosties, not so much. My boundary against them is rock-freakin’-solid. I don’t want to see them. Hear them. Bump into them. It’s just not my work. But sometimes, they are unavoidable (read on).
What exactly do I mean by “ghostie”? You know. That ghoul who lingered just outside the fire circle at Girl Scout camp. There you were, sitting on your sit-upon, your rosy cheeks lit by the fire and your little back turned to the cold and dark. You remember that sit-upon, don’t you? You wove it in a church basement from strips of folded newspaper and hand stitched its cover from vinyl tablecloth. Then you attached a string and tied it around your waist where it flap-flapped against your butt as you followed Miss I-can’t-remember-her-name into the woods. At dusk she built a fire, and you circled up tightly to listen to those wretched tales. The ghosties circled up too. You could feel them on the cold side of your little back waiting to tease you with a clammy touch or a baleful moan.
Those are ghosties, my friend. And I have set a boundary around myself that they dare not cross. But I do love a good ghost story - when the lights are on.
A couple of weekends ago, I drove north to visit a dear friend. She, being smart and hardworking, has recently expanded a piece of her life into an old building. She has boldly created something new and beautiful in a space left vacant for many years, its previous occupants gone but not forgotten. She has quietly paid homage to the original creators of the space in just the right way.
I too stood in the empty century-old space before renovations began last spring to ah, check in. Two kindly souls, whom I perceive in my seeing-not-seeing way, indicated that it would all be okay, this change, in their saying-not-saying way. Not ghosties. Just folks. Like us.
Then this happened.
The week before my visit, my friend installed cameras in her new space for a little safety and security. Her very smart cameras turn on when they see something and send a quick video right to her phone. Day and night. And they have been busy. Beautiful, otherworldly orbs of white light (think ping pong balls) have been darting around her new space like Tinkerbell, leaving light trails behind them. (I write this through welled up tears, and my sleeve is a little damp.) I could sit and watch those videos on her phone on repeat all day long with wringing wet shirt sleeves.
Because it is validation. It is the best evidence I have seen, so far, of what I experience in my work as an intuitive in the Shamanic tradition. In my work, I continue to learn that we have nothing to fear and so much to gain by simply looking. And accepting the help of folks just like us.