On Monday...

Things that make you go...

Not "Hmmm" this time. This time it's something that made me cry my eyes out. I was driving to the store when this song came on the radio. I was holding it together until Sting got to the Sun setting. You know, time running out and all that.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UppX6vP3c4g

Here's the lyrics:

Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
Youll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in the fields of gold

So she took her love
For to gaze awhile
Upon the fields of barley
In his arms she fell as her hair came down
Among the fields of gold

Will you stay with me, will you be my love
Among the fields of barley
Well forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we lie in the fields of gold

See the west wind move like a lover so
Upon the fields of barley
Feel her body rise when you kiss her mouth
Among the fields of gold
I never made promises lightly
And there have been some that Ive broken
But I swear in the days still left
Well walk in the fields of gold
Well walk in the fields of gold

Many years have passed since those summer days
Among the fields of barley
See the children run as the sun goes down
Among the fields of gold
Youll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You can tell the sun in his jealous sky
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold
When we walked in the fields of gold

I said to myself, "I SERIOUSLY need to get out the house more often."

I want one!

Ooo, let the linky love begin.

Those of you that know me personally know how I feel about guns, especially if I made you sit through a retelling of my “nightmare” about the bad guys coming in the old style Southern house with enclosed porch. Haven’t heard that one? Remind me to tell it another day.

As nice Mr. LawDog (http://thelawdogfiles.blogspot.com/) suggested, I hippy-hopped over to read his friend’s blog: http://bayourenaissanceman.blogspot.com/ . Scrolling down to the bottom of the page, what do I see?

http://blog.riflegear.com/archive/2007/12/26/hello-kitty-ar-15---evil-black-rifle-meets-cute-and.aspx

I know four members of my family will want one, but three are under age.

The Boy Child is a HUGE Hello Kitty fan. He constantly irritates his sisters by using their Hello Kitty dishes that were imported straight from Japan. Unfortunately, Grandma and Company* only bought in pairs. We have two girls, right?

Hubby just walked in and remarked, “It’s a good rifle. Want one?” I love my Hubby.

*”And Company” would be Grandma’s sister, niece, and assorted friends. I find it quite amusing to find the warning “For Sale Only Inside Japan” all over the Hello Kitty stuff.

I Talk to Dead People, Part Four: Rev. Brooks Visits

If the previous posts about talking to/with dead people haven’t scared you away yet, read on.


I’m not shy about revealing that I talk to dead people. I’m asleep and dreaming at the time, so it’s not like I could MAKE them stop, now is it? I remember my dreams best first thing in the morning. People that want to say something for me to remember, say it then.

There are “just” dreams. Then there are communication dreams. When talking to people in Heaven, I can feel the difference. “Just” dreams are entertaining. Communication dreams are more personal. Quite often people give me encouragement before I start my day.

So, several months back I was visiting my parents. When I had a quiet moment, I asked Mom, “Did I mention I talked to Reverend Brooks?”

“Um, no, you didn’t,” Mom answered. Mom looked a little nervous, but she waited to see what I said next. I wondered how many years he’s been dead now, but didn’t stop to ask at that moment. It probably wasn’t a good time to ask.

“Well, I dreamed I was at Rhett Avenue watching a service. Rev. Brooks was the minister. His sermon was about the Pilgrims and how they were seeking religious freedom. Afterwards, he walked to the narthex and he talked to me. He was happy and relaxed. I guess he would be, since he’s in Heaven and all that. I woke feeling really positive.”

I spent a minute telling Mom about minor details of the dream, but those were unimportant. The first minister I can remember, the man that married my parents, took time out of his busy schedule in Heaven to give me words of encouragement as I started my day.

GOD bless Reverend David Brooks. One day we will meet again.

Asking for help with dreams and other things

Take a big step with me. Put all doubts aside and BELIEVE there are entities concerned about your welfare. Angels abound. There are more than enough to go around. Most of us have Spirit Guides. We might not always listen, but our Guides are there. Thanks for taking this step. Let’s move on, shall we?

Think of these entities in a manner reassuring to you. Your vision will differ from mine. Whereas I might be comforted by a BIG dog, you might feel better with a tall, regal angel wielding a sword. The point is to pick some thing you can visualize.

Give him or her a name. Just like Thomas Magnum said in that long ago episode of Magnum PI, “Things are less scary when they have a name.” Magnum named the shark that was circling and checking him out for dinner. Magnum calmed down and the shark lost interest. (Note to self: When I finally purchase the series on DVD, I’ll update this with the episode name and other such junk…)

For sake of clarity, I’m just going to use masculine pronouns for the rest of this. Have you named him yet? “He” will be big and scary to others, but not to you. You just gave him a nickname. Now he’s your friend. I call my Spirit Guide “Angelo” (because he’s such an angel to watch over me).

Angelo is very helpful about finding things IF I think to ask for help. I won’t bore you with the list of lost items recovered with Divine assistance, but there’s a lot. I’ve learned to listen to the quiet Little Voice that tells me to dump my purse out to find my keys at the bottom, stuck inside the checkbook. I’ve gone back to the laundry room to “this time look BEHIND the washer” because I didn’t find the paint roller frame the first three times.

When I say my prayers, I ask for protection as well as help. I’m quite sure it was Angelo that almost screamed in my ear “DO NOT open that door! Look out the window. See? He’s NOT a pizza guy.” (I promise to publish that story another time.)

So, why have I led you on this tangent?

Is it any less important to ask for help with your dreams than it is for finding lost car keys?

As part of your going to bed routine, start asking for help with your dreams. We all talk to ourselves. (Admit it, you do it sometimes.) Instead of talking to the ceiling, remember to visualize your protective helper-friend. “Hey, Angelo,” one might say, “help me to remember my dreams in the morning. I’ve just set the alarm for 6:15. Oh, help me to wake up, too, while you’re at it!”

Don’t be discouraged if it takes more than one morning to get it right. You are now attempting to build a good habit: dream journaling. Your paper and writing instrument are within easy reach. Now all you need to do is REMEMBER.

Your Angelo will help you with that, if you but think to ask.

Keeping a Dream Journal

In the last few years I’ve learned how to keep a dream journal. The most important part of journaling is to actually have something to write on and something to write with RIGHT BESIDE WHERE YOU SLEEP. I’ve solved my particular needs by keeping a notebook on a clipboard with a pen stuck under the clip. An attack of decadent living took me and I purchased several “light up” ink pens. Click the pen and it lights up. They are perfect for writing in the dark or the early morning gloom without waking the rest of the house with the bed side light. Just don’t try to change the ink cartridge! The little button batteries fell out the pen and I gave up trying to get them back in. I have three other pens, so there is no need to panic. Yet.

Set a regular alarm. In fact, set two. The first alarm should be close at hand and easy to smack into silence. This wakes me enough to realize I’m dreaming. The second alarm says “Get yourself up and write this down!”

When you wake and recall something, write it down as quickly as possible. The dream tends to “leak” right out of my head the longer I wait until I begin writing. There have been many mornings where the clipboard accompanied me to the bathroom for that most important first trip of the day. I tend to write some sentence fragments to get the main ideas sketched out. My favorite example that I share is:

Dinosaurs
Playing a game
Game board

Something happened that morning and I failed to write the follow-up full sentences. I still don’t know if I was playing a game WITH dinosaurs or on a game board with dinosaur playing pieces. The dinosaur game dream was just a run of the mill dream. These are great for practicing dream journaling. I feel no pressure to get the journaling “just right” for this type of dream. Most of my morning dreams are “normal”, meaning weird, convoluted, and nothing too pressing that if I get distracted (children screaming, accidents happening outside, etc.) I don’t worry about not writing the dream out.

Nightmares rarely happen to me these days. I do feel pressure to write down all the details of “frustrating” dreams. I attempt to leave the rationalizing and analyzing for later. Why exactly was that woman attacking my family with the sword? I’m still not sure, but my dream self had the presence of mind to grab a chair with metal legs to battle her! As I hastily scribbled the details, I left a lot of blank space. That was one dream that took MANY pages to get recorded with many notes scratched in the margins.

I’ve noticed that preparing for bed at the end of the day brings me closer to the mind set I need to recall my dream. I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the clipboard. What did I mean when I wrote that? Faded memories flood back. I can usually add a few more details if I want to. I note the time: “11:35 PM later same day”, to distinguish between hastily written morning notes and better considered flashes of insight by day’s end.

When I decide I’ve written enough of an update, I turn to a clean page. The notebook is placed within reach and I turn out the light. I keep a stack of 3M “sticky notes” on the head board for assorted “can’t believe I forgot blah-blah” notes to myself. Forgotten bills and things children require for school no longer make me lose sleep. If a note is extremely important, I carry it to the bathroom mirror where I’ll be sure to see it. Otherwise, between the dream notebook and the 3M notes, whatever I need to write will be remembered.

The great thing about writing down your dreams is sharing them with friends later. I have this one friend* that if he realizes I’m discussing one of my dreams, he leaves the room. Apparently I “worry” him. (Big guffaw.) I spent so many years dealing with The Jerk that I no longer allow my dreams to hurt me. “You cut me with that?!?” I ask the thing attacking me. “Now I’m going to take it from you and kill you with it!”

The mafia goons breaking in my (dream) front door didn’t fare so well, either. They really didn’t expect me to calmly reload. The third dude thought I was out of ammo… Surprise! Janie knows about keeping an extra clip or two in her back pocket when she goes to see what’s making that noise at the front door. As the last one struggled to get up, I asked if he still wanted to hurt me, because if he did, I would need to shoot him some more. Plink! went the empty magazine on the floor, just inside my newly ventilated screen door.

Yes, I’m not fun to watch horror movies with. I no longer play the victim in real life or in my dreams. I won’t tolerate it in my viewing pleasures.

Yes, I think dream journaling has really helped me get to know myself better. I highly suggest it to all my friends.

*Even Terry.


For more information, please consult dream dictionaries or guides. My personal favorite is “Sylvia Browne’s Book of Dreams”.

I Talk to Dead People, Part Three: Rhonda visits

I had a dear friend when I was young. We knew one another from the second grade. Rhonda and I got along well. We were buddies, pals, and partners in crime. When we discovered how wonderful telephones were, we spent many hours chatting on the phone.

I envied Rhonda’s long telephone cord. (This was the age before cordless telephones.) The long cord allowed her to roam all over her house. Meanwhile, I was stuck sitting at the proper “telephone table.”

This little metal torture device had a small table for the phone to sit upon. Just beneath that was a rack large enough for one city telephone book. The seat was a joke. Anyone other than a child had to sit perfectly still, lest the whole thing decide to tip over. The telephone table was shoved into a corner of my parents’ dining room. This stabilized the unit and provided zero privacy. Exactly what a pre-teen wants, no?

With the long telephone cord, Rhonda could wander through her house, go into her room, or even hide in the bathroom. “Ignore the running water. You don’t hear a thing,” she would say. She read excerpts from her dad’s Playboy magazines. “I cannot believe any woman would say this. Just listen and tell me what you think…” We spent many a hot Summer day simply talking. We were best friends.

I went to my bathroom and cried when my father called to say that Rhonda had died. It was just before her 30th birthday. I was a whole seven weeks OLDER than Rhonda. How could she be dead?

We had grown apart after we married. Rhonda married the weekend before I did. I was her bridesmaid. She fixed my hair for my wedding, then drove me to the service. We tried visiting or calling, but our husbands hated each other. Jerks. So we lost touch. I heard she had a son. I don’t know if she ever heard about my kids.

Early one morning I dreamed about Rhonda. I visualized her at her old house, hiding in the bathroom, telling me secrets on the phone. I realized something was not quite right. Why wasn’t I in the dining room of the old house? Hey, we aren’t teenagers anymore! Suddenly, the answer hit me:

“Rhonda! You’re dead!”

The dream dissolved around us. We were standing in a white mist. She moved towards me as she laughed at my ignorance. “Janie,” she teased, “Don’t you know? I can visit the people I love ANY TIME I WANT TO!”

I woke with a start. This was important news, even if Rhonda had been dead two years. It took me a few days, but I got the courage and acquired her grandmother’s telephone number. I talked with her MawMaw and shared what I had dreamed. MawMaw informed me that the dream had taken place very near the anniversary of Rhonda’s death. At her encouragement, I called Rhonda’s mother and told her the news.

We cried together. It was wonderful, sad news. Rhonda was still aware of us and still cared enough to check up on us. Rhonda was safe in Heaven, waiting and watching. One day we will join her.

I Talk to Dead People, Don't You? Granddad's Message

No, I'm not channeling "The Sixth Sense". For what it's worth, I've been talking to dead people since before that movie came out. Perhaps I should explain myself before you think I'm completely nuts.

Many years ago, I was lying in a hospital bed with no real clue what was wrong with me. Other than an abscess in the vaginal cul de sac caused by "an infection", the doctors didn't know what to treat. The IV gave a steady drip of antibiotics while the needle was busy leaving a scar in the back of my hand. (Ask me to show you some time.)

Suddenly I was at my Grandmother's house. Various other relatives were there, milling about as if it were Thanksgiving. (All this is a normal dream thus far.) Next I realize that not only is my Grandfather present, Grandma can see him. She's busy pretending she can't see him while he's quietly talking to her.

I rush over to him and grab him. Dear God, Granddad is SOLID! He's not a ghost, he's solid! I hug him tight, wrapping myself around his neck. I haven't hugged my Granddad in over a dozen years. Too thrilled to think of anything else, I ask, "What are you DOING here?!?"

Granddad patiently peels me off him and holds me at arms' length. "I've been talking to your Grandmother, getting her ready. I want you to know...

"Everything will be all right. You are going to be FINE..."

These words ring in my ears as the nurse speaks to me, ready to do my vital signs. She gives me a second to awaken before she starts. I suddenly realize I have a slight problem. "The bed is wet. I've been sweating..."

"Your fever must have broken," the nurse says as she reaches over and touches me. The nurse quickly finishes recording my vital signs, then suggests I go to the bathroom while she changes my bedding.

The long story made short is this: just as Granddad promised, I was eventually fine. I've learned just last year that I was most likely suffering the after effects of an amniotic embolism. The next day after my "dream", the doctors drained the abscess. There was no bacteria in the fluid. (Amniotic fluid doesn't like to let bacteria grow...) The doctors were mystified and wanted to cut on me some more to see what else they could find. God forbid that they should admit I was in that state due to one of their idiot doctors' bad judgements during the delivery of my first child. After their "exploratory surgery" got postponed the third time, I took the hint from God and refused to let them treat me again. When I had my tubal ligation several years later, my doctor spent several minutes trying in vain to find this "damage" the first doctors had insisted I had.