Mystical Scotland

The strongest spiritual experiences I’ve had happened last week in Scotland. On my drive through the northern Highlands, I swooned at steep mountains, deep lakes, wild rain intersecting bright sun, rainbows, and waterfalls. My favorite sight was Clava Cairns, a 4000-year-old burial site, in woods near rolling hills of green. As I stood at the first stone circle, I “saw” a gorgeous young woman morph into a old matriarch, then swoop into the burial site, under ancient rocks from the Neolithic era. It was the oddest psychic experience of my life.

I visited Edinburgh Castle, built in 1103, and set on a high rock made from a volcanic eruption millions of years ago. I loved the god and goddess gargoyles, although I felt most moved in the King’s Inner Hall. The windy and rainy weather kept tourists away, and alone in the hall, I began to dance, surrounded by lords and ladies from the past. Ghosts to be sure, but I felt safe. I can’t imagine what the person behind the security camera thought.

My second favorite, Blackness Castle, sits on a spur of land that juts in the Firth of Forth. The 15^th century fortress held spirits of guardsmen who fought and defended, and a few women who worked with them. I loved the grey black, mystical rocks. My body felt as if I were preteen. Again, I swooned.

At every encounter with a Scott, I heard lilts that sounded like singing. Even the food felt spiritual. Mussels from a group of islands way up north called Chetland, Cullen Skink soup of smoked cod, potatoes, cream, and onions, and the smoothest ice cream anywhere.

On the plane back, I met an excited couple on their way to NYC “like we see on TV”. They leaned over to quietly ask me, could you live in Scotland? I wanted to tell them the libraries might be inadequate, how too many people had rotten teeth and bad breath, and what would I do about work that give me purpose? But I honestly said, I’d love to live there for a month every year. But then, I thought the same about southern Ireland.

Travel is hard, fraught with hair pulling hassles and speed bumps, but it enriches my life. Scotland seared my soul. A lasting love affair.

Fear

Every night until I was ten, ghosts or bad men hid under my bed or in my closet. Fear ruled me and made me hate bedtime. We had no nightlights in the 50s, just buck up and shut up. By day, I knew I had strange abilities, and I felt reticent about talking so I had no real friends. Fear made me boring.

At eleven, I decided to eradicate my fears. Each day at school, I picked a girl to study, then copied her communication habits. On the weekend, I mimicked my older sister’s friends. I joined cheerleading and learned to shout, then joined the musical ensemble and sang from the back of the stage. At church, I volunteered for everything and at the YMCA I took every class. In high school, I joined clubs and set boundaries as I fell in love with lots of boys.

In college, I stayed a loner, but I sang, swam, and explored. Instead of parties, I studied actors in movies on little TVs in dorm halls. I rode my fat wheeled bike alone in the countryside and looked at how people coped outside my bubble. After college, I took a job as a flight attendant. Every month for three years I vacationed in different states and countries, and pushed myself to have adventures.

You get the picture, but let me tell you, eradicating fears never totally stops. I’m proud it doesn’t cripple me, but now my old lady bones and odd sudden worries want to hold me back. Youth and beauty no longer grease the wheels of travel, but I map out my itinerary and go anyway.

Fear is tricky and it’s not fun. In the dentist chair last week, I discussed vacations with the hygienist and how things might go wrong. She agreed that things happen but we should try to recover. My last trip, a year ago in Ireland, found me stuck for an extra week in a Covid isolation hotel.

This year I wonder if the fairies in Scotland will hold me hostage. But hey, I’ve never seen a fairy. Oh, and by the way, look for me on the news because I plan to record the Loch Ness monster. The reporters will eventually leave me alone, and I’ll return to find Big Foot. This should be fun. I’m not afraid of either of them. 

Forgiveness in My Soul

I have a hard time forgiving some people. I pity them so I’m halfway there, but the meter’s stuck. I try to forgive all the men and female friends I’ve loved, who haven’t been able to love me in return, and the broken people who can’t rise above their own inherent anger, addictions, lies, and distrust.

My struggle with forgiveness led to research. One blog claimed it’s torture and we should combat it with love. Yeah, sure, but let me sing the Essex’s song from 1963, Easier Said Than Done (#1 in the charts for two weeks). Many days it’s just about me, and I have to absolve myself for my own wayward choices.
 
I want to forgive myself for screaming and begging God/HigherPower/Aliens to stop sending me the horrible information I received about murders. The pictures that detectives showed me will forever sear my brain. My plea worked, since I haven’t done much of it for sixteen years.
 
After long discussions and the sharp mind of a gal pal, I strive to understand hurtful behavior, but I only get bits of clarity. Why might not be part of the story. If I stick to the facts, I realize most people are kind to old Jan. They help me, love me, trust their children to my care, and make me feel like a million bucks.

Bad Things and New Directions

So many good things have happened that started out bad. A custody dispute that led to my second child. A husband who took a powder after only a few weeks of marriage but left a kind stepson who sticks with me to this day. A headmaster who fired me for doing pro bono psychic work for police in my free time, and that misjustice led me to be fully self-employed. An elementary teacher who had us write about a famous person, and since I could only think of men, I was driven to write a book about famous men’s mothers when I grew up. The high school English teacher who didn’t encourage those of us who started out as unskilled writers, so that every day for ten years as I wrote and researched my book, I said, I’ll show YOU.

As a senior in college, tired of a lifetime devotion to music, I felt lost until I met a stewardess who spun tales of her world travels. That led to my adventurous job with United Airlines. At forty, my lifetime murder nightmares led to my work with police. A bankrupt music store thrust me into my own business location. The heart-wrenching pushes I gave my children to leave the nest now mean sweet, distinctive visits to their New York City homes.

We all have them, the rough times that lead to good times. Holiday missteps that we vow never to repeat, and walks that we cherish. Disagreements that in retrospect are only splinters easily removed. New directions outshine the troubles, as mysteries and puzzles come to completion in marvelous ways.

Can't See the Back of My Head

Remember the first time you heard your own voice in a recording? How we’re perceived is different from how we see ourselves. It’s important to believe in yourself and try to lessen any negativity.

I test on the edge of the autism scale. I’m clumsy and have to remind myself to have eye contact. An introvert, I do stimming with my arms and hands. I’ve worked hard, like others use a mirror to see the back of their head, to circumvent any issues that I can. On the plus side, my brain is quick and concise and I have a few wild skills. One problem I have is that people argue and say I’m an extrovert. I learned in junior high that I got more of what I want if I spoke up. 

I’m in the last third of my life, when I think people revert to who they were originally, and the masks they have worn to get by fall away. I was a sensitive child, and I still feel awful when those who are damaged express jealousy or envy. I haven’t outgrown my worry about everyone’s near misses and full stops, or about their misguided anger, but now I’m better able to feel pity instead of frustration. I say, ever onward for those who live with their own demons that no one else can understand. Let’s all have hope, forgiveness, and thanksgiving.

Ghosts Are Not Harmful

Movies and books portray the spirit world, or ghosts as I’ll call them, in a negative way. I know that conflict sells, but it leads to misunderstanding. My favorite cartoon as a kid was Casper the Friendly Ghost, maybe because I’ve always seen ghosts. The friendly ones hang around places where they were most happy, and might be seen or sensed in an old building. If you want to connect with the spirit of a loved one who is gone, be open to it with all your senses. Believe and ye shall find.

Some spirits are full of mischief. Those are the ones who slam doors or knock things over. That can seem scary, but it’s just the unknown, so laugh or be fascinated or ignore it. Disgruntled ghosts make their presence known. It can be a flash seen out of the corner of an eye, or maybe a wavy presence. Some ghosts hang in packs of two or three, and they are the ones you might hear going WHOO. But is it really a sound you hear, or do you smell something odd, or do you feel a change in temperature? Don’t fear. Ghosts feed on fear.

This is just my belief system, so choose to ignore or adopt it. The winds of autumn bring questions about the spirit world. So much of it remains a mystery to me too.

Talking with the Dead

Thirty-five years ago, a psychic told me two shocking things. That I would have a big blond son (I did) and that dead people talked to me. That was too bizarre to contemplate, but then a few years later I started my work on murder cases and it happened. Here is a little Jan tutorial on talking and listening to dead people.

It’s not like a streaming service. You can’t summon people you love who have passed. It’s best to wait, and be aware. That means keep an open heart and mind all day, listen, and watch. You might hear your departed loved one talking and think it’s a memory, but if it hadn’t been said in the past, then it’s a voice from the present. Take notes of what was said. My mom talked to me in my closet during Covid isolation, and I didn’t do this, and then I forgot the message. If you smell them, recognize that they are in your presence. If you see them fleetingly, accept it as real.

Vocal contact with the dead is more like a letter than a conversation, because one person talks at a time. There can be a long wait in between, since it’s not a cause and effect. While I wait, I say to myself, the powers that be are helping someone else or somehow busy.

It’s tricky. I’m not sure seeing a cardinal means your mom is there, but it’s possible. Synchronicity and signs abound.