Dearly Departed (3 page)
Mary shared her dream with me, and we talked about the 2004 teddy bear experience at the airport. Latoya giggled and asked, ‘Had you noticed the colour of the bear, Georgina?’ Well, actually, I hadn’t taken any particular notice. I presumed it was gold. Rushing upstairs to retrieve the bear, she plonked it on the coffee table right in front of me, along with a beautiful photo of Claira. I couldn’t help but smile—the 2004 teddy bear was not gold, as I had presumed, but a gorgeous shade of chocolate brown. I knew exactly what Latoya was thinking.
‘Can you see the family resemblance? We’re not-fair skinned at all—more like the shade of the teddy bear!’ The significance of the purchase, the message and now the colour of the teddy bear were even more significant than I had thought. Mary explained to me that in her culture and society ‘signs’ are very much entrenched in their way of life. She saw the significance of the teddy bear, date and message—even down to the letter ‘G’ (as GG is my pet nickname in the media)—as signs that Claira had manifested to show those closest to her that even from the other side, she still honoured her cultural roots and identity.
As I put the finishing touches on Claira’s story, I have some wonderful news to share—I am to be a grandmother again later this year! Latoya and Brendan are expecting their first child, and, yes, it is to be a girl, already named Claira!
For this is he that was spoken of by the prophet Esaias, saying, the voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord, make his paths straight.
The Bible
, Matthew, Chapter 3, Verse 3
T
he Language of Spirit has no boundaries—we all have the ability to communicate across time and space. Your mind can travel to any place in this world and beyond. When you pray, meditate, daydream and ask for help, you send a vibration into the universal energy field seeking an answer, solution or healing. As this is emitted, it is also received!
World War II times were uncertain, which prompted the spiritual 22-year-old British naval officer Roy Gibson to buy a gold cross in Colombo, Sri Lanka, while his ship was in port. He had the letter ‘R’ and his fiancée’s initial ‘A’ engraved on the piece, one on either side of the outstretched arms depicted on the cross. For him, this would symbolically protect the wartime sweethearts until they could be together.
For 20-year-old Agnes, her only link to Roy was the cross she wore around her neck and his letters, many of which arrived in pieces as the censor’s scissors cut out highly sensitive location and event information. There were no privacy laws in those days, and Big Brother had the final say. Should those innocent, chatty letters from one sweetheart to another fall into enemy hands, perhaps they would alert them to potential spy activities or locations of ships and troops on the move that could give them the upper hand and turn the war to their advantage. Many of the letters Agnes opened resembled small strips of ribbon rather than pages of a letter. But a letter was a letter, no matter how small. Even just a few words meant he was alive.
In England on Easter Saturday 1945, at 7.30 a.m., Agnes arrived for work at the factory where she was employed as a seamstress to sew war uniforms for the troops. The factories in wartime worked seven days a week, even on public holidays, to push through the large quotas of clothing needed by the soldiers. Agnes was combing her hair in the ladies’ restroom when the mirror took on the appearance of shimmering water and waves and all seemed dark. She heard Roy’s voice cry out—‘Agnes’. She felt great fear and backed away from the mirror. As her back touched the wall, she fainted and slid down to the floor.
That evening she wrote to Roy, telling him of her experience.
Several days later, a workmate told Agnes she’d been to the local movie house, and on the world news screened before the movie was an announcement that the
HMS Indefatigable
, where Roy was an engine room artificer, had been hit by a plane and seventeen men were dead.
As the plane hit the deck and burst into flames, the order was issued to seal the engine rooms to keep the ship afloat. Roy knew his fate and called out, ‘God save me’ and ‘Agnes’. Thousands of miles away, the voice of Roy in the dark engine room was ‘heard’ by his fiancée and the emotions ‘felt’. Spirit had delivered his words.
The ship’s steel deck, rather than a traditional wood one, saved the men as the flames were extinguished quickly. The orders to seal the engine rooms were never carried out.
Roy wrote to Agnes that night. Very little was left of his letter due to censorship, but one sentence had been left complete. It read, ‘Yes, it certainly was April Fool’s Day’, indicating to her that something had happened that day that he could not discuss openly.
Some things are inexplicable, such as a voice heard audibly from one person to another with no wires or vehicle to send information. Yet for this couple, proof of the existence of unseen powers and forces would ultimately see them take a spiritual journey and quest that covered a lifetime together.
They married in 1946 upon Roy’s return to England, and a few years later migrated to Australia and had one child—you guessed it—me!
3
I heard his voice I heard his voice
If you cannot observe it, then you must meditate, contemplate and imagine it, it is wondrous that if you contemplate long enough, then eventually you will see it.
When you are able to see something that cannot really be seen—then it is wondrous.
Henry Chang,
Dragonfly
Magazine, Volume 4
‘
G
reen, green is the valley where I lie.’ The words came rushing through my ears. It was a man’s voice. I knew I hadn’t imagined it. It was real. I instantly recalled how the kids at school would say, ‘If you hear voices in your head, it’s a sign of madness.’ Was I really mad?
I hoped the other people sitting in the circle heard his voice too. Would they believe a ten-year-old? Then suddenly, before my eyes, I saw an elephant trample a garden bed. It was crystal clear, right down to the texture of its skin and the colour of the flowers.
Surely they’d have seen that, I thought.
It seemed like an eternity that we all sat in darkness. I was the only child in a roomful of ageing adults who had come to investigate the supernatural, wanting to develop their psychic gifts or have proof of the existence of a spirit world.
We’d been instructed to sit in a large circle and concentrate on a vase of flowers that a redheaded, well-dressed woman had placed in the middle of the room. Perhaps we would see, hear or feel something. A message, a prediction or some form of proof of another sense—a sixth sense.
We regularly made the one-hour drive from my parents’ home in the leafy northern beaches into the bright evening lights of a fast-moving Saturday night in the city of Sydney. We’d park the car and make our way to the theatre district, where I was allowed to select a small bag of handmade chocolates. The treat, I realise now, was a bribe to keep me silent for the night’s activities.
Walking up the old stairwell, it seemed as though the creaky stairs were singing their own mantra: ‘Come—be prepared, come— be prepared.’
You couldn’t help but notice the assortment of people in the large room. Some were well-manicured in appearance, others seemed out of place. They were lost souls looking for an evening out—perhaps some light entertainment or a sudden rush of adrenaline with a ghostly encounter.
The old iron chairs were already in neat rows facing the front of the hall, where a small table covered with a lace tablecloth had been placed. On one side of the table were, neatly placed, the Bible, a collection bowl for donations and a jug of water with two mismatched glasses. There was a chair on either side of the table— one for the guest medium or psychic and the other for the convener.
My bag of dolls and toys become increasingly more boring as the weeks went by, and the chairs were most uncomfortable as I wiggled and squirmed. Sometimes I listened with intent to the guest speaker, questioning whether it really was Red Eagle or Cleopatra who the medium had brought through—their hand gestures and unusual voices all sounded fake to me. Other mediums seemed to shine as they talked, and I sensed a genuine interest and belief in what they were saying.
I clearly remember the night my parents went forward for a healing to give up their addiction to cigarettes. They threw their packets away there and then, and neither of them looked at a cigarette again. This was a place where miracles and healings occurred. But as a child, boredom was setting in and the novelty of chocolate had worn off. So what had I to lose that evening when the call came to make ready for the development circle. That night I would participate—give it a go.
Chairs were arranged in a large oval shape. My parents sat opposite me. I was sandwiched between two strangers. The convener placed a large arrangement of flowers in the centre of the circle. We were told that we needed to concentrate on the flowers—by doing this we may be able to tap into the spirit realm and receive messages and information from the other side for those participating in the development circle. Then the lights were switched off, and a veil of silence fell. I sat very still, a little nervous, a little scared, but something exciting was stirring within my soul. I waited for a sign, something that would show me what it was like to be a psychic, or bearer of spiritual messages.
The silence was endless. I wished time would just speed up so I could have the supper that followed. In the 1960s, only rich people could afford chocolate biscuits and the supper table was guaranteed to have a plate or two.
Then it happened. The voice, the message, the vision. I heard quite clearly, ‘Green, green is the valley where I lie’, then I saw a large grey wrinkled elephant trample a colourful-looking garden.
That was it—two very different ‘signs’ which didn’t make any sense, but that’s what I experienced. As the lights were switched back on and my eyes adjusted, I witnessed eager adults discussing with their neighbours what they had experienced. Then the convener, who had also been sitting in the circle, rose from her chair and walked to the centre of the circle, right next to the flower arrangement.
‘Can I have your attention please?’ she asked. The chattering stopped, and all eyes became transfixed on the convener. ‘I would like everyone present to share their experiences with the group— anything, just anything, no matter how small, simple or even if you feel it is unrelated. Speak the truth, I am encouraging you to develop. Perhaps you had impressions in your thoughts or feelings.
Some may have heard a message, observed a vision or sensed something within their bodies.’
I came to realise later that her disciplinarian manner was in fact there to help, support and develop our confidence, gifts and potentials. If we didn’t learn to share what we experienced, then the path of development could be impinged. But as a ten-year-old child sitting in a room full of adults, I found this form of confrontational questioning very intimidating and scary.
‘I will come to you first, sir. What did you experience?’ The man slightly blushed as words rapidly fell from his mouth. ‘Now the lady next to you—madam, tonight what occurred for you?’ It was obvious as she made her clockwise move around the circle that no-one was going to escape the ‘dreaded questioning’. Finally she came to me—it was now my turn. I was quietly confident. I had a stillness within me that I had never experienced before, an inner confidence that I was not indeed mad—it was real. I plucked up the courage and told the group exactly what I had experienced.
I could hear giggles, whispers and grunts, as though they were thinking, ‘This child’s in fantasy land’. Inside I felt an anger that was not natural. My face coloured, I was embarrassed. I’d made a fool out of myself. I was a failure at my first attempt.
Thank God supper was served and I had something to occupy myself with. I was starting to learn that food was a comfort in trying times. I noticed two adults from the group approach my parents.
One was the redheaded lady who had placed the flowers in the circle, and the other was a man. There were whispers and occasional glances my way.
The lady had come to tell my parents about the prophetic message I’d delivered—the only one in the roomful of adults, from a child. It was from her deceased husband, a pilot whose plane had crashed. He was buried in a green valley in Wales. The flowers were to commemorate his death. The gentleman recounted that during the week a visiting circus had come to his suburb and an elephant, the star attraction, had escaped, made its way down the street and eventually trampled his garden, destroying it. Through the feedback from these two people, my parents came to realise the common thread or vibration was around flowers. They had come to the weekly circle to develop their potential, but in fact it was me who showed great potential as a psychic and medium. My path was set. My apprenticeship to the spirit world had begun.
The secrets of this earth are not for all men to see, but only those who will seek them.
Ayn Rand
T
he weekly development sessions held at my parents’ home were spin-offs from their investigations on Saturday nights in the city. There were about four couples who lived close by and shared a common interest in wanting to explore the world of the supernatural. Once a week they would visit my parents’ home and assemble in the lounge room.
My bedroom adjoined the lounge room, and at times I would sneak out and peer through the door to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening. I can remember a woman sitting in a chair with my mother standing behind her—Mum had placed her hands on the woman’s head and was saying prayers. Years later I was to learn that my mother was a healer and what I had witnessed was a healing underway.
The Saturday trips to the development circle stopped abruptly after I gave my first public demonstration of my gift—when I accurately gave the message to the woman whose husband was buried in Wales and when I saw the elephant trample the garden.
