How does one tell the story of a life time? Bits and pieces of memory filled with feelings create the need to search for just the right words and phrases. Waking in the morning, I pick up pen and paper and words begin to flow.
 
Knowing my experiences have been the experiences of others while the gift of recognition to a greater purpose gives me understanding.
 
Our stories need to be told. They are not just our story, but the story of those who have gone before.
 
There are mysteries of shared physical and emotional experiences.
Learning more about Grandparents and those lives that went before reveal the repeats of similar experiences, of people patterns. As if a higher power is giving opportunity for us to redeem those from before.
 
History repeating itself takes on a new meaning of awareness.

My resilience to survive meant, I would have to shut down the trauma occurring in the moment. The easiest way to make the unbearable disappear, became a simple task. Simply, lock it away. Forget. In the late fifties understanding the effects of trauma seemed limited to the average population.
 
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD has been difficult to recognize or understand, even for our military members. Those who have sacrificed for freedom are great examples of the sufferings from trauma.
 
Today, we often hear “Counselors are available….” to assist survivors and/or victims after a traumatic event. The importance of dealing with an issue as soon as possible is has become a greater focus and important process.
 
Not having assistance to process the traumatic experience in my early years effected my learning skills and ability to process future information.
 
I became, an expert at tucking away horrific incidences. What my young developing brain didn’t want to think about became lost. Somewhere in areas of my brain, I created a holding place. I was able to put aside the encoded data stored on an imaginary disk. Truth faded into surreal images of camouflage. I remember feeling blank. Like a blank emptiness when a teacher or adult would ask a question. Blank that lead to fear and I would be speechless. I couldn’t find words to speak. This has carried into adulthood when feeling stressed. The lack of understanding my handicap often created a hostile situation.
 
I built a history of many forgotten moments. Now, today, I am able to learn from them.  I am shown valuable information. Information leading me to a greater understanding of myself; but, more importantly a greater path to understanding. A higher power, or fate has created my destiny.  I don’t know what non-believers would call me. Most likely, they will think me just crazy, and that’s ok. I got to be me and attempt to share.
 
I am one small embryo created in a giant universe placed on a physical planet to experience extreme emotions. Emotions, a voice in my head, all would guide me to new experiences throughout a life time. Opportunities to identify that there is something going on I am unable to put into words.
 
Seventy plus years later, I am writing about this journey of unexplainable miracles. Attempting to share a history of survival.
 
How I was protected in one incident of survival, through the power of a Guardian Angel or two.
 
Patty was my third-grade classmate and friend that lived across the street. My Mom provided needed childcare while her parents worked. She was an only child.
 
Patty would come over in the morning, get in bed with one of my little brothers, not me. I was really upset and complained, “Patty is my friend!”
 
Mom told me, “Patty has always wanted a little brother . . .” that is the reason she wanted to be with one of mine. I had three little brothers. No wonder she like to come to our house. It really had nothing to do with me. Hard to accept, but it was true. I still liked Patty a lot. She was uniquely different, kind of like me.
 
After Christmas, my Mother seemed to act strange about having Patty over. She stopped watching Patty on weekends. Mom's words, "I kept seeing Patty crushed." 
Mom said, that she feared something would happen while Patty would be riding the new bike she had gotten for Christmas.
 
Though, the money helped our family, Mom didn't want to feel responsible if something happened to Patty while on her watch.
 
My Mother told stories about unexplainable incidents. She mentioned how an Angel had saved her, how she knew things, before they happened.
 
The details of how Angels protected me at the time Patty died were kept locked away from memory.  
 
Post Trauma Stress Disorder (PTSD), can do that; blocking a memory of an incident too painful, to shocking to accept.
 
Studies show that children are very good at blocking pain, especially children who have experienced abuse. Add unnecessary guilt, and personalities soon develop with odd perspectives.
 
After years of training, education, counseling and other modalities, I recognize the reason why painful heartbreak became blocked. Hidden subconscious pain has had an effect on my behaviors and attitudes. Programming, displaced feelings of responsibility set me up in relationships throughout my life span.
 
Hard to understand that over fifty years later I am processing, reliving detailed accounts.
 
Divine circumstances, total recall, when the timing was right. I was protected until I was emotionally more mature and able to accept the trauma of the day Patty died. Now, I can cry the tears. The retention of information can be put to a greater use.
 
Patty and I, along with two of my younger brothers most likely walked the four blocks to school that morning. Patty and I were in the third-grade class together. My little brothers would have been in the second and first grades. A normal school day, in our innocence, very unware of the change about to occur in our lives.
 
Buckman Elementary was an old red brick school. Patty and I would climb the steps to our classroom. When the time came, the whole class would go down the stairs to the gym on the main floor.
 
This was where our teacher led us in, games and activities, such as: “The Farmer in the Dell,” “Ring around the Rosie” and “London Bridge.”  
 
The old gymnasium had circles and lines painted on a wood floor. The walls were painted army green, made of old wood paneling had been in place for many years. High on the wall were the steam radiators. Someone thought it best to place them high, so that the children would stop being burned during the cold months.
 
When the hidden away memory came, it caused me to relive the moment as if it were happening again. In a short second, I was my young self.
 
I had recently turned eight years old. I was back in the gym. Just as watching a television segment, I had instant replay. More than instant replay, I had all senses activated. Touch and smell were fresh. I experienced simple details. The gym, the wood floor, the old bench painted green like the walls, children’s voices, all as clear as the day I last saw Patty alive.
 
The majority of the class was in a half circle. All except the three of us, Joey (with a club foot), Patty, (who wore hearing aids and had been very sickly her whole young life) and me (the shy, fearful introvert). We sat on the bench against the gym wall watching and waiting. I was very happy setting next to Patty, lost in a world all my own. Sitting next to Patty I recalled touching her wrinkly hands. They were very soft. I was lost in the fascination of them.
 
Until, the teacher stopped the class, “Everyone be quiet, please.”
 
The gym became silent.
 
The teacher spoke in gentle kindness to the three misfits on the bench. I remember the uncomfortable eye contact. “Would you children like to come join in the game?”
 
The thought was unbearable to me. I felt every eye upon us. I remember trying to hide.
 
Sliding behind Patty, on her right side, my stomach felt tight.
 
The attention focused in our direction made me feel very desperate. I kept trying to move further behind Patty to disappear from view. I could feel Patty’s long brown ringlet on my cheek. Her Mother made sure they were perfect. I could smell her, a fresh, clean scent.
 
I remember her turning her head toward me, bewildered as to why I was pushing her to the edge of the bench. Next, the miracle happened.
 
Intervention, Angels, the next moment, I was lifted off the bench and being carried across the room. The sensation was if I were floating. I found myself across the gym far from where Patty sat, where I had been trying to hide.
 
Reflecting, it was surreal. With others watching, my feet must have been in action touching the floor. It was not my well or desire to leave my little hiding place on the bench, yet, I found myself in the circle the farthest person from Patty. An unseen force had taken over me.
 
If there was anything odd about my movement across the room to others, it would have been surpressed by the horror that followed.
 
Within a fraction of a second, everyone’s attention was drawn away from me. All the eyes that had been watching me shifted.
 
We all heard a horrid loud thunder. Joey jumped off the bench running as fast as he could move with his club foot. He had been setting on the bench next to Patty on her left side.
 
Patty continued to sit not responding to the loud noise. She looked puzzled. We were all starring at her. A faint smile and a flush of pink crossed her face. She had to be wondering, “Why?”
 
Why we were all starring at her? Her hearing aids had failed her. I don’t know if she even felt the vibration that must have accompanied the load rumble.
 
The next moment, another loud sound. Another blink of an eye, it seemed to happened quickly, Patty was lying unconscious on the gym floor. Her head incircle of dark blood, her glasses twisted at a slant her face.
 
The heavy radiator above our heads was too much weight for old wood and screws. The metal came down, off the gym wall and was now resting on her legs after striking her head of curls. My precious friend laid helpless. I felt helpless.
 
The teacher jumped into action asking for help. She struggled to get the steaming heavy metal off Patty’s burning legs.  The hot metal burned with each attempt. Too heavy for our teacher move.
 
“Go get help.” I heard her say to the one little blond headed boy who tried to help lift the hot metal.
 
The majority of the class were frozen in shock. I remember that I couldn’t move. Not until someone came and directed us out of the gym area. Seven and eight-year-old children in a state of shock, witnessing a traumatic event; how would it change each life?
 
More recently, my older sister reminded me of a conversation. My teacher told my Mom that I had been setting next to Patty moments before the radiator fell. Confirmation, my blocked memory of the incident was real.

Also blocked, the guilt. I have carried a burden of surviving death while my friend died. Guilt that I didn't help save Patty when the teacher asked for help. Deep issues never faced, but tucked away, to hard to talk about. Feelings, no one thought to address for me or for my classmates.
 
How I ended up the furthest away was only due to the unseen force placing me out of harm’s way. I was protected. Reliving that moment, I know there are miracles.
 
More pieces of stories have been recalled and facts found in the old newspaper clippings.
 
The hot metal prevented the men who came into help lift the heavy metal. My teacher finally did it on her own. An “Adrenaline rush of strength”, my Mother said made it possible.
 
Mrs. Corwin wore bandages on her fingers and hands for weeks.
 
The ambulance came. They had to use a mattress like blanket to remove Patty due to the damage to her little body. She died on the way to the hospital.
 
After Patty's death, her Mother and Step-father had three children. Interestingly, Patty would have had little brothers. Just like I had my little brothers.
 
My three younger brothers were the honorary pallbearers at Patty’s service. I remember the open casket was presented as a beautiful bedroom setting, full of stuffed toys and flowers, while the Brahma’s Lullaby played. The shock and sadness in the roomful of mourners penetrated as I sat with my Mother and older sister.
 
I was given one of Patty’s favorite stuffed little dogs.
 
Our Mother had been given a gift. She said she had sensed things at times that came to pass. It did.
 
During my twenties, I began to wonder if I had some kind of a special gift. At my Uncle’s funeral, a man’s voice began singing “the Old Rugged Cross.”
 
I remembered singing the song with my Mother. I remembered my Mother’s voice. As I recalled my Mother’s voice, I began to hear her. First it was a faint level, and then it became louder, and so loud in my head I found it unbearable. I opened my eyes and looked at family around me expecting them to hear it too. Silence. The room was quiet, listening to the man, the one voice giving his rendition.
 
The moment I thought “NO! Don’t let me hear!” it was gone.
 
Shocked, I knew I had heard my Mother’s voice. She was there with us, with me, letting me know the veil is very thin.
 
As my years have given more opportunities, I can see a purpose. I can identify my teachers. I know the invisible force giving guidance and protection during my journey. I do have much to write about, to share. For me, I had to live the majority of my life time to identify the miracles and the answers to my prayers.
 
As Louise Hay states in her motivational teaching, “I Trust the Process of Life.”

There must be some greater reason for each incident and I am finding this inner desire to share my scared spaces. Please bare with me as the spirit is moving me.

In the late nineties, an oil rig was placed five hundred feet from my home.
 
My neighbor across the road had a good view. She mentioned what she witnessed. From across the wide field between us, she could look out her window and see a ring of smoke circling my house. 
 
My home sat under the hill below the rig site. During the placement, the noise, smoke, and chemicals in the air were constant. My teenage son’s allergies were affected. It was frightening to wake in the middle of the night to my son coughing. Our home was full of smoke. The smoke irritating our eyes. It was hard to breath. First thought, our house was on fire! The loud noise confirmed, it was not our house.
 
I went to the man in charge. We were given an air conditioner to put in the window. The filter would clean the dirty air, I was told. It didn’t seem to work. After a few weeks, I was feeling mentally drained, very intimidated, and tired. I worked a full-time job. Friends at work knew what I was experiencing and saw the effects.
 
I had to trust those in charge. That their intentions were good and the best interest for the people in my community. I was also told, the fracking and placement would end in a few more weeks. 
 
After completion, there were times when a giant flame was visiable. It would shoot up into the sky from the site. I was ignorant, or to foggy brained to realize the connection to what might be happening to the air quality we were breathing.
 
In the next years, I began having unexplainable health issues.  “Foggy Brain,” anxieties, memory loss, depression, tired all the time, having difficulty making important decisions, allergies, a constant post-nasal-drip. I  just was not feeling right.  
 
Doctors seems baffled. My perfect blood pressure had gone from one-hundred and twenty-four over seventy two, to a high, one-hundred and sixty-eight over eighty-eight. They considered my age and a diagnosis of Menopause was given. I was placed on medications which seemed to add more issues. There was unexplainable weight gain and fatigue.
 
One very frightening memory is an unforgettable incident.  It occurred one morning in 2001. I woke very alarmed. My legs were like rubber. I couldn’t stand or walk straight. My head felt like a giant hang over. I hadn’t had any alcohol or drugs. Feeling fearful and in a state of panic, I struggled to shake it off. I had people counting on me. 
 
This was an important morning. I had just accepted a new position. I was responsible for a presentation representing my agency. I and my co-worker had spent weeks preparing for a community event.  Community leaders, teachers, local agencies and the new Director of our agency would be attending. It was very stressful trying to figure out what to do. I had to get a grip on whatever was happening to my body. Even if I was dying. I was committed to my job, the families, the children and people in my community. I pressed on in what felt like a life-threatening experience. 
 
I couldn’t call in sick and go to the emergency room. That didn't seem to be an option. The weird thinking, the stress and panic in the moment, add codependent behaviors, I neglected taking care of myself.
 
During the presentation I felt a shortness of breath and anxieties; but, I made it through the event feeling insecure and wired.
 
I made a visit to see a different doctor. Again, the doctor I visited was clueless. Her efforts to understand what I tried to share only seemed to confuse her. I was mis-diagnosed, again.
 
In the next years, several family trauma’s occurred. I wasn’t fully functioning. Bad decisions created more issues and problems. Haunting issues that would carry on for years.
 
An incident occurred at my place of employment. This was during a time when they knew I was trying to find what was “Wrong with me.”  Though I had followed protocol, they used it to their advantage. It was a traumatizing time to feel abandoned and abused by people I trusted. Harassment and intimidation was used to keep me off balanced.
 
As a result, I lost the job working in my communities with children and families. I loved my job of more than nine years. Working with others was more than just a job to me. I had made a difference in the lives of those I served.
 
I had to sell my home of eighteen years. I needed to start over in a new city at the age of fifty-two with a lot of fear and a lack of confidence. If not for my adult children, I would have been totally lost. I could barely function from feeling emotionally battered. 
 
Once in a bigger city, things gradually seemed to get better. I landed a good job. After a while, life was feeling good again. I was finding ways to feel happy and safe.
 
October 2011, I moved into a basement apartment of a co-worker's home. Right away I started to feel strange. I wondered if I was having a heart attack. I thought the physical activity of the move had been too much for my body. I was older now. The strain of going up and down stairs carrying boxes seemed to be more difficult than ever before.  
 
Something wasn’t right with me physically, again. I could feel it in my chest. I could feel my heart beating differently. My anxieties began to be an issue. Concerns at my work began to occur due to fear and anxieties. 
 
A co-worker noticed. My manager shared a comment made to her. Someone mentioned that I was acting weird. I knew I was and feeling weird. Luckily, we could talk openly.
 
Pain in my chest, anxieties, high blood pressure; I went to the medical clinic. EKG was run. Came back normal. Again, the young doctor was as baffled as I. He took extra care of me and showed real concern. 
 
When I mentioned that he reminded me of my military son; he said, "I'm military."

Turned out, he remembered my son’s name. He was in the same unit and had done the physicals on the latest group of guardsmen being deployed.
 
Another strange coincidence in my life experience, letting me know I was in the hands of a higher power. My thought, that is how I have learned to perceive strange coincidences.
 
I remember the young doctor’s concern and his patience in taking the time to just set and ponder with me. Again, the thought was to treat for allergies and see if that made any difference.
 
Four months later, I mentioned to a work associate, “I just don’t feel right.”  My wise friend, I had learned to trust said, “How close are you sleeping near the hot water tank?”
 
A light turned on. I was very close. I was having some of the same issues I had experienced ten years earlier at my home. Baffling, unexplainable mental and physical health issues that I nor my doctors could understand.

I asked the homeowner, if we could have the gas company come check for a gas leak.
 
A gas leak was found. The natural gas was turned off.
 
I came home from work to learn the young daughter had turned the gas back on. The next day, I was told that a friend had come and fixed the problem.
 
Two weeks later, when I entered the home, I smelt gas. I asked again to have the gas company come back. 
 
This second time, the real issue was found. The fireplace in the living room, had not  functioned properly. They were not using the fireplace. The reason it wasn’t functioning properly may have been due to the undiscovered gas leak. The fireplace was above the bedroom where I had been sleeping. Fumes had been penetrating downward. I had been breathing dangerous toxins.
 
My efforts to block the doorway to keep me safe from fumes from the hot water tank had been in vain.
 
This time the hose was completely removed from the fireplace, the valve turned off.
 
Recalling similar symptoms after the oil rig placement behind my home ten years earlier became very obvious. I could identify physical symptoms going on in my body.
 
The mystery finally solved ten years later, “What was wrong with me?”
 
A high rise in my blood pressure, heart beating differently, strange or different feeling in my chest, numbness of my face, headaches, sinus issues, body tremors, foggy brain, dizziness, short term memory loss, behavioral change (getting upset over little things, judgmental attitude), road rage, depression and high anxieties are among my experiences. Some of the strange behavioral changes were identifiable, over reacting a big concern.
 
The anxieties created havoc and worries affecting my relationships with others.
 
The memory loss I experienced often caused me to have feelings of terror. I would be driving. All of a sudden go into panic wondering, “Where am I?”  “Where am I going?”

This created a very strange feeling of fear.  I remember this occurring often after the oil rig had been placed behind my home and during exposure to natural gas poisoning.
 
After having experienced two identifiable leaks in my life time, chances of it happening again one would think unlikely. 
 
Another natural gas leak was experienced. I was exposed for three years before it was discovered. I realized the reason I had become depressed and was experiencing another behavioral change. This led to more heartbreak and poor decision making. I had placed myself in a situation where I was feeling intimidated. I realize now, feeling I was upsetting others, shut down my early concerns.
 
After the many exposures, I find my body more sensitive to fumes and chemical exposures of any kind.
I can recall several incidents that confirmed to me my sensitivities.  Trying to share with others often were only seen as my craziness.

The inversion during winter months, the gas run buses, getting gas at the pumps, gas stoves, spilled gas all have a physical effect on my brain and body. Like pouring gasoline over styrofoam, the styrofoam will melt. That is what my brain feels like. Other times, it may feel like my brain is swelling. Often this feeling was followed by the numbness. 
 
There is a positive education gained. I am thinking with more mental clarity, as I work at staying free from the toxins. At least, I do recognize good days.
 
During the time I was in a third home with a gas leak, I had been working with a counselor after recognizing a state of depression. After many visits and gaining a positive relationship I can now identify a change in her attitude  toward me. A look of concern that she gave me on the last appointments.  With winter, and cold days, I had kept the window closed in the basement bedroom.
 
The therapist recognized my brain processing was different. My thinking got stuck. She referred me to see a specialist known for brain reprograming.

It’s been over five years ago that this occurred, “the brain glitch” or my stuck thought patterns. 
My focus became trapped on specific negative subjects.

I can identify many incidents after exposures to toxins and the effects. 

Past trauma (PTSD) occurring during my childhood and teen years, added to insecure behaviors. Feelings of facing a world confused and alone distorted reality. No one seemed to understand what I was going through.
 
"Why would God do this to me again? Hadn't I been through enough?"

Why has it taken so long to put the pieces together? Why have I been given the opportunity to understand detailed importance? Is it because I am such a slow learner that I have repeated so many similar circumstances?

A light went on, God was giving me an answer prayer. 
 
My Father!  The understanding I had been hoping to find. The higher power gave me other greater understanding for my Father’s mental illness and his behaviors.
 
Not only did my Father come from a past of chemical exposures, but traumatic incidents as well. He was a machinist. His blackened fingernails and the smell of gasoline are strong memories. Answers to his mental illness, and learning more of the trauma he suffered as a child, I now understand. 
 
I had been living his blueprint for life. The home where we lived during his last years was heated by a gas furnace in our living room. During his early years, he had worked in the oil field.
 
I recall my Father being sensitive to caffeine. Like me to much and I can be up all night. My sensitivity to metals, I am unable to wear rings on my fingers for over a day or two without getting a rash.
 
People are different. Some can walk on fire or breath the bad air without noticeable damage. Others, may have problems and be more sensitive.
 
Awareness is my point. Doctors didn’t know what was wrong with me. I had to experience years of poor health and repeats to find answers.
 
In more recent years, I had an opportunity to speak with a community leader and past associate. When I shared how the oil rig had turned my life upside down; she quickly jumped to defend community choices. Her words,  “If one person has to suffer . . .that’s too bad . . .I want to drive my car . . . do you want to give up your car . . . it’s important for our local economy . . .  people need jobs . . . too bad if one person is affected . . .”
 
That must be the attitude of many.  I won't argue. I will just have hope for a higher intelligence to find a way to eliminate the sacrifices being made.
 
Every relationship important to me suffered. Major life decisions were made poorly due to being “under the influence” of toxic fumes. I don’t believe just one person suffered from my sensitivity.
 
When I hear of unexplainable horrific actions done by someone that shock family members and neighbors, I can't help but wonder if the perpetrator has a sensitivity and being exposed to a gas leak or toxins. Always my first thought for unexpected behavior. How many persons are in prison wondering “What was wrong with me?”  Violator struggling to understand their actions, who have lost their temper, or control. 

Who else is suffering a "Brain glitch?"
 
Why isn’t there more information available for people and more education available for doctors? I put a lot of efforts, time, energy and money trying to find “What was wrong with me?”

Studies continue to be done regarding health issues and the connection to our quality of air. 
 
I found during my online searches, many of the symptoms I had experienced along with those identified by others:-Sinus issues, -Skin rash, -Migraine headaches, -High blood pressure, -Behavioral change, odd behaviors, -Anxieties, -Foggy brain, -Chest pain, -Seizures, -Nauseous.
 
Pregnant women are warned cooking over gas stoves may have an effect their baby’s health. High cases of Autism have been connected to high levels of poor air quality is one claim I have heard.
 
I am not attempting to get on a political band wagon or create hostility. Due to my experience, I am attempting to make more awareness. By sharing the symptoms I have experience, I am in hopes it will help save someone else a lot of grief, time and money.
 
The coincidences in my life seem to repeat. There is a higher power clearly identifiable in my life experiences.  When I began to recognize the coincidences on my personal journey, more understanding came to light.
 
We, intelligent adult leaders, are capable of making a healthier world and making it better for our next generation. 
 
One story, I remember about my Father, was told by Russ, a good family friend. Russ and his wife went for a mountain drive with my Dad at the wheel. My Dad wanted to show Russ something. The large van went up the mountain side and over bumpy roads. When they reached a spot, my Dad parked. He looked at Russ. Russ described the strange look on my Dad’s face as he said, “How did I get here?”
 
Russ said it was like my Dad just woke up. He had no recall of the trip. No idea where he was or how he had gotten there. He lost memory, like he was in a state of “Sleep Walking.”
 
Russ said it was very scary to think of the journey they had just made on dangerous road conditions.
 
I believe,  my Father become highly sensitive to the chemicals, medications, fumes he had been exposed. This lead to odd thinking, abusive behaviors, and his suicide.
 
I am full of gratitude, that my prayer for understanding my Father has been made more clear to me.
 
I am grateful, God does answer our desires. Even if it takes a life time. God, higher power, Great Spirit, Grandfather, Jesus, Lord, whatever name fits one’s cultural or religious beliefs, I know prayers are answered by a great creator or entity. We are never alone.

​ You know that place between dream and awake. I love it there. I love to linger there in the stillness. It takes a bit of practice. I found that is a good place to start because that is where I have been given meaningful dreams and messages.
 
I had gone through a painful heartbreak. The co-dependent that I am, I let myself get caught in the middle of a triangle. The pain of keeping two men content and safe was ripping me apart. My feelings became entangled in torment trying to keep every one happy. Every but me and my own children.
 
I had just gone through a painful marriage and divorce. I had gotten entangled in a dear friend’s divorce. The relationship with him had turned into an on and off care taking experience.  I didn’t realize his deeper issues nor that he had developed a drinking problem.  The other came along as a want-to-be Knight in shining armor who wanted to save me. Co-dependents attract other co-dependents. It turned into a painful affair for all concerned.
 
When my Knight, came on strong with his desires. I can see now, how I felt bullied and very weak.  After six months of his attempts to pressure me into marriage wasn’t getting him anywhere, he hooked up with another. The sad part, he didn’t tell me. He wasn’t honest with me the last time he kissed me and held my hand. I read his intentions that night very wrong.
 
I ignorantly thought we were going to be together once his divorce was final. That we were waiting to make things right so others couldn’t judge us badly. As my counselor kept saying, "He’s divorcing his wife and had an affair. He needs time to deal with his grief, not rush into another relationship."
 
Feeling protective, I ignorantly didn’t tell her just how much time I had been spending with him, secretly. In our small community, I attempted to make him look good. I also wanted to give him time to date to make sure he really loved me like he claimed. True love would win out.
 
I was so focused on being mentally healthy and worthy of my worthy Knight I lost sight of reality. I took on feeling responsible to make him happy instead of following my first feelings or my counselor’s advice. I thought something wrong with me when I didn’t trust him. I was trying hard to make sure I did things right, making him look good in our small community.
 
I even didn’t listen to that little voice. I was confused by the warning, “He will be easily led away by a small helpless female.” 
 
Turned out to be true. There were three. The sweet, small sized divorcee had two daughters. They appeared to need their own Knight.
 
The grief and heartbreak brought denial. It couldn't be true. I was confused. Especially after what followed.
 
Once I accepted the truth, that after a few weeks of dating a new person, he had a new love.

I wanted to die. I went into a state of depression. I couldn’t or wouldn’t eat. Anorexic, state of mind, “The world would be better off without me.”
 
My children would be better off without me. I couldn’t suicide, not after my Father had left scares on me and my siblings. I couldn’t do that to my children. I would just stop eating. I lived on a little buttermilk to coat my stomach for the pain.
 
I got up and fixed meals for my sons still living at home. I spent most of my hours in bed. Weak and depressed.  
 
When my middle son came in and asked me if I wanted the last of the cassarole I had made, his concern became obvious. 
 
“I don’t want to eat it if you want it.” His frustrations and generous offer to give me what food was left hit me.  His concern for me stopped my spiraling thinking into darkness.  His desire for more food shocked me back into reality. I wasn’t present for my boys. 
 
I knew at that point that help was needed. For my kids, I had to get help.

I was to embarrassed and ashamed to admit to my counselor, she had been right.

I called a friend who lived close by. Kenny worked with energy and the Native American Medicine. 
 
Kenny and his son Chris came with Eagle Feathers. I was weak. I laid on my sofa as Kenny began to work his healing magic. 
 
It didn’t take long before I felt a heavy load lift out of my chest. The physical sensation was real.
 
Kenny said he saw a dark energy lift out of me and leave my house out the window above me, confirming what I had felt.
 
The following weeks, things began to get better. I continued my counseling sessions.

I began a journey of healing. The kindnesses of many special and gifted friends seemed to come along at the right times. Focusing on my personal gifts lead to more opportunities of healing.
 
That place between dream and awake opened new insights. There I was given a greater awareness. It became a big step in my healing process.

In the early morning hours, as I would wake I would feel my Knight’s arms around me.  I felt wrapped in total divine love. It was serene and peaceful in those moments feeling so much divine love. The love one can't put into word.
 
Next, as I was becoming more awake, the reality, my Knight was not with me. He was with someone else now, it was like a knife cutting through my heart.  I would feel the deep hurt, which followed with confusion and anger, “God, why would you let me feel this?”
 
Feeling the divine love and joy happened, again. I got hurt and angry again. This time the feeling of divine love that turned to angry and hate were stronger.
 
The third time, was the most important lesson. When it happened, I declared in my mind, “I am hanging onto the love” in my thoughts I kept repeating, "I am hanging onto the love” and I did.
 
Holding on to the feelings of divine love lead to another experience. It was like I had stepped into a new space of light as walls and barriers fell away as if the hard bricks of a solid wall had turned into quickly melting ice and evaporating.
 
Fighting against my pain had given the darkness and the anger more power. Accepting the gift of divine love was an important key to walking through the heavy pain in my heart.
 
The weeks ahead there were the difficult moments. Often, in our small town, I would feel my fallen Knight before I saw him. We had shared something special. Understanding why became a quest. I gained the feeling, “I need to see the ending of this story.”  Somehow, I knew, it wasn’t over yet. This awareness of something more to learn, helped me get through the depression and grief.
 
Strange remembering the first weeks that followed, when I did see my Knight in town, it wasn’t him I saw, I saw my Dad. I saw men's hands, hands all over me, touching me, tormenting flashes of memory surfaced. 
 
New friends and teachers seemed to appear on my journey to recovery. New opportunities began to open up for me. This single mom was ready to find her way to support her family, alone. Without the help of a man, it was impowering.
 
Kenny past away suddenly. The following years I continued time with his son, Chris and his Mother, Faye.
 
On one experience with Chris, he led me into a meditation, a powerful vision quest.
“Pretend you’re an Angel . . .  feel the wind on your face . . . you are flying in the air . . . “
 
It was real. I was an Angel soring over the Green River and Canyons below. The colors were fabulous. I was high in the blue sky, feeling the wind beneath my wings, hair blowing back off my face.
 
The light weight fabric of my turquoise gown seemed to glow. My wings were full and large going high above my head. They were fluffy white with brown flicks and very soft.
 
“Now stop and look to your right. What do you see?” In the distance I heard a faint voice.
 
In mid-flight I tried to look. As I tried to go into a standing position while looking to my right, I couldn’t see. My wings had wrapped around me. I fought them back with my arms and hands.  They were full and thick making them hard to manage. I missed seeing what might have been in view. By the time I had rustled with my wings, I was back in the room with Chris. 
 
Powerful experience, so powerful I was able to use the experience later at an important time.
 
Training to be a facilitator for the Challenge Course, or the Ropes Course was an exciting adventure for me. Once trained I would be working with youth groups. 
 
My first experience was as a participant on the course.  As a member of a Women’s Group, Survivors of Sexual Abuse; and later, as a children’s case manager giving children the opportunity to have the opportunity to build confidence.
 
I didn’t fully realize the full benefits of the challenge course until my training.  Opportunity to face fears and finding an avenue to over them is the purpose. One can learn more about themselves if they are brave enough to over come the fear of a challenge.
 
During “Lower elements” our group learned teem building activities. Usually activities are on the ground or in a large room. You have the opportunities to learn to trust the members in your group and the leaders in charge.  Feeling safe is important if one was to feel comfortable taking part in the more challenging activities ahead. 
 
“High Elements” are opportunity to overcome greater fears and build more self-confidents. Utility pokes or trees, ropes, nets, safety gear are required.
 
It is important that all instructors in the group understand the importance of recognizing reactions of participants. Changing emotions and stress can be seen on group members faces when having a difficult time.
 
It was the afternoon session in later part of the day. I had climbed the fifty-foot wall, with safety gear, ropes, harness and team help. Now it was time to come down. I felt physically exhausted.
 
Sitting on the edge of the platform, I went into panic. There’s no way. Looking down, I became petrified. The young leader at the top did her best to encourage me. I was ready to give up and go the easy way down when Annie gave it one last shot, “Pretend you’re an Angel.”
 
Annie said the magic words. That was all it took. “Angel.” I knew I was an Angel with wings. I had flown in the sky. I could do this.
 
So, I did. I dropped, just as Annie said. I went into the “helpless falling feeling.” Then, just as she said, “The rope will catch you. You will feel a big jerk.” It did. Next, I began to sore across the field under the zipline that carried me. 
 
It was an exhilarating feeling. I was so excited that I had done it. 
 
I wasn’t expecting what happened next.
 
Once safely in a circle with the rest of our team, we began to share our experiences. Each member took a turn.
 
When it was my turn, I could hardly make sense by putting my experience into words. The puzzling question I asked myself for years had come to light. My mystery was solved when I conquered my fear. I jumped. With the help of my Angel, I jumped to a new awareness, into my hidden reality. My brain trusted me with a blocked memory. My brain trusted that I was ready to handle the truth.
 
I remembered, “The last time I saw my Dad alive.”  Here I was in my mid-forties recalling the last time I saw my Dad. I was just fourteen when he commented suicide. I remember what had happened that early morning. The bits and pieces were now all coming together.
 
I was experiencing ecstasy. I remember. Next into grieving tears I had held tightly locked away. The joy and the agony of emotion switching, twisting and turning as my thoughts seemed out of control.
 
The experienced instructor, encouraged me to follow through with more counseling. He understood what was happening.  He recognized the reaction I was having recalling the blocked memory. 
 
What I hadn’t realized at the time, just how much had been stored away, another key was yet to be discovered.
 
The heavy guilt I carried, that kept me hooked into saving men. My thinking that I was on earth only to provide for the pleasures of others, protect others, save others. I could begin to identify, that my worth as a woman was based often on my sexuality.
 
“Women who are eroticized as a child grow up giving off sexual messages unknowingly.”
Often attracting unwanted attentions; or something along that line,  a counselor once shared.
 
It wasn’t true.
 
Now, I can pin point the men in my life, I was attracted to who appreciated me for more than just my body.  
 
One purpose of sharing my trauma’s is to share awareness of the many modalities for healing. Many teachers are available to offer guidance.
 
Professionals know and understand better today behavioral issues and patterns.
 
Our Mental Health is a big issue during the pandemic.
 
With the pandemic, more people our home. If there our damaging gases, fumes, poison in our homes, all people need to be made aware of the effect it could be having on their mental thinking and behaviors. I have experienced effects of gas leaks and outcomes from breathing toxins. Physical and mental health are put at jeopardy.
 
The reason for sharing my experiences is to give hope and open possibilities. We are all able to connect with our inner self. We just need to make time to go with in, and listen. Again, there are so many teachers who have gone before us. Years of research and history are making mental health questions easier to find answers for behaviors.
 
I wish to give hope and knowledge we are a part of a greater plan. So, just relax and enjoy the ride. Choose love over fear. No matter how bad it looks, there is hope and peace if you look for it.
  

​ 
I didn’t remember the whole truth about what happened on, October 22, 1963, only pieces. More came to light when I was in my forties and now as I reach my seventies.
 
This time when reliving the day of my Father’s suicide, did I see blame? Is that when I took on the heavy guilt and shame. Is that the moment my brain began to self-protect and block what happened? 
 
The reflection I saw in my Mother’s eyes, what message did I see? 
 
I now know that was the moment I choose to forget the last time I saw my Dad alive.
 
I don’t think she would blame me, but something deep inside me changed in that quick instant. I perceived within myself, it was my fault. Wither or not she felt it, I did. I killed my Father because I was angry. I had said “No” and made other hateful remarks.
 
Every once in a while, reflecting upon that day, another question arises, could my Mother have shot my Dad? Torment, was I behind the pain my family members were suffering.
 
The haunting question, murder or suicide? Any woman might have been brought to a point of murdering her husband. Especially after the incident that occurred in the early morning.
 
I keep reviewing, what I asked my Mom. About what happened that morning. My Father’s last moments in our house.  The statement to the newspaper by law-enforcement, I have read many times.
 
New deeply hidden reasons for feeling shaming guilt begins to surface. Each time I reflect on that day new understanding comes to light. Nearly sixty years of shaming hidden guilt does something to a person. You can't let go of what you don't remember.
 
I find myself in awe and wonderment. The power of the human brain, my brain to conveniently forget, but was I really being protected?
 
Studies continually show what happens during a traumatic experience. The brain is capable of guarding the dark unbearable facts stored in blocked memories. The protective shield can stay in place for decades. I am proof.
 
Over and over again in my mind, shaming images are reflections of the lost reality. I remember my Mother’s sincere explanation of her experience. I believed her. I still believe her experience as she told it to me. No one could come from the depts of her emotion without living the experience. I felt her pain in the soft wounded voice as she shared what happened that morning. After my brothers and I left the house.  The quiet must have been chilling as busy children closed the door, after I had erupted with my verbal anguish.
 
“You kids left for school. I was in the kitchen doing dishes when I heard a strange ‘ping’ sound. I went to see what it might be. I opened the bedroom door. He was on the floor, curled up, holding his stomach.” 
 
I said, ‘Buster, what have you done?’
 
“He said, ‘I shot myself Mama.’”
 
That had to be true. My Father always called her “Mama.”
 
Recent conversations with my siblings find me still putting feelings and pieces together.
 
My mother ran across the street to get help. The neighbor was a policeman who took charge. The ambulance came. Other police came.

My Mother carried the picture from the newspaper in her purse. It was there the day she died, three year later. There it remains today.  It shows my Father being loaded into the ambulance by the EMTs. The statement under the picture,  “His wound was self-inflected.”
 
Haunting memories reoccurring over and over each time an incident connects a slight recall. A big one for my siblings and I, is mentions of the death of JFK. The assassination happened one month after my Dad’s death; so many triggers bring memories. Memories that have given me opportunity to reflect.
 
Each episode gives more clarity.  Strange, but I am experiencing an unexplainable ecstasy after remembering the incident correctly. After the recall of each detail and after dealing with the emotions, I can breathe again. It brings a new discovery leading me to a new sense of peace.

Like putting a puzzle together, find the right piece. The right piece leads to others. All seem to fall into place more easily. The picture leads to a new awareness. The understanding and memories begin to show a bigger picture of the true reality I had forgotten. The reality where mixed messages created my personality or way of thinking. I can identify the fantasy world I had created to exist.
 
Adding to lost memories, more confusion was created. During my twenties, I was reminded of the old gossip.  It came from my Father’s family.  

A visit with my Aunt Adelaide,  “Some of the family think your Mother shot your Dad.”
 
In more recent years, the thought came up again. When visiting with a younger cousin we talked about our family's interesting dynamics. She told me that our Grandmother, my Father’s Mother, had told her, “Your Aunt Saidee shot your Uncle Buster.” 

One would have to know my Grandmother's troubled and very interesting life challenges to understand her thinking.
 
I didn't know at the time, I hadn’t fully dealt with the guilt carried for my Father’s suicide. Now, another puzzling issue surfaced again.
 
“My Mother a murderer because of me?” created more complex confusion. 

The truth of my Father’s mental Illness, awareness of my Mother’s depressed state of mind, understanding of the fourteen-year-old girl placed in horrific circumstances needed to be addressed. Counseling over many years had only touched the surface.
 
Had my Mother reached a breaking point?  Could the abuse she and our family endured finally changed her sweet and gentle nature?
 
Now, I remember it all with more clarity from the moment I woke until the moment I saw “the look” in my Mother’s eyes. She knew. I knew she knew what had happened that morning. It was reflecting back at me.
 
I woke in panic. I could not breath. The pressure on my nose and mouth, hindering my breath intake. I woke fighting for air.  It was fight or flight mode. I was experiencing a life- threatening panic. 
 
As I became aware I fought to turn my face to get my life saving breath. When I realized it was him, I became outraged?
 
I began to hit, fight and scream, “I hate it when you kiss me like that . . .!”
 
My words did not end. They must have cut like a knife; because, I recognized the power and control I gained using them. The acknowledgment of the power I felt lead me to shout out more word of disgust. Hateful words, cutting words I had harbored from other times he made me feel icky and uncomfortable.
 
 I watched my Father back against the wall of my bedroom a strange look in his eyes. Like a wounded animal. I don’t remember ever seeing that look before. After the rejection and chastising he left my bedroom, slowly, his back against the door opening. His eyes finally stopped staring at me with that puzzled woundedl look.
 
My anger continued as I got ready for school. I went to the kitchen venting my anger. I did not hold back my disgust. My mother spoke only gentle words necessary to get me and my younger brothers out the door. To my brothers and I, life went on as usual. 
 
When we returned from school, some strange energy filled our home. The minister was setting in the corner of the dining room on the phone. 
 
“Where’s Dad one of us asked” another said, “Is Dad back in the hospital?” “Has he gone camping?” Not sure which of us said it but we all felt it, “Oh boy, Dad’s gone.”
 
Our Mother’s face saddened even deeper with each comment being made. We knew she understood the joy and relief we felt; but, I recognized a pain in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before. Something wasn’t right. I remember an aching feeling beginning.
 
The minister got off the phone. Elder Roper was well known to us. Along with regular church services and events, we had been to his home for group dinners. 
 
Elder Roper gathered us to the living room, he was muttering words that were hard to follow. Seemed we were getting a personalized sermon. I was on the brink of bordom until I heard, “We don’t always understand why people do . . ..” 
 
I felt my eyes filling up. There was a heaviness building in my chest. I couldn’t hold back the choking sounds trying not to cry. I looked to my Mother sitting across from me in the room. 
 
What did I see in her eyes beyond the pain?
 
I recognized the grief she set aside. She quickly looked down to my youngest brother who was beginning to weep more deeply.
 
What else did I perceive in that piece of a second that our eyes met? I not only saw her pain. I saw the reality of what had occurred early that morning. 
 
Now in my seventies, I had a moment of remembering looking into my Mother’s clear blue wet eyes. 
 
As I recalled the memory of the morning, and of the afternoon, when I learned my Father had committed suicide, as I recall the moment my Mother’s and my eyes connected, I recognize I saw the guilt and shame. She knew in that moment, I knew in that moment, my Father had committed suicide because of me. That is what I felt. That was the message in my thought. “What did you do Maxine. It’s because of you.”
 
In that instant, not confronting the issues that had occurred earlier in the morning, I took on a self-made conclusion. I was to blame. The mystery of why I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my Dad alive was now fully solved. Nearly sixty years later, finally, I remember.

My first recognition of the last time I saw my Dad was in my forties. That had taken a challenge course to gain. Jumping off a fifty foot wall brought the joy of remembering and the experiencing of hidden grief. The picture still hadn't been complete.

​Nothing was ever said about the incident that occured in the early morning hours. Nothing about what he had done to me or a conversation about the anger I had felt when I left for school.
 
The doctors who attended my Father at the hospital told my Mother that he was having a mental break down. His state of mind caused him to be dangerous. We were lucky he didn’t take all of us with him. 
 
Now I wonder, did I push him into that state of mind or was he already on his way when he came into my room that morning? The root to what caused his mental illness has been another quest.

​To gain understanding of his life’s traumas has made life easier for me to find the answers that has led to forgiveness.  For myself and others, we are in this together.

​If I could go back in time, the first place I would go and change my Mother’s life.
If I couldn’t go back to her first marriage, I would go to the time she was close to leaving my Father, after he beat her.
 
If not that far back, back to my first marriage and fixed it or have gotten out sooner, or not marry the young alcoholic.
 
Fun to imagine the changes that might have occurred, if. Hey, why not go back to when my Father’s issues started. I am just dreaming now. 
 
Hard to know if life would really have served its purpose for us “if” changing events were possible.
 
After all, a great part of this life, for me, has been experiencing the wonders of emotions. Without the heartbreak, I may have never felt the joy. I began to recognize my patterns. The times when I felt bored. At those times, it seems that something always occurred to make life interesting or challenging.
 
A new opportunity for learning would come along. Sometimes, I would experience intervention from the unseen world. I would hear a voice.
 
This is my truth to leading to more awakening as years passed. 
 
My desire is not to look back at my past to feel sorry for myself or make excuses. It’s the opposite, to understand the wonder of many miracles. Finding my understanding gives me more acceptance and compassion for myself, and for others as well.
 
Like my neighbor who shot our dog, forgiveness and understanding was important. Right, if I was to be a good person. How was I going to be able to forgive?
 
I had come home for lunch. I let our two dogs out of the house. Della was a small, mix, white fluffy, black eyes and nose. Wicka looked like a Red Irish Sitter, though she most likely was a mix also. They had both been dropped off in our neighborhood. 
 
My three sons seemed to find the stray cats and dogs. They also found ways to convince or trick me into keeping a few. 
 
Della and Wicka were special. I was finally getting around to liking dogs. Actually, feeling love for the comforting critters. I had just gone through a heartbreak. I found them very healing.
 
Going home for lunch, gave me a chance to visit with Della and Wicka, make sure things were safe at home. I found the quietness peaceful as I got out of my car on what seemed to be a cool but sunny, nice day in our neighborhood. 
 
No one was in view. I felt very alone.
 
Opening my backdoor, our pets greeted me with their excitement. Ready for their outside break. 
 
Within minutes, Wicka and Della were back. I had heard a yelp.  Something was wrong as they ran as fast as they could back inside. The dogs stood in the living room looking at me. 
 
“What wrong?” as if they were going to answer me.
 
Della looked puzzled looking from me to Wicka. Wicka, after standing a moment staring at me, felt over.
 
I went to check her and found she had a hole in her side. It was draining liquid. It was a dark, coming out of a blackish spot. 
 
I looked outside and saw nothing. I called police. I called Roger, my neighbor to my left, to let them know to watch out for their dogs.
 
No one seemed to know anything.
 
A friend helped me get Wicka to the vet. Her wound was fatal. I had to make a choice. Try to save her, she would be a vegetable or diabetic and costly or put her down. “Vegetable” I had a memory somewhere, oh yes, my Dad.
 
The bullet used, had been shaved to do the most damage possible.
 
My next fear was how to tell my sons.
 
I mentioned the incident a week or so later, to another neighbor on my right. I heard back that, Roger, the 1stneighbor whom I had called to give warning, was the one who had shot Wicka.
 
Roger had been bragging how he had shot our dog. 
 
When the police went to talk to him about it, Roger claimed that Wicka had chased his calf, against the fence and causing the calf to suffer a gash.
 
Reasoning, knowing Roger, the way I did, he would have expected money for damages, if his calf had suffered. He would have come and let me know about it. 
 
The time frame, the minutes didn’t add up. Nothing was in view across the street when I arrived at my house, or after the dogs returned. The area where the calf and Roger with his riffle would have been didn’t make any sense.
 
My sons and daughter were working a couple of hours away at a Lodge. When Friday night came, I went up to share the sad news. 
 
I planned to stay the night. 
 
After dinner I walked the trail to their living quarters. 
 
Beside me, in ghostly form, I saw Wicka. Strangest feeling. She was walking along beside me, just like in the movies. She was with me. I could see through the veil to the other side. A couple of blinks and she was gone.
 
The next morning, I woke to her bark. Wicka, I could feel her love a devotion. But, that wasn’t the best part of the story, the gift Wicka truly gave me.
 
The days that followed I was growing angrier. I thought of the time I gave money to Roger. I had let my son stay over with their son. The boys were friends.  My son got involved with their family.  One Christmas they played a family game, of gifts for Mom. I had always tried to be supportive to their large family. 
 
“Why would Roger do what he did to my family? How could he justify his action?” It felt a betrayal from someone I had trusted.
 
One night my oldest son came to visit. I began to vent. Now I was beyond the grief and shifting into total rage and revenge over the pain Roger had inflected on me and mine.
 
My Dane silently listened for a while. He was in a totally different place than I had allowed myself to go. He finally said the magic words, “Mom, Roger’s forgotten who he is . . ..”
 
With that Spirit spoke to me, I heard, “Send love and he will only gain a reflection of himself.”
 
The words the feeling made it possible for me to shift.
 
Forgiveness became easy. The knowing of a greater purpose became clear. I just needed to remember what felt right. I needed to get back to the true me.
 
The years that have followed, I still reflect upon the greatest reminder:
 
“Send Love, and he will only gain a reflection of himself.”
 
Or some might understand it better with a message from the Bible:
 
“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” 
 

My visit with the chiropractor took an unusual twist the summer of 2009. Without knowing my whole journey, who else could believe what occurred? 
 
The powerful truth, that someone from the unseen world was, or is able to reach my thoughts and have an effect on my behaviors. Guiding me through life's maze of events.
 
Confirmation came in an undeniable way. A simple trip to visit with the family chiropractor opened new possibilities.
 
As Dr. White and I were getting to know each other, I learned we shared a painful life experience.
 
His father's recent suicide had left an open wound for him and reopened an old wound for me. He couldn't say much, but the little he shared made it clear, his grieving would be a long process. It had been over forty years of painful confusion for me.
 
As I attempted to return empathy, I felt at a loss.
 
Leaving his office, I felt physically improvement, yet, I was very frustrated that I couldn't offer more emotional help to him. I couldn’t find the right words.
 
It was a hot summer day. I needed to return back to my office job. I needed refreshments before I jumped on the interstate for the forty-minute drive.
 
Hungry and thirsty, I stopped at a little store and grabbed a sandwich.  I was hoping to find a park, some place cool to eat, relax and ponder feelings.  
 
Traffic was making my goal difficult in the unfamiliar area.  
 
I came to the first busy street. I ended up in the wrong lane. I had to stay in the right lane.  The traffic forced me onward. I was becoming frustrated. It seemed that I was traveling further away from the small town, away from where I should be.
 
Due to the fast-moving heavy flow of traffic, I had to keep going. It seemed I missed every possible opportunity to change my direction. Finally, I noticed a cemetery ahead. I notice a memorial wall for Veterans. There were trees, that meant shade. 
 
All of a sudden, the traffic cleared. I could change into the left lane. Next, I was able to move into a left turning lane. Feeling a great relief, I pulled into the cemetery entrance. I found myself on the large main road.   Looking ahead, I could see several side roads branching off to the right.  I passed a couple roads focusing on a beautiful shaped, tall fir tree. “Aw Shade.”
 
Turning onto the smaller dirt road, I parked under the giant size fir tree giving lots of shade and turned off my engine.  Comfortable with my find, I reached for my drink. That is when things got interesting.
 
“Pull up to the next tree.”  A sudden strong urge was clear.
“No, this one has more shade.” I reasoned back at myself.
“Pull up to the next tree.” A strong sense of urgency was building. 
“Why was I creating all this tension for myself?”
 
It became clear I had to follow this prompting if I was ever going to eat my sandwich.  I turned the key and moved to the next tree. 
 
Once under the smaller tree, I felt bewildered with myself. I realized the lack of shade in comparison to what I had just left.
 
Logically, I knew the other tree offered much more shade. “Why did I move? Why was I arguing with myself?”
 
My bewilderment left as I looked out the right passenger window of my car.  There on the large headstone in large letters was the name of my Chiropractor. 
 
"Drury Lee White," read like a neon sign. (Fictitious Name.)
 
The new grave site of the senior, Drury Lee White. The father of my chiropractor, who had taken his life.  
 
My eyes locked on the headstone. Shock! I stared in amazement.
 
The realization of how I had been led, guided, manipulated to be right where I was in that moment could be felt throughout every cell in my body. Chilling, surreal experience became a new awakening.
 
I reflected on the familiar prompting and feeling. I realized, this had not been the first time I had been guided or lead or heard voices in my head. 
 
I knew some unseen energy had been with me all of my physical life time. This was the beginning of a new awareness, an awakening to many answers. 
 
Now, I was open to new possibilities for learning and new understanding. 
 
Gratitude for the gift to know I wasn’t alone. Gratitude for the reminder, I am never alone.