About A Reluctant Scribe

I grew up in a family where the supernatural was, well…natural.

I suppose it’s hardly surprising given my gene pool.  I come from a long line of psychics.  My Irish grandmother read tea leaves.  My mother and aunt, Tarot cards and crystal balls.  In fact, there’s very little in the way of supernatural phenomena that I missed in my formative years.  Psychometry?  Check.  Astrology?  Check. Mediums? Check. Numerology?  Check.  Palm reading?  Check. Reincarnation?  Check.  Tarot?  Crystals? Check. Check.  Ironically, my father was a rational, patent holding scientist, who understandably struggled somewhat with my mother’s rather unconventional interests.  As a product of both spheres of influence, I’ve spent my life seeking a bridge between the two. Throw Catholicism into the mix and it’s no wonder I am fascinated by what lies behind the veil separating this world where truths can be tested and verified by our five physical senses, and the world beyond what our physical senses are capable of perceiving.

For some people the limits of the truths that can be quantified by the means available to this physical world is where it ends for them.  They are content.  They find safety in the surety and certainty that this life is all there is, that there is no need to reach for more.  They have managed to convince themselves that there is nothing more to reach for.  They have even managed to convince themselves that God is a myth…that we are all simply the product of some fantastic, cosmic, random accident. God bless them.

So for those who grew up without the benefit of the supernatural world being an everyday topic of discussion and teaching, this site is devoted to the search for understanding what lies beyond the veil of this physical life…of the search for God…of the search for our eternal souls and what’s next.  Why are we here? What meaning can be found in all of our strivings, in our joys and in our sufferings?

I didn’t set out to share my personal search for God with whoever happened to come across the evidence of it contained within these pages.  To me one’s relationship with the Almighty is a very personal and intimate one and is meant to remain so.

I spend a lot of time talking to God.  Most of the time He talks back.  After all, prayer is not meant to be a one-way dialogue.  It involves conversation, give and take, stretching the limits of one’s understanding and with His help, bridging the gap between what was, what is and what can be.  In fact, God and I have pretty much been involved in an ongoing conversation since I stopped doing most of the talking in His presence and began listening once in a while. Mostly our conversations are about everyday stuff, but every once in a while what He shares with me is so beautiful and so profound, I would catch myself thinking that I should really write it down.

Have you ever had the experience when you accidentally volunteered for a job and afterwards you weren’t really sure how you ended up with it? That’s what happened to me. In the midst of one of our daily chats God must have eavesdropped on my random thought about someone writing our conversations down.  Next thing I knew He was thanking me for volunteering.

To my way of thinking He sort of pulled a fast one on me, but when God makes a request, even if it’s framed in the most polite, unobjectionable way imaginable, it still feels like an order. Besides, I figured I was getting off easy. Look what happened to the martyrs.

So here I am at my keyboard dutifully following orders. We have a deal of sorts. I write what He inspires roughly half the year. The rest of the time I get to write what I want, or not write anything at all, which if you follow along, you will notice occurs with some regularity.

If you are a fellow seeker…welcome.  If you’re just bored and curious, and ended up here as a result of a random, cosmic accident….well you’re welcome too, but you better watch out. God has a way of catching even the most cynical souls unawares, especially when they’re least expecting it.  Did you ever ask a priest when he was a child what he wanted to be when he grew up?  Most of the time the answer isn’t that he always dreamed of being a priest.  More often than you’d expect, he wasn’t even Catholic.  It’s always fun to find out how they ended up in priestly vestments. And makes you realize  God enjoys his little jokes now and then at our expense.

Blessed Be…


If you’d like a preview of the site, following is the post that seems to give rise to the most comments from readers:

A Voice Re-Awakened…

I always dreamed of being a writer.  It seemed like the perfect career choice.  Sell millions of books and make millions of dollars working whenever and wherever I wanted, doing exactly what I loved.  It was a simple plan.  I would control my own destiny and not have to worry about the rat race, childcare, or anyone else’s demands or deadlines but my own.  It was a wonderful fantasy, but like so many of life’s most wonderful daydreams, the real world has a way of intruding upon dreams and stamping them out.  Still I didn’t give up without a fight.  But after a few serious attempts and several dozen rejection letters my dream of becoming a best-selling author was slowly dying. The closest I came to a successful beginning was a request for the completed manuscript from a publisher, who unfortunately by the time I responded to the editor’s request, had merged with another, larger publishing house.  I’m not sure why that was the final straw for me.  Looking back it seems like an odd time to abandon my dream, just when I finally had reason to hope. Perhaps I was already feeling the pressure of my other life, the one that existed beyond the voices in my imagination.  For whatever reason, it was shortly after that experience I packed away my dream of becoming a best-selling author and decided I better find out what awaited me out in the real world.  Some dreams die with a bang.  Others with a whimper.  Mine resembled the latter.

So I got on with the business of life.  I started a career, got married, had children and assumed my writing days were behind me.  Years passed and old dreams, never completely silenced, beckoned once again. This time I resisted.  I was too busy.  I was in the midst of a challenging career, busy with guiding the little minds and bodies my husband and I brought into this world into competent adulthood, caring for an aging parent.  There was no time to indulge in daydreams again.  Later.  I would have more time later to play, but then I was consumed with work. Real work.  The gritty kind of getting up each morning, getting kids off to school, working all day, carpools at night, off to soccer, softball, lacrosse games and finally to the assisted living facility on the weekends.  Not only was I working, I was exhausted.  Too exhausted to even think of writing again.

The urge became stronger.  I ignored it.  When I could squeeze in a few hours for myself I indulged in my other passion…reading.  It was about then I discovered Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series.  I was introduced to the series so late I was able to read all four books within a few weeks without having to wait for the release date of each subsequent title.  I remember reading her response to an interview question about how she came up with the idea for the story and she replied something along the lines of Bella and Edward being these voices in her head who would never shut up. I suspected putting their story down on paper was her way of exorcising the voices from her head.

I could relate to her predicament, and was relieved to discover someone else shared my own.  The voice in my head was getting louder too. So far I was successfully ignoring it but it wasn’t going away, and knowing my mother (dearly departed by this point) it wasn’t going to go away.

I wasn’t particularly alarmed by the constant nagging.  Given my somewhat unusual family background, hearing voices was to be expected. I was raised in a family of psychics, though only on my mother’s side. I was always the practical one.  I had a job, a husband, three kids and a mortgage.  I dabbled in but never fully embraced the woo-woo stuff.

But after the deaths of my mother, grandmother, aunt and older cousins I became increasingly aware I was the only one left to carry on the family tradition.  I guess they figured that out earlier than I did.  Hence the nagging.  Some might refer to it as haunting, but they would be the innocent ones.  Those who are firmly convinced life ends at death and there’s a definitive line between the two.  The here and the here-after and rarely shall the two versions of the here’s intersect.

No surprise I finally succumbed to the pressure.  My mother rarely asked me for anything, even in life.  She’d pretty much left me alone to find my own way once she was gone, so it would have been petty of me to refuse her request.  I just didn’t know where to start.  We were not talking about years of accumulated, hard-won knowledge, but life-times’ worth, generation upon generation, passed down mother to daughter, so much lost already along the way.  I felt like one of those monks in the dark ages, tasked with the job of keeping alive the wisdom of the ancient world in a time when the light of knowledge was rapidly fading into a gathering darkness.

My own assignment was not on so grand a scale, but it would be a terrible loss to just let my ancestors’ lives of work drift away into obscurity.  An obscurity that would take life-times to recover from, to once again painstakingly gather and preserve for future generations.  I didn’t want to be the weak link in the chain.  I didn’t want to be the one to break, not under the pressures they faced, but because I simply couldn’t be bothered.

So what was passed to me in secret, in years of conversations, in study and practice, I would write down and in doing so serve twin purposes…performing this service for the women who gave me so much, for the woman who gave me life, and for myself, to unlock the box I stuffed my dreams into so many years ago.  I would write.  I would preserve.  I would give voice to my dreams and provide a voice for those whose voices have been silenced … at least to this world.


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