The Reluctant Medium

Growing up, and even into my early adulthood, I don't ever remember asking myself, "Why am I here? What's my purpose? What's the meaning of Life?". Just never really came up for me. I've never been a dreamer. I never had aspirations. Just never has been my nature. I didn't dream of my wedding day like most little girls. Or a big fancy house to live in. Or what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was asked the question, I'm sure, when I was 7 years old or thereabouts, and probably gave a placating answer with a cute 7 year old smile. But things just are how they are for me. At least that's how it always was. Now I'm starting to wonder.

I feel like I made it through some obstacles and came out standing up and holding on to my belief structure, or lack there of, really. I come from a family densely populated with Christians. Every corner you look in, you'll find them. And not even the hypocritical Easter once a year variety. I'm talking the every Sunday No-Matter-What kind of Christians.

As a free-thinking adult, I am quite grateful to my mother for not forcing the religion down my throat. I was allowed to pick where and when I went to church. I never felt forced. If you ask my momma though, she'll say she "failed me" in that regard, which makes me sad because it's one of the things I'm so appreciative of. So, throughout my adolescence I did attend a Methodist church (I am now a recovering Methodist). I'm looking around and everyone else seemed to be getting something I just wasn't getting. I'm a determined person, so if there was a bible study, I was there. If there was a choir to sing in, I was there. If there was a mission trip to take, yup, I was there. After a while, I felt like I had as much information as I needed to gather. Then I looked around and just thought,

"Really? You people are buying this?".

And that was pretty much the end of that. I just don't buy it. Believe what you want to believe. Really. It's fine with me. I encourage you to find your own personal truth. I'm not a real faith-based gal. I need some tangible proof, folks. Some man on a pulpit reading me things from the perspective of some other man I have no connection with didn't sit well with me. He's telling me I just have to take his word for it and it won't be proven until I'm dead? I personally believe that the reason a lot of the ghosts hanging around are doing so because they believed in the judgment they would face at the time of their death and are simply scared to death (pardon the pun) to continue on their journey. It never sounded like something I wanted to do.

Like I said, that was pretty much the end of that for me.

The point is, I didn't cave. I was strong enough to make the decision based on the information provided to me and stand by it. There has to be purpose for that, right? Otherwise, I'd be sitting in a pew with my Nanny on Sundays. Nothing would make her happier. But I feel like that is not included in my purpose. I have other things to do with my spiritual energies.

Then I look back over the past few years and I notice that things seemed to fall into place for me to accept and develop this ability. I moved into a haunted house, possibly, the most haunted house ever. Seriously, it's crazy over here. (I'll be telling you some more about that later on). I began to meet some like-minded, or at least open-minded people that allowed me to open up about this little by little. My son came along and became the "why" that tipped the scales. The pieces just fell into place in a way that the Universe might as well have been screaming directions/suggestions/intentions at me at the top of her lungs. I guess I'm dense. I'm on the right road now though. Got it, Universe! Got it.

There must be a purpose, right?

Now the questions come...

Why am I here?

Why can I do the things I can do?

Why this place? This time? These people?

And as time goes on, I keep running into other little side abilities I have (another story for another time...it's coming...I promise). Every time I bump into one of those additional abilities, it just creates more questions. This cannot be a random thing. I do not believe in a god, but I do believe in a spirit and a soul and things most people cannot see. I can see them. It's all the proof I need.

What am I supposed to do with this?

What is my purpose?

That's the question I'm determined to answer. It may take the rest of my life, but I'm pretty tenacious. Stick with me on my journey. There's always room for one more. Maybe we can help each other along the way.

You must remember at the period of time I'm recounting here, I am still uncomfortable and mostly just plain scared of whatever ability it is that I have here. That kept in mind, I'll tell you a little more about the way that I experience New Orleans.

It's pretty common knowledge that New Orleans is known for being a mystical and extremely haunted place. The energy there is like no where else I've ever been.

On another trip there, we stayed at the Place D'Armes hotel. Lovely and affordable place where would could walk around the corner to Bourbon Street and see Jackson Square from our balcony (or was it a gallery...?). Perfect location. We got off an exhausting air travel experience tired, hungry and ready to shower, but the universe had other plans for us. At first I was angry, but soon saw the purpose. We had reserved a room on the second floor or the three story hotel, but were told our room was unavailable and they were preparing us a room on the first floor. They held our luggage and recommended we walk around and get something to eat in the mean time. I was not thrilled about wandering aimlessly tired and smelly from travel, but we had to do what we had to do. An hour or so later, we were once again apologized to, promised a different room now on the third floor, and turned away for another hour or two while our room was being prepared. They were very pleasant and monetarily made it up to us, but I was tired and wanted a shower. We wandered a bit down the halls of the first floor while waiting. I remember telling him that something tragic had happened in this building. The energy was sad and thick. I was hoping the entire building was not this way! Finally, we did get our room on the third floor. We found it odd, though, that the elevator doors would open at the second floor every time we went up or down. At least, every time I was on board it did. Later on, we found out I was the necessary component for the elevator doors to open at the second floor spontaneously. There was never anyone there waiting to get on. It was pretty confounding. Until....(drumroll, please) yes, again, a Haunted History Tour. We learned that our hotel was a site of a large fire (which in New Orleans, seems like every building was the site of The Great Fire). The building used to be a boarding school for boys and they all slept on the second floor. They say that when a sensitive person is on the elevator, the doors will open at the second floor as they are still trying to escape the inferno. Ugh!

I am grateful that I did not have to lodge on the first, and especially not the second floor of the hotel. The third floor was relatively calm and in retrospect, the hassle was worth what I didn't have to endure on either of the other floors for a week long stay.

On another night of walking the city streets, we passed an alley. Not uncommon. Ton of them there in between the buildings. But this one in particular made me almost cross the street to avoid it. I could not believe the intensity that this one area held and transferred to me. It was nauseating and my heart was racing. I felt like I needed to run away, and fast. But logically, there was no reason to run or even cross the street. So trying to avoid the crazy, I simply moved as far away from the alley as I could, and still remain on the sidewalk, as we walked past it. And on another Tour, we were headed toward the same alley. Oh, no. Here we go. We found out that this particular alley was used to store the new shipments of slaves brought in to the harbor. This was not a comfy storage, though. They were shackled to large iron rings and stacked on top of each other several stories high. They were left there, dead or alive, for days, even weeks. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like, but I did feel the residual energy and it was horrendous.

I would love to go back to New Orleans in the frame of mind I'm in now. With my level of acceptance, willingness and fearlessness in hand. It could be an entirely different experience. One thing I'm certain of though, is that is will still feel like home.

Life went on and I kept the majority of my experiences to myself. In retrospect, it is odd that I never considered that maybe I was going crazy or had some sort of mental illness. I just knew that what I was experiencing was real, and that most people just didn't (and don't) understand it. Although, I dare say most crazy people don't know they're crazy, right? So what's the difference....

I'd say the next huge mile marker in my acceptance was my first trip to New Orleans. I went in late October (btw, if you haven't been in New Orleans around Halloween, it's a must!) with my, then boyfriend/now husband. I had told him of experiences and he placated me, smiled and nodded and secretly just accepted that it was a crazy quirk about me that he would either accept and/or overlook. This particular trip, however, was the first time I saw the glimmer of maybe-she's-not-completely-crazy in his eyes.

I've been to New Orleans a few times now, and it feels like home to me. The connection is intense and deep. But there are some places, because of the energies attached, that I just simply cannot go. The first time we went, I was newly pregnant for the first time. A few places we'd walk into to eat or just hang out, I would demand to leave, and he was generally annoyed by it. I usually blamed it on a smell or something making me nauseous due to the pregnancy, but most often it was due to a horrible feeling I had about the place itself. I was trying to cut back on the crazy, and the pregnancy was a good excuse.

The light bulb moment for him regarding my skill is forever etched in my memory. We were on a several hour Haunted History walking tour. (My recommendation: When in New Orleans, take every tour you can, they are all amazing). Anyway, about half-way through the tour, we stopped at a pub for a 30 minute break and a drink. No stories were recounted about this location, just a half-way point. Of course, in my condition, I had to pee straight away. I quickly located the woman's bathroom and was grateful for the lack of line. I could barely finish because I began to feel dizzy and light headed. As I was washing my hands, my chest tightened and I became increasingly nauseous. I actually thought I was going to fall to the floor before I could get out of there. I attributed this to morning sickness, or night sickness as the case may be, and after making my way back to the table, I told him I was sick and we had to go back to the hotel. He convinced me to finish up my coke and if at the end of the break I still felt bad, he conceded to take me back to the hotel. However, in just a few short minutes of sitting, I was back to my old self and ready to finish up the tour.

Upon leaving the location and walking a few more blocks, the guide stopped to tell us the story of the pub we had just left. As the case may be, it was indeed haunted, they thought, by the great-grandmother of the current pub owner. She had died of heart failure in the kitchen some years ago. That part of the kitchen is now the woman's bathroom. I remember so clearly the look of startle and confusion as he looked at me. I also felt like he was putting it together that maybe I wasn't all that crazy. Maybe I actually was picking things up.

(more New Orleans experiences to come...)

I suppose my earliest "memory", and I use quotes because it's actually my mother's memory, of interactions with ghosts was at age 2. She tells a story of being on an important phone call with an attorney when I interrupted with hysterical screaming so much that she had to excuse herself from her phone conversation. When she came to me, I was extremely upset about seeing "Schmoo" in my room. For those of you unfamiliar with Schmoo, he was a 1979 cartoon character that was basically a white blob with eyes, a mouth and whiskers. He did have legs, but I'm still not entirely sure what he was supposed to be. But apparently at age 2, it was the closest thing I could compare what I saw to. As I said, this is my mom's memory, not mine. I have no reason to doubt her though as I continue to have odd experiences such as that one almost on a daily basis.

I also have some vague memories as a very young child witnessing large balls of white light spontaneously and having very clear pictures of dead relatives. My mother and I still debate on whether or not I met one of her aunts that died when I was very small. I can describe her perfectly and remember interacting with her. However, my mother still holds that I never met the woman. Maybe mom's right. Maybe she came to me after she was already dead (although I really hate to let my mother be right about anything - don't you?).

When I remember these events in my childhood, it is difficult to know what was "real" and what was paranormal because it was all just normal for me. I was probably 10 years old or so before I realized this didn't happen to everyone and I was different.