Archive for the ‘The Prism Diary’ Category


Sunday, November 23rd, 2014

On an evening during the winter holidays in 1988 I was invited to meet friends at a currently vogue disco club adjoining a new upscale hotel in Bellevue WA. We hadn’t been there long when a young man asked me to dance. After a couple of dances, it became obvious that he did not speak English and between the disco beat and the escalating volume of inebriated party revelers, it was impossible to have a conversation. My Spanish was imperfect and I was unfamiliar with Guatemalan colloquial expressions, but was intrigued by the little I had been able to understand.

We stepped into a secluded area which was relatively quiet, and this man began to share an extraordinary story. It seems he had displeased the political party currently in power in his country and he had been smuggled out of the country using his friend’s passport in the nick of time in the middle of the night. He had been pursued by agents sent to kidnap him! Of course, I wanted to know more. At first this story seemed incredible to me but as I asked questions I began to believe he was telling the truth.

I excused myself to gather my thoughts, then returned to my friends who were wondering where I had disappeared to and told them not to worry for me. The drama shared by Francisco Morales, the man from Guatemala had captivated me. I returned to this well groomed, pleasant, intelligent young person aware that he was frightened for his life, in a foreign country left adrift by associates in fear of reprisal from opposing factions in his country. After continuing to speak with him a little while longer, I gave him my phone number and told him to call me in the morning when I would have a Plan of Action for him to carry out. I felt that if he was really sincere, he would call, if not and he was merely looking for a lady friend, I probably wouldn’t hear from him.

By the time he called me the next day, I had contacted the Central American Embassy in Seattle and had information regarding the address of the office to report to and basic immigrant procedure. I gave no details, as I felt this was for Francisco to tell in his own language to people he could communicate with. I drove him to the embassy and when we found the process would take hours he told me to go on; that he felt safe with these people. We kept in touch during the next months and his story unfolded.

He was from a village in the mountains where the Indians were poor, but because his father was a doctor and curandero, (healer), his family was well respected and more affluent then many. He had learned healing skills since childhood, assisting with childbirth, common illnesses and injuries. In school he excelled and showed an aptitude for medicine, so was accepted to medical school in Guatemala City. Los Indios of the country are among the poorest group, as with many countries where the indigenous population has been impoverished over the last 400 years of colonization. Racism is everywhere and although mixed blood people of Spanish and native wealthy members of the old Mayan culture had blended into the ruling class over the centuries, the higher positions in the present government are all held by colonialists’ descendents. During the current civil war, the farmers and small mountain villages suffered the most because trade was blocked by rebels who disrupted transportation and travelers on every level. Many people were left homeless without supplies or income of any kind as they ran from the fighting.

Through personal connections and with fellow students, Francisco set up a small Foundation which assisted children in need. People of means heard about what he was doing and gifted clothing, food, and money. He approached the national broadcasting station to inform citizens about the dire problem, but was turned down for a news interview because the station did not want to become involved in political issues. Government agencies were supposed to be furnishing aid to the population, but were not. After writing letters to the network repeatedly without hearing any response he decided to go personally with photographs showing the reality of poverty and sickness caused by the war. When he asked if he could buy ‘air time’ he was told an amount which was beyond his means.

Meanwhile, an executive of the station anonymously filled out forms which verified the ‘air time’ had been paid for, but actually, gifted to Francisco a 15 minute time slot several times over the period of a month. His appeal was not for money to be sent, but rather that people go to pharmacies and purchase badly needed over the counter medications and supplies to be contributed to the local hospitals and clinics to tend the wounded casualties from the war zones. He and his friends were able to rent a house to collect and audit donated items for the refugees. A clothing manufacturer donated slacks of various sizes for the children; a shoe factory contributed shoes. Simple foods, vitamins, blankets, and jackets were also collected from well wishers. Trucks for transport were loaned for the purpose, and they were able to distribute 5 large truck loads to several locations.

Certain politicians were embarrassed and angered by how much this simple man had been able to accomplish with so little. The more effective his program was, the more notice he received and he unwittingly became a target in the struggle for political control. Even though he had no political ambitions, people were looking to him and his colleagues with real hope for the future. The situation escalated when he was interviewed on national television and talked about companies which had contributed either supplies or funds for his work. Members of the Rosicrucians were among those who had contributed to the cause. Churches throughout the country rose to help.

His father called to remind him of his family obligations, but when he responded strongly that ‘This was something he had to do…’ his father gave him his blessings, saying, “…this is a wonderful thing to do for now”. At the time Francisco was betrothed to a girl of an upper class family, but with all the publicity surrounding his project, her father came to his family to say that they could no longer go through with the marriage because of all the trouble with the government.

One day, Francisco received a call from his father telling him airplane tickets had been purchased for him to leave the country to Mexico City and then the U.S.A. He had 3 hours to escape the Federales who were being sent to put him in prison. The major airport had been alerted to detain him. His brother and a friend had gotten wind of the plot to imprison him and covertly contrived an impromptu escape on the backs of burros down winding mountain trails to a private air field where he was whisked away from the clutches of his adversaries. His best friend who looked like him, exchanged wallets with identification so Francisco could get through customs.

As he was an illegal alien in fact arriving ‘underground’ in the USA, when he reached San Diego, California, he asked for political asylum and took time to apply to Mexico City for a new passport. Since he spoke little English the only work available to him was as a farm laborer. He hitchhiked and migrated with whom ever felt a calling to help him and had eventually arrived in Seattle, WA.

He called me about two weeks later to confirm that temporary lodging and employment had been found for him, as an assistant nurse in a health services facility for Spanish speaking people. He wanted to meet and express his gratitude. I invited him to dinner and we caught up. At that time I passed on to him the name and phone number of the John Bastyr College of Naturopathic Medicine which was the only place I knew of in Seattle where he could further his studies in herbology. There was still the problem of language and he was to enroll in an English class to help him overcome that problem.

Over the course of a year and a half, Francisco Morales shared his life story. He felt more comfortable speaking in Spanish, his second language so I listened very carefully. As he
recalled and shared the humble gratitude and simple joy of the children when they received even the smallest gifts, his whole being lit up and overflowed with Spirit. Here was this young man struggling to study medicine in English to return to his country to help people in need. It was a privilege to behold and brought tears to my eyes.

A few months later, we met at Lake Union Park and he demonstrated his cooking ability by broiling salmon steaks. My young daughter was there and we had a wonderful time.
The next time I saw him the political strife in Guatemala had subsided somewhat, and his brother had come for him because his aging father was dying. In July 1989, he still had to quietly slip into Guatemala not to arouse the wrong people, but had made it there in time to see his father still alive, then return to the USA much the same way he had the first time. He told me all that had happened and that he would not be able to reside in his own country safely for some time to come. I told him that his life was much too filled with drama for me and I worried for his well being.

When I saw him again in early 1990, he brought me a beautiful bouquet of red and white roses and said he was doing well. He thanked me for my loving kindness to him, which he said had literally saved his sanity and his life. He called me 3 months later very upset to tell me his father had passed away. This was a difficult time for him and he needed somebody to talk to. I listened and calmed him, making helpful suggestions. I wished him luck and gave him blessings for his good work.

That was the last I heard from him.

Excerpt from the Prism Diaries 1988-90


Monday, August 19th, 2013

While traveling in the Southwestern United States a few years ago, I pulled into an Indian Arts and Crafts Fair on the side of the road in Sedona, Arizona. Several different tribes of people were represented by potters, jewelers, sculptors and painters. The people of the high mesas have always traded goods at gatherings like this and they tend
to be social gatherings with drumming, music and food. Concepts about the cosmos and healing herbs are also shared if one knows where to look and how to ask.

It was on this occasion, that paintings and prints in one booth of a New Mexico artist captured my attention and I began speaking with the artist. Throughout my travels I have been exposed to many ceremonies, celebrations and festivals in many countries. A painting of dancers around a fire, in regalia with which I was unfamiliar interested me. The colors of the garments and styles of the headdresses set against a background of deep ochre brown space particularly drew me in to the painting, as a hypnotic feeling of involvement overcame me. It was of a powerful magical dance.

This is the Peyote Ritual. Peyote ‘buttons’ grow low around the heart of the Mescal Agave plant and are harvested to facilitate altered states of consciousness in rituals and ceremonies. Books by Carlos Castaneda sharing experiences using this mind altering plant, have been popular reading since the 1960’s, so I had a vague familiarity with the concept. But to listen to a tribal member share his perception and be able to see the as images depicted in the painting, brought a vital reality to me.

The story this Indian man told me was about the Chiricahua Clan of the Mescalero Apache tribe in New Mexico. The term ‘coming out’ dances refers to the traditional seasonal Equinox and Solstice celebrations and the procreation myths surrounding the beginning of the World and of the People. These dances can go on for several days and nights and are a test of endurance both mental and physical. Only specific members of this clan who pass through initiation rites with peyote are selected to be dancers. They are called Spirit Dancers and travel to another dimension to gain knowledge by communicating with Beings there; then return to share with the Apache People.

The dancers’ torsos are often covered in pigments, either terra vert (green) or ochre (yellow) clays with white or green stripes. The loin cloths or garments are typically yellow, and red sashes are worn on arms, at waists and sometimes as headbands over black or dark hoods. Black hoods covering the faces with holes cut for eyes are typical. The masks are extended by scarves covering the neck and throat. This gives a Kachina Spirit quality to the dancers, perhaps so that they blend in more as they travel through
the inner dimensions. This color scheme is specific to this ritual.

The headdresses and lightening sticks are made of wood and traditionally painted white with black symbols for the Elements in them. As I understand, the headdress acts like a lightening rod or antenna to connect with the Inner World Beings on that particular dimensional plane. The peyote opens a pathway of communication and travel. Just as ayahuasca* is used to open a particular pathway to a specific world of reality, so have many other substances known to man for thousands of years. Most of these have healing and educational properties which can be used productively to enhance humankind’s existence on earth. The Spirit Dancers of the Chiricahua play a major role in maintaining balance in the Apache universe.

This seems a very sophisticated use of physics—subtle energy frequencies are available to humans if we know how to tap into them… like Tesla and Scalar energy concepts.

*see Spirit Mind Connection and Ways to Get There article listed in the Shamanic Category archives.

This is an excerpt from The Prism Diary Spring 2009

Fog’s End

Monday, December 19th, 2011

October 7th, 2008 Metempyrion

This is an excerpt from the Prism Diary. Although names may have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved, the circumstances are accurately recorded.

This episode occurred late October 1984. The author is published internationally in transcultural and spiritual publications. She is a clairvoyant.


The autumn was growing long after the Hunters’ Full Moon and I found myself becoming restless as if some instinct was driving me to find a winter shelter from the northwest winter cold. And yet, some urgency nibbled at the edge of my mind. Returning from an afternoon walk to find an enigmatic message from a caller I had never heard of sent a shiver down my spine. The voice was that of an older woman laced with desperation. Realizing unpleasantness would be involved, it was with reluctance that I called her back later that evening.

The name she gave was McGuire, good Scottish stock. She was a designer of women’s garments. My name had been given to her by a gentleman she had known for years in Hollywood. She needed help with a situation that was rapidly deteriorating as days passed. It was apparent that whatever was troubling her, she did not understand enough to put into words. She related her story in a helter- skelter fashion, not knowing where to begin or what might be of significance.

“Can you sew?” she asked and then switched subjects to metaphysics without a connector phrase, and then leapt to the topic of grandchildren, as one would expect from a grandmother. I told her I would call the following day to let her know if it would be possible for me to be of assistance. The conversation was abruptly cut short as she dashed to some unidentified task of urgency.

Perhaps because of the muddled exchange, her anxiety seemed more real. She lived some distance south; it would take three maybe five days traveling to get there. She had offered me food and lodging for the duration of my stay. As I sat piecing together her nonsequitur comments, it became clear that she had not been entirely candid about her situation. There was something she had left unsaid on purpose. What it could be was only speculation. I fell asleep thinking more information could only be uncovered on the site. The decision to take the case had been made.

Although the woman seemed more forthcoming and congenial by the light of day, the undertones of distress remained in her voice while we spoke Sunday morning. “Everything has turned topsy-turvy. Nothing stays where I put it and there are strange happenings in the night!” Madame McGuire was most relieved when I told her I was on my way.

There was no way of telling how long I would be gone or what I would need. Better plan for weeks. I wondered what I was getting myself into this time…

A clear if chill Monday morning greeted me as I departed. Time on the road allowed me to think. The information was scanty, but when analyzed, certain facts came to the fore. Among strands of a conversation which had lasted twenty minutes, these repeated phrases rang in my mind: “I can’t get any work done! My business is falling apart.” This woman had been a garment designer in Beverly Hills. In the 1960’s and ‘70’s, famous folk musicians had worn her clothing. She still had an impressive clientele.

As I continued south on the fourth day, the weather turned for the worse. I had taken the coastal highway for the view, only to find myself surrounded by low clouds and drizzle, gloomy and damp. Looking at the calendar, I realized the day was All Hallow’s Eve, and my thoughts meandered with the road back in time to stories of rituals of the season; gatherings for protection from unseen forces. The concept of pathways between the world of the living and the world of the dead came to mind. In the old religions time had been set aside when autumn met winter, to honor the ancestors. Modern times still included some of the old ways, in some cultures more than others. Shamans had warned me of the ease with which disembodied spirits could draw on those in the flesh at this time of year.

The drizzle turned to mist and began to close in on me. Images of wraiths wafted between matter and illusion in the swirls of air. Time to stop. I pulled the car of the road, and stepped out to touch the wet soil. Pipe and tobacco in hand I headed for a secluded spot and made offerings and prayers for good passage. The power of the earth flowed through me grounding and strengthening my bond with Gaia, Earth Goddess. After a few minutes, replenished and restored I felt at peace.

Even as the feeling of urgency threw me towards my destination, delays confronted me. A road block, a detour; then more than one. I had intended to arrive early afternoon. The days were growing shorter and arrival in daylight would be preferable in an unfamiliar area. Struggling through impasse after impasse, late into the day, the priority of reaching my goal became paramount. Weariness set in and with it a depression I did not like the feel of, crept in as if someone or something did not wish me well. And then darkness fell.

Mrs. McGuire had said, “Take the road up the valley; the road beside the river going down to the sea.” Feeling my way, guided by some sixth sense, I found it and headed inland. The fog thickened and visibility became nonexistent. Shapes unseen until the last possible moment leapt out of the murk as headlights swung around curves. Huge tree forms loomed unexpectedly over the road, momentarily illuminated before being enclosed in mist once again. The road led on and on. Eventually I realized the dirt turnoff I sought must be behind me. I felt disoriented. A cluster of buildings up ahead suggested civilization and with a sigh of relief, I headed to a roadside phonebooth. My hostess answered expectantly and gave me clear directions from my current location. I had wasted time in the fog and now needed to backtrack with all speed.

Something did not want me to find that house. It had consciousness and was expecting me. I swerved to miss an oncoming vehicle in my lane and barely had time to right my course before careening into the ditch. With trepidation and hands that were a little shaky, I turned onto a dirt lane which must be the one. It twisted up the hillside and at last, at its end, a stone wall with a tall wrought iron gate came into view. A metal sculpture of four horses galloping head first through the wall guarded the gateway very formidably against intruders For better or worse, I had arrived.

The iron gate was locked but I found a small door in the wall and crept through into the cobbled courtyard in the pitch dark. Stumbling up unlit steps I passed through archways of stone toward a dim light I could just make out through tangles of hanging vines, now dormant. At last I reached a door. I knocked not wanting to imagine what might greet me. After what seemed an extended period of time, I could hear shuffling footsteps and eventually discerned through the glass, a figure silhouetted from behind, coming down a long dark hallway. Lighting sconces as she approached, a woman unlatched the door, which creaked on old hinges.

She stood stooping slightly, an apparition out of an ancient fairey tale; wide as she was tall, a short older woman with a face once handsome, now lined with worry and ravages of a hard life. Her clothing was handwoven and could have been that of a healer in medieval times, in shades of earth tones loosely hung as if hastily put on. Her grey shoulder length hair had not been combed adding to the abstracted though not unkindly impression. “Ah, here finally…its about time. You had trouble finding the place? Well then, come in come in.” With no further introduction than that, she turned back the way she had come expecting me to close and lock the door behind me before following.

“The fog is never this bad, but with everything else that has gone on here recently, can’t say it’s a surprise on this night. The power went out earlier today, normally the courtyard is lit”. I could see now she walked with a limp and asked about it. “Oh, that, slipped and fell two days ago on the wet stones, just a bruise really… haven’t slept for a week or more.”

My nose began to discern edible smells. As we approached a comparatively lighted area, caldrons and pots of various sizes boiling and bubbling on a large wood burning stove became visible. My stomach long since neglected began to respond loudly. “My gosh, you must be expecting a crowd tonight…looks like a lot of food!”

“The cats you know—I have to feed the cats.” All I could immediately see was one gigantic solid gray animal peering at me with huge golden eyes. He perched on a counter top as still as a statue, guarding the kitchen. For several minutes the woman busied herself with huge battered metal platters and ladles, scooping out fish heads, turnips and roots, and bones of indistinguishable origins. As this strange woman stepped out into the night, she was inundated by a swarm of cats jumping from roofs, out of trees, through bushes, and from behind rocks. Maybe fifty or more cats of all sizes and colors crowded around the feast she set on the patio before them. “Aren’t they pretty!” she exclaimed with a sweet smile. I had to agree, I had never seen anything like it.

As we stepped back inside, I looked up to notice a second floor landing suspended over the kitchen. Something looked out of place but I couldn’t decide what. “Are There rooms up there?”, I queried.

“Sure. The staircase collapsed about 5 days ago. Fortunately nobody was hurt. Now we have to go out the front door and walk around to get in through the upper hall. I was using a ladder but somehow that’s disappeared.”

I stared into the space where the staircase had been, organizing all this information in my head. Some strangeness could be written off as eccentricity. In my work I ran into all kinds of people with unusual ideas and ways. But mishaps were piling up, and that was different. This felt like evil. That something was very wrong here was becoming glaringly evident by the moment. But what? I extended my perception seeking answers to the disarray. I scanned the scene without being able to identify the cause.

The woman mentioned that her daughter had come to visit for a month or so. The daughter and grandson had gone out trick or treating earlier in the evening and she expected them anytime. I could feel her reluctance to share information about family as I had sensed on the phone before. She was scared and she was leaving something important out of the conversation.

Time was slipping by, it was long past ten o’clock and if what I guessed was correct, the next hours would be critical. We were both edgy; perhaps a premonition of impending crisis was threading into our subconscious. I knew I was at a vortex of chaos. All the difficulty finding the place and the other signs led to this location. But I still had yet to find what I was looking for…the source. I became more wary as the minutes ticked by. The old woman babbled on about any number of things she thought might interest me, to distract us both from the tension we felt.

While outwardly appearing to listen and chop vegetables, I wove a shield of energy not only around myself, but around the room and then extended that weaving to include the dwelling, strengthening layer upon layer of protection. Master teachers had taught me about discarnates and what could happen when the doors opened between dimensions. Suddenly the hairs rose on the back of my neck and I turned to face the danger. I looked up to see what appeared to be a blond girl child draped around the banister leading into space. Her posture was unnatural. As I looked more acutely, she aged to be actually in her early forties. But what riveted my attention were her eyes. They were at that moment huge and bottomless pits of dark evil. For an instant the entity lurking behind them surged forward to challenge, knowing me as a threat. I had recognized it for what it was.

An ancient and vile being from the lower astral plane had somehow gained access to this poor woman’s body. It enjoyed wreaking havoc within the human being it held for ransom which showed with every gesture. The pain and confusion caused in any immediate environment were a great amusement to it as well.

In a state of full alert, I dropped everything and focused on the immediate need. I called upon the Powers of Light in the vicinity to dispel that which did not belong. This is what I was seeking. This is why I had been called here. It was a wonder the daughter had survived. It was a miracle the house was still standing. The problem was as I had begun to suspect….POSSESSION.

As I gazed into this poor trapped soul, I could see both beings struggling for control in the body of the one. Speaking softly, taking care not to arouse the intruding discarnate to violence, I asked the daughter to come join us. With an unnatural spark her eyes glanced at the floor beneath her as if she considered leaping to harm. “Please take care, your mother has prepared a lovely feast”, I cajoled, “you must be hungry…I sure am.” Magically, the missing ladder appeared from the landing beside her and she descended.

We held hands in a circle in prayer before consuming the food. As we sat in the light of many candles and spoke of truth, beauty, and love, we continued on telling stories of adventures and sharing the good food. Suddenly, a dangerous angry glitter flashed in the eyes of the possessed, as the uninvited entity there realized it no longer had control and could not remain within the physical body. Identified and unwelcome, it withdrew with a lurch and a moan; the woman collapsed in a heap. I held her there guarding over her to ensure the unwanted spirit did not try to return. Without anywhere to gain hold, the wicked creature departed after swirling around the room bouncing off the walls until it found an escape through a crack in a window. Prayers had protected everyone present.

The clock struck midnight. As if a veil had been lifted, the house was flooded inside and out with lights as the electricity came on. The grandson, a boy of ten, laughed as we continued our very late supper. We retired eventually and slept peacefully the night through. I had perhaps arrived late, but blessedly early enough. All Saints Day dawned shining and new.

Epilogue: This case of possession is an example of an all too common occurrence. The woman had a history of causing damage wherever she went. At the University in Berkeley years before, she had participated in experiments involving hallucinogenic and psychotropic substances. Supposedly these were supervised by certain faculty members, renowned for research in these psychological explorations. That proper guidance and shielding techniques were known or used is doubtful. In scientific experimentation, seldom are such precautions taken.

In this case, no one had considered the possibility that a discarnate entity had taken over when the woman had been in a vulnerable and highly suggestive state, and never left. As in many similar instances, the lifestyle had deteriorated over a long period of time; the individual soul being less and less in control of her behavior.

Eventually, a distorted co-dependent relationship was built as neither the invested soul nor the intruding entity desired to forfeit possession of the lifeform. This is not an uncommon occurrence.

Although over the next few months that I was able to monitor the situation, substantial improvement became apparent, damage caused by self destructive tendencies and nurtured by the discarnate over years could not be completely erased. The woman would have a shortened lifespan.

In cultures familiar with altered states induced to promote spiritual experiences, skilled adept individuals are present and conduct specific rituals to prevent crisis situations and prolonged discarnate contact which can be harmful.

A word to the wise: Recreational use of psychotropic substances little understood, without guidance or focus can cause irreversible even terminal damage to body and soul. Seek out knowledgeable sources who can teach inexperienced initiates the required preparations before embarking on a quest of unknown dimensions.

A shortened version of this Prism Diary entry of October 1984, was printed in The Twelfth House, Vol. 1, No. 3, 1996.

Here Fog’s End appears in complete form with permission of the author, Prism.

Dreams of Fortune

Monday, December 19th, 2011

June 13th, 2007 Metempyrion

An excerpt from the Prism Diary, this event takes place in the summer of 1986.
Although names may have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved, the circumstances have been accurately recorded in each case.

It was still light on a long Sunday evening in Carmel. The weather had been mild with the usual morning mist clearing later in the day as it does along the coast during the summer months. I had finished my chores outside and was relaxed, if not actually exhausted. The phone rang. Lone Eagle, a shaman and a friend was on the other end. We had not communicated lately, so I asked him what he had been doing to keep busy. He told me this story.

A man had been trying to sell his property for five years and had not had a single offer. The value was substantial, but his life had come to a standstill as landowner.
He was desperate to move on. Somewhere along the line, buried treasure had been mentioned, and he didn’t want to leave until it was discovered. Psychics of various talents had been called upon to help locate the booty they all claimed was there; so far without success.

Lone Eagle had been dragged into the situation by some associate, but he could find no evidence of treasure. This of course, was most unsettling, after months, perhaps years of expectation on the part of the present owner, who had inherited the property. What Lone Eagle was asking me for was confirmation that he himself had not made an error in not being able to unearth the prize.

“Lone Eagle, I thought you always worked alone. What gives?” I teased.

“The owner, Bob has promised a substantial finder’s fee and I need the cash if it’s to be had. I know you can get to the bottom of this mystery if anyone can. At least find out why the place hasn’t sold.” He hinted.

“Well, if you haven’t located anything, it’s probably not there, but I’ll bring my dowsing rods and give it a go.” We made arrangements to meet the following Tuesday afternoon.

Lone Eagle was of mixed blood. He’d gone of to Vietnam as a Navy Seal on special assignment and had survived that nightmare. Upon his return stateside, he’d hired out as a bodyguard for a variety of high profile people and dangerous situations. We had worked together to awaken people up and down the west coast to the conditions of American Indian people in the here and now. While I was heavily involved in the human rights movement for Indian people, Lone Eagle had been there as self-appointed guardian. He had saved me more than once from attacks; some physical, but many were psychic, coming from distorted individuals drawing power from the lower astral planes. What this warrior could not do, in all likelihood could not be done. He trusted my perceptions and he knew that this man Bob would also.

As I parked my old Rambler painted with blue skies, ocean waves and starry heavens, I wondered what would be there to find. I gathered up my rods and other accouterments possibly useful, and turned to walk down a little used dirt track.
When I reached a broken down gate, a large disheveled man of about 55 stepped forward eagerly to greet me. His light blue eyes were blurry with lack of sleep, chronic insomnia mayhap, and his ample flesh hung on his frame suggesting dissipation due to boredom. He stuffed a still lit cigarette butt into the side of his mouth and extended a grubby right hand to shake mine.

“Glad to see ya—thanks fer comin’. This is drivin’ me crazy—got to sell this place n’ git away. Can’t stand it bein’ here anymore. Do you think ya c’n find the treasure? Lone Eagle said if YOU couldn’t, it wasn’t here. Com’on…Lone Eagle’s up at the latest dig site waitn’.” The rickety gate swung back into place and was latched behind me. I felt I had stepped into a separate reality. As my feet touched the ground, step by step, images washed up and I was overwhelmed with memories of the past in this place. “….had this place on the market so long. The
appraised value is a million an’ a half. What’d ya think?” My guide rambled on.

Gathering myself back into the present, “mmm, closer to a half a million, I’d expect. Would you settle for $ 500,000?” The words rolled off my tongue without hesitation, as if I had some experience in real estate—ha.

Bob ran dirty fingers through grimy hair which then stuck up straight, threw what was left of his butt down, and said, “Well, that would be alright I guess.” We arrived at a cluster of broken down buildings which seemed to have collapsed one by one as owners allowed them to fall into disuse and neglect. Lord knows when a single piece of trash or refuse had been picked up from its original resting place.
Lone Eagle came out from around the side of a building with a grin on his face, remembering our campaign together no doubt, genuinely glade to see me.

Without delay, Bob lead us out and about commenting casually in mumbles neither of us understood. The place was a wreck; looked like a mine field in a battle zone.
Piles of dirt and holes of all sizes no one had bothered to fill in after each failure to find treasure. Wandering through this maze around three shacks, we reached a door which led under the house. Not content with digging outside, greedy treasure hunters had gone under the very house itself. “Do ya think you can find it?” Bob lurched out obsessed with the fruitless project of months and years past.

I took a deep breath and stated truthfully, “Most likely, it seems to have been converted into the place itself ages ago, if ever an amount of dollars existed. Lone Eagle has found nothing, and looks like every square yard has been excavated. I don’t expect to find anything, but I’ll take a scan to be sure.”

I took out my dowsing rods, tools to find everything from water to oil to gold.
Moments passed as I stood still, centering, the rods swinging lazily and erradically.
I turned slowly to face first one direction, then another, all the while focusing on the primary thought. The men watched, waited. Minutes of concentration passed. Still nothing. “Well gentlemen, I feel nothing here through the rods, lets try another location.” And so the long afternoon ‘til sundown was spent, place to place without a twitch. “No,” at last I stated flatly, “ I am sure no treasure is here.”

We were invited into the house for some refreshment. As we reached the back porch, I was overcome with a wave of fear, anger, violence…but nothing in the present. Stepping into the kitchen what became clear was that not a single empty spot to stand or sit existed. Every space stacked layer upon layer was taken by whatever had been discarded there for years. I graciously accepted water in a mug which I hoped had been rinsed in the recent past. Bob seemed at last satisfied that no hidden treasure existed. He wanted to know if I thought the property would ever sell. I turned to Lone Eagle and asked him if he would take a short walk with me. To Bob he turned and said, “We’ll be back soon.”

I needed to speak with him, get his take about the place to confirm my own feelings. We eventually came around the last corner to return to the back porch. Before we got there I grabbed his arm and said, “Here. Feel this? Do you feel it?”

He stood still, quiet. “Now that you mention it; yes, bad vibes, very bad.”

I continued, “This …whatever happened here was a life and death struggle, and these vibrations are what is blocking the sale of this property. I’d say it happened 30 years ago and the vibration of violence is still here! It has never been cleared.”
Lone Eagle turned to me—“Ah, the mystery. I knew you could unlock it! Let’s ask Bob, see what he remembers. We stepped into the kitchen. Bob still sat where we had left him a half hour before, smoking a cigarette, eyes gazing into the distance whether past or future, who could say. Lone Eagle began softly to ask questions pertaining to his life in this place.

Several generations had lived together on the land; unpleasantness and worse was common among family members. Carefully the back porch incident was broached, and the veil swept aside as he confided. Indeed, as a young man, Bob had been attacked by two men in the dark as he came home. There was a knife and he had barely escaped, badly beaten and stabbed, bleeding on the back porch. “But that happened years ago!” he exclaimed.

Lone Eagle explained about the necessity to heal the wounds of the soul and the space. We would return Thursday noon to perform a ceremony. Bob would need to bring a few tokens from his past.

Lone Eagle picked me up; we rode in silence. The shaman and I had worked well together on occasions before; there was no need for talk. We trod softly into the realm of prayer and ritual. At the chosen site, just as he struck the match to light our prayer fire, the sun burned through the mist and we held the ceremony of forgiveness in the sunlight. Bob expressed gratitude. We all felt blessed at the closing as if our work was complete, and our prayers were heard. I asked him to call me in a week’s time to let me know how things were going.

The following Tuesday, early evening, I was sitting alone quietly, resting after a day’s work in the garden. The phone rang. It was Lone Eagle. “The real estate agent called Bob yesterday. He has a firm offer–$ 500,000, cash out!”

“That’s great,” I responded. “Is he going to accept it?”

“Hell yes! What do you think? We make a good team. Look for a check in the mail.” He closed the call amiably.

I hung up with a smile. What I thought was, maybe Bob had found his fortune after all. Free at last, unfettered by his past, ready to step into a new life; a new beginning. That’s a real blessing.