A mutual friend introduced us, and I liked them from the start. Sandra was Australian and Alan, her husband, was Scottish. This was a second marriage for both of them, and for the most part they had lived in Australia, but Alan became homesick and so here they were, both in their early forties, no job, no work. Having spent two years in England trying to build some kind of life, and having failed, they were planning to return to Sandra's home.
It worked out perfectly. I needed someone to take care of my house for the next several months, winter months, and Sandra and Alan needed a place to live.
As I didn't know them, I decided that it would be a good idea if they moved in with me for two or three weeks before I left on my trip to the Far East. Grateful for the suggestion, Sandra and Alan agreed. This turned out to be a great idea. We got along splendidly, had roughly the same views on housekeeping, and, most important, they loved my dog, Karma, whom I was also leaving in their care.
To my surprise, although I should not have been surprised at all, and to my delight, they were more than interested in my work. There were many late nights as we sat drinking coffee and chatting into the early hours about the meaning of life, of God, and of all those other meaningful things. And it was on one of these nights that Alan tentatively suggested that he and Sandra would love to be invited to sit in on one of my Friday-night healing classes.
Visitors are rare on class nights, although I encourage anyone to visit our healing centers. However, I knew that Sandra and Alan's interest was real, not just mild curiosity, and so even though I told them I would think about it and let them, know I had already made my decision.
The following Friday came around, and I knew that this would be the night. I knew also, as I sat with Sandra and Alan at dinner prior to the meeting, that something special was going to happen for them, but I didn't know what.
At 7:30 p.m. my class filed in, and I introduced our visitors. Always pleased to share, my students were pleased to welcome, and for the first twenty minutes or so each student told the story of how he or she had become involved with our organization.
Gradually, as I listened to my students talking, I became aware of a strong presence, other than Grey Eagle, in the room. I felt that familiar feeling which precedes trance, and wondered only mildly that I would be going into a trance state in front of strangers, for Sandra and Alan were certainly strangers to the environment we were in now.
Trusting Grey Eagle, trusting that this was the right action, slowly I allowed myself to sink into trance. My students, ever watchful, had become quiet now, had drawn close to me, anticipating spirit communication, safeguarding me with their prayers, at the same time confident of my safety, trusting the process.
She moved into me with a grace and gentleness I acknowledged but hardly felt, and then I became the watcher as she eased herself more boldly into the body I had now vacated. I watched as my fingers moved, small movements, but not my movements. Grunting, coughing noises came from my mouth, as if I were clearing my throat. But they were not my sounds. My students knew to wait, and strangely, Sandra and Alan, probably affected by their calm, knew to wait also, even though (they told me late) they felt their hearts pounding a little louder and their throats become suddenly dry.
Again the coughing sound, some small movement of her/my head, and then, without looking up: "I am the little old lady with no teeth".this said softly but firmly, and my students, for all there had experienced her before, smiled their delight and amusement. Always when she came to visit us she would introduce herself this way. Often she would make us smile with her complaint that "she," meaning me, had "too many teeth" for her liking.
Our "visitor" was a character. A great teacher, remarkable in her wisdom, always tough on her/my students, she came to talk to us rarely. Her perspicacity, her brilliance as a teacher, and her inspiration were a true gift to us. Her sharpness, her aptitude for getting precisely to the point, fast, kept us all, including me, alert and on our toes.
Now she was talking to us again, or more accurately, she was talking to our visitors. "Sandra, Alan, welcome. We have been waiting for you.we have been waiting, Alan, for you." Alan looked up, startled by being singled out, nervous about his responses, not wanting to put a foot wrong. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that a great revelation was coming to him, about what he didn't know, and he was both nervous and eager at the same time. "Alan.Alan," our "teacher" called again, "do not be afraid. We know your story and must tell it to you now, so you will know we know you.
"We will take you back some many years, to the time, Alan when you were a small child, a small child, just three or four years old. Your parents argued often, then your father left, leaving you in the care of your mother. It was a big house you lived in, Alan wasn't it, a big rambling old house, and the two of you lived there alone."
Alan nodded, more nervous now, and now with even more anticipation.
"Alan.Alan." again our teacher called. "Do not be afraid.we know your story.and must tell it to you now, so you will know we know you.
"Your father gone, your mother drinking, and you a child, and so alone.and then the cellar.then the cellar.then the cellar."
Still the watcher, now I see that Alan is crying, softly, silently, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Alan.Alan.do not be afraid," now gently I hear or "teacher" say We know your story. and must tell it to you now, so you will know we know you. And I the watcher, I the listener, watched and listened as Alan lowered his head in silent obeisance.
Alan's wife, her eyes wide with amazement, never having heard more than the bare bones of her husband's childhood, also seemed to understand that something special was coming for Alan, but also that this meant he would have to face his memories, which were painful to him. She carefully, and with great tenderness, placed her hand over his, showing her love and support without the need for words.
Alan.Alan," the voice of our spirit teacher called out yet again, and by now all there in the room knew she would speak those same words again. 'We know your story.and we must tell it to you now, so you will know we know you."
And I the watcher watched, and I the listener listened, and then before me, as in a vision, even as part of that vision, for it felt as if I were there, I was in "the cellar."
From a distance, vaguely I could hear the little old lady with no teeth, as if now narrating, as the story unfolded before my eyes. I knew my students, Alan and Sandra, could not see or be involved as I was, but I knew also that they were being told all even as it was being projected before me.
It was dark, so dark that it was several seconds before I could adjust my eyes to the gloom. And it had the dank musty odor of rotting wood. Also it was cold, so cold, and I shivered, not liking the place, wondering why I was there.
A small movement caught my eye, and I looked toward a window, tiny and covered with dust, so much so that what light might have filtered through was blocked. Under the window I was just able to make out a wide concrete sill. On it was what looked like a small sack or bundle of cloths? I couldn't see clearly what it was, and struggled to see more clearly. And as I watched, and as I listened, I saw the bundle move. I heard the bundle. whimper? Too big to be a cat.surely not a dog, not down here, not down here, trapped, in this terrible place. Now, whispered words filtered through my mind, I heard our teacher yet again."must tell it to you now, so you will know we know you."
My attention moved back to the bundle on the windowsill, and then I knew, with awful certainty, just what it was.
Another scene connected in my head: I saw his mother, Alan's mother, pushing her child, her little child, down the cellar steps, saw the child, tearstains on his cheeks, and saw the fear in his eyes as the trapdoor lowered, slammed shut, blocking out the light and any form of life and warmth and comfort that he knew.
Instinctively I knew that this had been the pattern of his childhood, that this was not his mother's way to punish him, merely a place to put him, to keep him "safe" when she decided to take herself off. Sometimes she would leave him there for just a day, but more often she would be gone for three days or more, perfectly confident that he could come to no harm. I also knew she did this often, not just once in every year or two, but on a fairly regular monthly, sometimes weekly, basis.
Words, words, floating down around me."Story.story.tell it to you.so you will know we know you."
The bundle moved again, stretched a little, whimpered, curled up, and went back to sleep.but only for a moment.
Her voice again, now sharp and clear, but soft and gentle too, bringing me back, not yet from the cellar, for hard as it is to explain, I was in the cellar and at the same time back with my students, back in class. The old lady, still using my body, my voice box, continuing on, describing the state of the terror the child was in as he lived those terrible dark days, describing his bewilderment and fear that perhaps one day this mother would forget him, that like his father, she wouldn't come back. Then, to Alan, who sat remembering, who sat in pain and anguish, she said, so softly now, "Alan, remember your friend.remember your friend?"
And I the watcher, and I the listener, saw and heard. His head came up, and for just one moment I saw confusion in his eyes, and then he gasped and remembered all, and recognition and realization came to him, and for the boy that he had been, and for the man that he was now, there was no more fear, and only joy. And as he wept, and as Sandra wept, and as all there cried with him, we could only rejoice.
I hear yet another voice, this one a voice like music, sweet breath on the wind, and calling out his name, "Alan.Alan.remember me.remember me," and Alan, nodding, was suddenly healed.
My eyes moved back to the cellar, to the bundle I now knew to be Alan. The light had changed-was it perhaps a little brighter now? I wondered. Then the same sweet voice, like music, but coming from the cellar now, and calling Alan's name.
"Alan..Alan." the sound floated through the air."Alan .Alan.wake up and play with me."
The child moved, and opening his eyes, he looked to where the voice had come from.and a bright light filled the room, spilling onto the wall and floor, spilling onto the child. "Come play with me, come play with me, and I will keep you safe."
Alan, the little boy, sat up straight on the wide concrete ledge, rubbed his eyes sleepily, stretched and yawned. "Alan.Alan," came the voice again, and Alan, turning toward it, smiled, and jumped down off the ledge. " Will you play with me?" I heard him shyly ask. "Will you stay with me till Mum comes back?"
And I the watcher and I the listener watched and listened, and the light grew brighter still. And through the light I saw a figure, small and slim, a child almost but not a child.and through the light I heard a voice, like music, sweet breath on the air."Alan .Alan.yes, Alan, I will play with you, and stay with you until your mother comes back, and after then, and all your life.and all your life.I'll keep you safe, I'll keep you safe."
Alan looked toward the child, yet not a child. He looked into the light."My name's Alan," he boldly .shyly.said. "What's yours?" And did I hear a sigh?
"Why, Alan, don't you know me? Oh yes, you surely do."
I watched as two hands, four hands, reached, into, out of, the light, then I saw them join, and all was light.
"Alan.Alan," and the voice.sweet music, filled the air, and filled every fiber of my being, the sound of love, pure love."Why, Alan, I'm your angel."