Dearly Departed (4 page)
The reality was that if my parents continued to be seekers and develop their own potential in the psychic realms, I too would develop rapidly; and in their wisdom they felt it best that my gifts develop along a natural course rather than be spurred along through weekly intense training. After all, I should have a ‘normal’ childhood and experience life suitable for my age. They believed that if there was to be a divine use of my gift, life would unfold in divine timing, not their timing.
So I was thrust back into church life, where there would be religious discipline, training and a belief that was structured and would lay a firm foundation for any work in the spiritual realm that may be called upon later in my life.
We had no extended family in Australia—our family consisted of Mum, Dad and me. Once in a while the small, square, laminated dining table would be extended to allow two more chairs and places for anticipated guests, perhaps a friend of mine, or neighbours Mum and Dad had invited over.
My parents met at the local village dance. Much of their courtship and early married years revolved around activities associated with church life; something they were to adopt when they moved to Australia. Familiarity was comforting, yet we had a secret. Behind closed doors, all manner of religious philosophies and non-traditional healing practices were discussed. From their informal studies and practices I had received a dramatic absentee healing in the 1950s for my rheumatic fever by the famous English healer, Harry Edwards. It was the subsequent healing that alerted my parents of my gift.
I recall waking up one night, sensing something very strange.
I sat up, to see multicoloured lights zooming directly at me, like power surges. I was frightened. They danced around me, behind me and into me. I wanted to call out to my parents, but I froze.
The only way to get to my parents’ bedroom at the other end of the house was through the coloured lights, so I thought it safer to stay where I was. Eventually I must have fallen asleep.
The next morning, rapidly recounting what had occurred to my parents, the discussion became more like an interrogation. They wanted to know everything that had happened, realising I’d experienced a psychic phenomenon.
Several weeks later they received a letter from Harry Edwards, who, at the time, was considered England’s most renowned spiritual healer. The contents of the letter detailed the healing he did for me—and the date. And yes, it was the day I saw the lights—they were the healing lights of Spirit. Through the power of intention, powerful prayer and kind thoughts, healers like Harry channel divine energy directly to the person who needs healing. This very same power is available to you right now. Start by monitoring your thought processes as you think of people you know—are your thoughts pure, kind, warm and caring? In time you will learn to edit negativity as you project only positive thoughts towards those in need. Keeping a gratitude diary or a prayer list may allow you to concentrate on individual’s needs and grateful accomplishments.
You were born with the most powerful computer—your brain.
Allow it to work miracles not only in your life but in those of others.
Mum read tea leaves for her friends and practised laying on of hands on folk who visited our home. She had made a vow to God that she would never charge for her gifts, and consequently we had a linen cupboard full of scented talcum powders and boxes of lace handkerchiefs, given as a form of appreciation. I silently vowed to myself I would never do what my mother did.
Her mother had told her to keep her gift a secret. She had given her first healing to someone at the age of six, had prophetic dreams and had amazing experiences with astral travel, where her astral body was able to separate from her physical body, resulting in flying dreams. This allowed her to visit foreign countries and witness events as they unfolded, the accuracy of the information she had gleaned while she slept confirmed several days later through friends or family. Her mother was fearful that if she told people, they wouldn’t understand and she’d be considered ‘different’. My parents wanted a fairly normal life for me, so I had to promise not to discuss our family secret.
I remember one day a painful spur in my father’s foot instantly disappeared as Mum prayed for a miracle. She felt comfortable doing her healing and prayers in her bedroom. The walls were pink and are still pink to this day. Heavy lace curtains tried to conceal the Venetian blinds that tried to obscure streams of Australian sunlight that penetrated during the day. The highly polished floorboards had pink scatter rugs. The double bed had a pink and cream satin bedspread. It was here they both sat that night as she held Dad’s aching foot in her hands and asked silently for God’s divine intervention and healing. In front of their very eyes, the swelling and pain disappeared. Some would say this was miraculous, but for my family it was considered natural. ‘Ask and ye shall receive’ was one of the quotes they loved to use from the Bible, their source of comfort and rules to live by.
My mother had always told me: ‘If ever you need me, all you have to do is call out my name and I will hear you and find you.’
To me, it was as natural as the other parental golden rule: ‘Never go with strangers.’
I hadn’t needed to test the ‘power of the spoken word’; I knew from my parents’ training that I was divinely looked after, and if ever I felt I was in danger or in need of some form of help or assistance all I had to do was ask! Yes, ask aloud or silently the divine power and all would be well.
One day, upon returning from Sunday school, I realised I hadn’t taken my house key. My parents had travelled that day to clear a block of land they owned that was covered in lantana, a noxious weed that the local council was keen to see eradicated.
Facing a day sitting on the front veranda was not a welcome option. The words sprung into my head: ‘All you have to do is call my name . . .
’
For the second time in my life I would participate. I had been successful in getting a response at the Saturday development circle, so I thought I had nothing to lose by trying it out one more time.
There I sat on the white cane chair, part of a setting that to this day sits in exactly the same spot. I called out in my mind, over and over, ‘Mum—come home, Mum—come home.’
My parents had just unloaded all their work tools from the car when my mother turned to my father and said, ‘Gina is calling us, we must go home’. He wasn’t happy. But there’s one thing my father had learnt from the events of the war, and that was to listen to my mother’s inner voice. They hurriedly packed up and came home.
I recall as the car came down the driveway Mum calling out, ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’
My response was simply, ‘It works.’ I can assure you by the look on their faces they were not amused with my matter-of-fact answer.
But that Sunday I learnt a powerful lesson—telepathy exists.
I was shown a fledgling learning to fly. Its first efforts were very feeble. But as it used its wings more and more, they became stronger until it found the freedom of flight and was able to soar to great heights and fly great distances without any effort. I heard the words: Faith comes with practise. Live by faith until it becomes rock-like, unshakable, and find the true freedom of the spirit.
Eileen Caddy
M
y teenage years were taken up with weekend basketball, ballroom dancing, my ear stuck to the transistor radio listening to my favourite heart-throbs—Elvis Presley and The Rolling Stones—and, more importantly, boys. I had no inclination to be involved in anything mystic. I fell in love with the boy next door—well, around the corner—and we married just before my nineteenth birthday. He was 22.
Our first child, Rebecca, followed five years later, with the rapid onset of my gift returning. As I lay on the delivery bed, suddenly I felt myself leave my body as though I was floating up to the ceiling.
I looked down, and I could see myself in labour with my grandmother holding my hand. But she’d died when I was a young child. The only time I spent with her was when my mother and I made the six-week boat trip back to England when I was three.
My nan’s health was in rapid decline—she had never met her Australian-born grandchild and my mother knew that trip would be the last time she would ever see her own mother. We spent six weeks at Nan’s house in the Midlands, a region known for its wonderful pottery ware.
Three years later, our second child, Andrew, was born. But after nine months their father walked out the door. The affair had started when Andrew was three months old. Now I was forced into single parenthood. Rebecca had been an easy child, but Andrew had asthma from ten weeks of age. He was very unsettled, had great difficulty with his breathing, and he was in constant need of attention to administer medication and therapy.
Did I know or sense anything? I was too involved in raising my children to listen to the small voice in my head. Busyness is like deafness to the spiritual world. When you’re quiet, you’re more able to tap into their energies, observe, learn, listen and act upon the whispers of advice they send. Words from a song may strike a chord within your heart; a conversation with a friend may reveal the advice you’ve been praying for; the book or magazine that stands out from the rest on a shelf may hold the answer to your needs.
I was searching for answers—angry at God that what had seemed perfect had come to an end. How would I manage? What would I do? I was 27 years old with two small children.
Within two years I had met and married a farmer and moved to live in outback New South Wales on a sheep and wheat station.
I was to spend fourteen years in the wilderness of drought, hardship, economic devastation and emotional abuse. The bonus was the rapid development of my spiritual gifts. My dreams were vivid and prophetic and I acted upon them with gusto—but that’s for another book.
During this time I had a spiritual visitation from the deceased statesman Sir Winston Churchill. He told me, ‘One day you will walk the paths of kings and queens, for this is what you are to do.’
He recounted what was to unfold in my life in the forthcoming years. There was no way a poor farmer’s wife could ever meet with a king or queen.
My third child, Brendan, arrived after a very difficult and trying pregnancy. By the time he was three, I had packed up the children and headed for the nearest city, some 130 kilometres away. For the first fortnight I fed them potatoes, chips, potato cakes, more chips and pancakes. They didn’t mind one bit, which was lucky as that’s all we could afford until my first pay cheque came in from my new job as a casual TAFE teacher.
Trying to juggle single parenthood once again, I had five part-time jobs. But having gained a reputation for insight and prophetic prayer, I found that people were knocking at my door at all hours asking for help. It was at this time, when finances were so low, that a friend asked me, ‘Why don’t you charge for your gift?’ The words of my mother that she would never, ever charge for her gift bounced in my ears. It had been engraved into my psyche. The wise friend advised: ‘Then charge for your time or ask for a donation. Your children need to be fed, and you need to live.
After all, singers, doctors and actors get paid for their talents, why not a psychic?’
Life started to resemble some form of normality when I had a dream that changed my life. I woke suddenly to hear a voice telling me: ‘You can’t love anyone else until you love yourself.
Give yourself a present.’ Boy, did I want to know what that present was. I fell back to sleep and was visited by a beautiful Asian woman who I now know to be one of my guides. She showed me a journey that I was to take—I would visit the Land of the Swords where there was much work for me to do.
I moved back to Sydney to work in the field of health. I wanted a ‘regular’ job where no-one knew that I had supernatural gifts.
We all have a blueprint of the soul, and if there’s to be a lesson or you’re off-course, Spirit will pull the rug from under you to point you in the direction of your soul’s purpose. There’s a saying I have always recalled—‘for much is given, much is sought in return’. Spirit had once again provided another detour, another lesson in my soul’s evolution, but the price was indeed sacrificial.
One day a staff member was crying and I confided that I could help. But she wasn’t to tell anyone what I could do. I asked her to allow me to take a piece of her jewellery home so I could do a reading for her. This is called ‘psychometry’, one method a psychic can use to ‘read’ energies or vibrations stored in jewellery, photos or clothing belonging to a person. The following day I gave her ring back along with a tape of the session, again asking her to keep it a secret.
Within days, someone else turned up at my desk wanting a ‘reading’—the word had spread. It would be through this person’s association that I would later become the Royal Psychic.
Wisdom and insight is one thing, but to see corruption through your abilities can be life-changing. In my managerial position, I was faced with the harsh reality of blowing the whistle on the director of the program. My staff and friends turned their backs, and I went on sick leave. I tried to return several times, but no-one would speak to me or even acknowledge I was there. It took eighteen months to prove my allegations were correct. The director lost his position and a number of staff roles changed. I think I’m the only psychic who has been sent to psychiatrists by the government and told I was sane!
The royal psychic
I was 45 years old and ony had one dollar in small coins to my name when a telephone call changed my life. It was a man, saying, ‘I can’t find my daughter, can you help? Interpol can’t locate her and you have been recommended to me.’ The posh, English-sounding man’s voice echoed in my ear. If there is one thing I have learnt working in this field is regardless of who we are or where we live, we still tend to ask the same questions about life and death at some time in our lives.
Immediately I sensed his daughter had eloped and gave him information of her whereabouts. He then requested a more detailed reading and would courier photos of the young woman with the condition I must courier the reading back to him ASAP. Only having one dollar in my purse, I asked him to cover the costs. When I enquired who I was speaking to, all I could remember was the name Mohammed. Later that afternoon I was to learn from our mutual contact that he was a sultan and his father was a ruling king.
