Category Archives: Life

The Warrior & the Artisan

Chapter One: The Mission


The Soul left its sect and floated through the vast whiteness that served as the habitat of the endless Souls that dwelled there. Why it had woken, it did not know. Or perhaps it did. That ringing in its ears was all too familiar and was usually the call to action that it could never ignore. Perhaps it was the apprehensive tinge that crept up on itself that was feigning ignorance, rather wishing it could return to its beautiful, glowing sect and remain blissfully inside the love and happiness that surrounded it.

Not that the Soul was cowardly; oh no, not by any means. The Soul had not only returned to Earth numerous times but had actively volunteered to go down in order to try and help other Souls who were currently incarnated on Earth and had lost their way. These Lives were particularly gruelling because the suffering levels usually shot up by a good few bars and if there was one thing that every Soul secretly dreaded it was experiencing the misery of human life. With regard to helping the lost Souls, sometimes it was successful, other times not. It was always wonderful to stumble across a Soul that had been saved once returning to the Whiteness, reminiscing in nostalgic memories from their time down below. But the sadness of an unsuccessful attempt at Soul Restoration always remained in painful memory for the one who had endeavoured it, and there had been a few of those. Not to mention several Lives where it had almost lost itself in the process.

No, it was not cowardice that perpetrated the feeling of trepidation within itself. Rather it was the knowledge of what it had to face, if indeed this was another call to action. All the Souls were aware that the Earth had been getting worse; sinking even further with each passing earthly year, slowly losing sight of what truly mattered and indulging in materialisms that meant very little in the grand scheme of things. The evils that had long plagued the Earth were truly beginning to take their toll and there had been many whispered conversations among other Souls that mankind was on its last legs. No need to incarnate soon, many of them said, for there won’t be a planet left to incarnate to! More and more Souls were being lost to the Darkness … In fact, the Darkness was having a high and mighty time of it all, even convincing many who were on Earth that the dark side didn’t even exist. At one time this would have been believed to be impossible. Now it had become very much a reality.

The Soul was no different to any other Soul. It did not particularly enjoy incarnating into Lives, knowing full well the horrors and suffering that awaited it. Still, this was duty and refusing an incarnation simply because of fear was not something the Soul had a tendency to do. It happened, of course. Some Souls preferred to bask inside the beautiful light and actively rejected going down; certainly there were a few that had already experienced unimaginable horrors and had earned their right to a good basking rest. No one would be condemned for choosing to bask, for condemnation did not exist in the Whiteness. But it did halt the Souls’ levelling process and they all knew how important it was to evolve. The evolution into absolute love was the height of every Soul’s ambitions. Some chose to do this quickly, others at a slower pace. Staying pure and not losing oneself to the dark side was always the ultimate challenge once incarnating.

The ringing in its ears grew louder. This was because it was getting closer to the Power and, within moments of reaching it, it gave a very small sigh, now fully convinced that this was a call to action. The call to action often meant there was a specific mission the Power wanted them to undertake and, like a seasoned earthly warrior, it felt both exhilarated and disheartened at the same time. The ringing abruptly stopped once it halted outside the Power’s dwelling. Few Souls lingered here, only the most evolved ones, the ones who had incarnated time and time again into the most challenging lives. They were distinguished by the crystal clear glow that softly emanated around them. Many of them had already reached the height that others strove for. They were no longer able to incarnate into human bodies but instead they were known to mankind as the ‘guardian angels’ or ‘blessings’; on Earth, they were that kind word from a stranger, that whisper to carry on living even when all hope seemed lost and the protection from dark forces, the same dark forces that were constantly fighting to bring the Souls into the blackened, tortured realm. Their gentle light greeted the Soul as it came to rest outside the Power’s dwelling.

Looking around, it noticed there was another Soul there who did not have a crystal glow.

“Hello,” said the Soul to the other.

“Greetings,” it replied.

The Soul noted the fiery red colour that radiated around its new acquaintance.

“You are a Warrior,” it commented.

The other Soul nodded.

“Indeed,” it said. “And you … are an Artisan? Am I correct?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I thought so. Sorry if I was a bit confused just then. Sometimes I cannot tell the difference between the Artisan and the Sage. It must be the blue around you.”

This rather blunt statement was quite typical of a Warrior Soul. They were known for their forthright manner and, to put it simply, saying whatever they thought. There were seven different types of Soul: the Artisan, the Warrior, the Sage, the King, the Priest, the Server and the Scholar. Each had its own sect and brought its own personal attribute to Earth during incarnation. As Souls they could be defined by the colour that glowed around them.

“I tend not to spend much time here if truth be told,” continued the Warrior Soul. “There are an awful lot of battles to be fought on Earth. Bringing lost souls back to the light is usually what I go down for. Though I had a rather bad time of it last time I was there. I spent longer than I usually do inside the sect when I returned.”

“Was it very painful?” asked the Artisan Soul.

“Oh yes. Losing someone you love in the most unimaginable way possible is the most horrific thing to experience as a human. Of course, we forget that death is just another step forward once we incarnate; we really have no idea if we will ever see them again. There’s the pain, the guilt, the plunging into earthly vices … I almost lost myself. So tell me, what brings you here?”

“I heard the ringing,” replied the Artisan Soul. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“Ah, the same as me then. I heard it and wondered if I was the only one who did. None of the other Souls in my sect heard it. Do you know what it is for?”

“I do not. But callings from the Power always have a certain type of importance.”

At that moment, several other souls who were not from the highest evolved type joined them. Observing the glowing colours around them, they saw there was a Priest Soul, a Sage Soul, a Scholar Soul and a King Soul. The Artisan and the Warrior hailed them and it was then that they began to suspect this was going to be a Zenith Mission.

“A Zenith perhaps?” said the Warrior Soul in a low voice to the Artisan, voicing aloud everyone’s thoughts. “There are six of us gathered here. The only one missing is the Server. I have never embarked on a Zenith before. Usually only the most advanced Souls are chosen for those. I did not think I was quite ready.”

“Nor I,” said the Artisan.

For a while, the six Souls simply floated on the spot, radiating their purity and love out to one another, waiting for the Power to arrive in order to inform them as to why they had been called to action. There was an atmosphere of curiosity about them, for none of these Souls had ever been on a Zenith before. A Zenith Mission was one that focussed on influencing others, rather than oneself; it was one that often changed an aspect of the world if successfully completed. Zenith Missions were usually done in groups, often in threes or fours, and more rarely in sixes or sevens. Different Souls from each type were chosen, though not necessarily one from each. Four Warriors could be sent on one mission, whereas on others, a Priest, Scholar and two Servers could be asked to go down and so forth.

The Power was not long in greeting them. It was always a greatly pleasant feeling to be in the midst of the Power, for it was the absolute height of love and purity. Even the memories of Lives on Earth left the Souls for a time when in the company of the Power.

“Welcome,” it said to them. “Please listen closely, my Souls, to what I am about to say, for it is with love that I say it, yet the horrors of which I speak of are absent from love itself.

“Mankind becomes more lost with each Earthly year. Souls lose their way swifter than ever before. Greed and corruption eat at their hearts and crush them; the Darkness claims them for its own and we lose them in their thousands. Why is this, you may ask? It is because Mankind no longer believes in believing; without belief, without the desire to believe in the goodness of oneself and the good in others, the world slips into decline, morally and spiritually. Why does one side of the world grow fat while the other side starves, where the man in his riches and land will give little or nothing to the child who dies from hunger? Why are the heroes of the world now those who are aesthetically beautiful but plain inside, when the true heroism of mankind was once those who lived for honour, courage, compassion and humility? Why is the body, which turns to dust in the blink of an eye, now more valued than the soul, which lingers on forever? Why does each leader live for materialism and power, rather than spread benevolence to all those who are suffering and in need? Why does mankind continue to destroy Nature, the very thing that provides him with life, with continual inventions designed to benefit him and him alone? Why does the Earthly Soul of today treat his brothers, the animals, with contempt and disregard, destroying their homes, taking their land for their own and killing them for their uses? Their duty is to protect and love them, not terminate them. Why do demons who wear the masks of angels have such influence over the vulnerable and weak, claiming righteousness, yet acting callously and cruelly? Why does it become increasingly acceptable to act with cowardice and indifference when faced with the suffering or pain of others? Why do so many Souls become more and more arrogant, falling into their Egos and believing that there is no greater being or purpose than their earthly selves? No, my Souls. The world is not as it should be. You will have heard rumours that Mankind is close to annihilation; indeed this is true but not in the way that some may believe. There will be no destruction of the planet, other than by the hand of Man himself and this will be many earthly years in the future. The extinction of Mankind will be when humans continue to walk the Earth, but without Souls; where Darkness reigns supreme and no Soul from the Whiteness will return to that cursed world. Only the Soulless and the Dark will prevail; such a time is not far off and should this happen, we ourselves would have little purpose in our existence … For us to love them as we do, to witness the deterioration and decay of those who lost their way … My Souls, the rain that floods the Earth is nothing to the tears that we will shed.”

The Souls who were listening stayed silent. The Power continued to speak.

“Each one of you that has come here has been chosen to play a crucial role in saving Mankind. You are not the highest evolved Souls but you have attained a great deal of experience; you have expressed resilience and fortitude in your past lives. You do not have to accept this mission; the knowledge of suffering that you will be exposed to is tantamount to what Souls in the final stage of evolution go through. You are advanced but not advanced to the point of becoming a ‘guardian’ and this is what this mission requires.”


Who I Was In My Past Life

I have wanted to write about my experience with a Past Life Regression session for a while now so I have decided to talk about it here. Apparently, I am one of those people that is known as a ‘sensitive’. The experiences that have happened to me have been unexplainable and downright unusual, but they have happened all the same. Skeptics and critics are quick to dismiss paranormal experiences as works of the imagination or the first sign of lunacy – but I tend not to take such people very seriously. There is a narrow-minded stance about them that oozes of ignorance; that foolish belief that if one has not experienced or seen something themselves, then it must not be real. That’s like saying that if you haven’t seen the pyramids of Egypt then they must not exist. Mindbogglingly stupid.

Going back to being sensitive, I am the epitome of the word itself, mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. In the physical sense, I cannot even open an onion without my eyesight being blinded by water and in the emotional sense I am quick to burst into tears at the slightest inkling of pain and suffering of another, especially animals or children. Mentally (and emotionally) I experience the feelings and thoughts of others as though experiencing them myself and it makes me especially susceptible to other peoples’ distress. I despise crowds because of the overwhelming amount of emotion running through people and if I must enter one, I much prefer to enter it drunk, so I can at least numb out the myriad of feelings. Spiritually, there have been a number of times I have had interactions with spirits, not all pleasant ones – in fact, mostly negative ones – and on occasions, dreams that have had significant impact in the reality we are used to.

So I decided to go to a Past Life Regression therapist, out of sheer curiosity if anything. My view on past lives before embarking upon the session was simply neutral; I did not believe nor disbelieve; I went in with an open mind as I do about many things. I have been told by a number of people that I am an ‘old soul’ but I never really took much notice of it. The only thing I knew about ‘old souls’ is that they are souls that have lived many times before, in many different eras and bodies, and they learn a different lesson each time they incarnate back to earth. So I hunted around for a while, looking around for someone who could attempt to ‘regress’ me. I ended up speaking to several different therapists but the lady I chose was the very first one I spoke to. I liked her immediately and had a wonderful feeling about her; her genuine nature shone through. I booked my session with her and met her in Kensington some weeks later.

We went into a small, simple office and as soon as she started talking, strange shivers ran through me and I was absorbed in everything she had to say, even though most of it was small chit-chat. The more she spoke, the more I felt what she was feeling and thought what she was expressing. When she spoke about an experience she had where a close friend was involved in a car crash, tears came to my eyes and I felt her sadness. She carried on talking for some ten minutes. the shivers still running through me, and afterwards she told me that the reason she spoke to me was because she wanted to gain an idea of how well I could connect to her; she told me she strongly believed that, though it was my first time, I would regress quite easily.

The session began. I will not go into detail of exactly what was involved; I will only say that it took about half an hour to get me into the state of complete relaxation where my mind could be freed of all worries, anxiety, weight and anything at all really; and it was a truly wonderful feeling. The lady asked me questions about what I could see; at first, I recalled an extreme reluctance to speak and I knew why. The person I was now was a man and he felt embarrassed about speaking in a girl’s voice. But I (as in me the girl) pushed this aside and responded. I was wearing sandals and around me were several mountains. I was waiting for a friend to arrive. I was a big, strong man too, no doubt about that, and dressed in some kind of tunic. The lady asked me what had brought me to this place. Without hesitating, I explained that my wife lived here and I had moved here. We had two young sons. I was then asked my name; I recall the names ‘Adam’ and ‘John’ flashing through my mind as though they were part of some kind of slot machine, but then ‘Philip’ appeared and it stopped on that name; and I knew my name was Philip. The lady then asked me to fast forward to a number of years; when I did, a complete horror overwhelmed me; it was dark and there were men on horseback setting fire to my village, killing the inhabitants. She asked me where my family was. I burst into tears and told her I couldn’t see them. I explained to her that we (I and the other  men) had tried to fight back but the men on horseback were too powerful. I cried continuously. I was then asked to fast forward again. When I did, I was sitting in an empty hut and there was a drink on the table. The lady asked me where I was; I simply replied that I was alone. She then asked me where my family was; well, I told her they were dead and then I started to sob, and this indescribable pain seeped through me. I was asked to fast forward to the age of 60 but I couldn’t; she then asked me to come to the end of my life. So I did and I knew I was 57. She asked me where I was; I told her I was on a cliff. I was standing on this cliff looking down into this black nothingness. She asked me why I was there; I explained that I was going to jump and that is exactly what I did.

After that, it took about five minutes to bring me back. When I opened my eyes I was back in the room again and quite exhausted from all the crying. The lady told me that I had to forgive the people who had killed my wife and sons but I couldn’t quite see how that was possible. She told me that the lesson of that life was not to commit suicide; and I think I’m doing pretty well up til now, but there is always something inside me, whispering at me to do it; however, I know I won’t because a successful lesson usually means acquiring a load of strength. The lady told me that I was a very old soul (‘How do you know that?’ I asked, to which she replied she didn’t know how she knew, she just did) and that I was a beautiful soul also, which was lovely to hear. I went away from that experience, not allowing doubt to overshadow my mind, and I knew that I had gained from it.

For it makes much sense to me; when I was very young, about five years old, I can vividly recall that if a member of my family had gone out somewhere, I would be gripped by this terrifying fear that they would not return, that they had met an accident or some other fatal catastrophe. I’ve always felt a very strong need to protect people I care about and if I fail to do this, a piercing guilt prevails. When I became depressed it was triggered without warning and for no reason; and this was no ordinary ‘adolescent depression’ this was a matter of life and death that took years of fighting to overcome. There was always that voice telling me to end it and even now it will slyly creep up on me; but I choose to fight back, not give in, and for this reason I am proud of my soul and what it has accomplished. There are many things I don’t fear and one of them is death, because my soul has known the worst, to lose the ones he loved the most, only to take his own life at the end. Hence any challenge that comes, I know I can face it head on.

Whether you are a believer or a skeptic, there is no denying the existence of the soul. It just depends how open you are to allow yourself to experience such things or how humble you are in realizing that arrogance is one of the worst human traits, and it is arrogance that causes a person to believe that if they have not seen it, then it never was there. In reality – and this is what most so-called realists fail to recognize – there is very little that we know at all and that is why nothing that is worth knowing can be taught, as the esteemed Oscar Wilde said. I believe that Philip is only one of my past lives; one other that I know of was a male musician who died at the age of 14. But he is another story, just one of the many stories that my soul has to tell me and, if I have the faith in myself that I truly believe I do, this life will be right up there with all the tragic, but crucial, stories my soul has already written.

In Memory of my Beautiful Elsa

beautifulelsaOne year ago, my lovely little Jack Russell, Elsa, who was six, passed away from a malignant tumor. One week she was the same playful dog she always was; the next week she had died in my arms. Words cannot begin to express how much I miss her.

I chose her from a litter of five and the truth was that I had originally been most interested in picking a male, rather than a female. But my father passed her to me, casually asking me what I thought of her. She was so tiny that she fit into my palm. I held her up close to my face and peered into her eyes in a rather skeptical manner; she then proceeded to lick my nose and I thought, this is the one! The rest is history.

Elsa was extremely beautiful for a Jack Russel (I often thought she resembled Audrey Hepburn, though the wide-eyed looks that followed whenever I mentioned this hinted that no one else agreed with me). She was also incredibly playful, fiercely brave, rather rude to other dogs (she would often stick her nose up at them whenever they came sniffing around) and highly sensitive (she ignored me for a good few hours once when I had stayed out overnight.) All in all, she had the vivacious, independent character of her kind, and more. So on the day we found out that this small lump in her neck was actually a vicious tumor and would slowly kill her, we had no choice but to put her to sleep. Within the space of a week, the lump had increased in size, equal to the weight of her head and the vet informed us that if she continued to live until the end, the tumor would eat into her neck and choke her to death.

So we planned the best death for her that any dog could possibly have. The day before she died, I asked the vet to give her an injection that would provide her with energy for a few hours, for she was so lethargic at that point that she could barely move. He obliged and those last few precious hours were spent with us running and chasing each other in the park, as we had done so many times before. For a brief blissful moment, I could imagine that there was no tumor, that she was not going to die and that she was the same happy, healthy dog she always had been. We bought her a delicious steak that she greatly enjoyed and, that night, I cuddled her and told her many things.

The next morning we took her to the vet, that final hurdle before we had to say goodbye. I wanted her to know that I was going to be with her until the very end. They muzzled her, but she didn’t resist. I think she knew it was time for her to go. I held her in my arms, caressed her and kept telling her what a good girl she was; they injected her with a lethal substance and she slid gently down on the table. And I cradled her with a grief that seemed too powerful to bear.

We had Elsa cremated and she now sits in a plant pot on my window sill. I will never forget my little dog for she brought a joy to me that I had never experienced before. There is no doubt in my mind that she is up there somewhere, wagging her tail, being snooty to the other dogs that have passed away and waiting for me to see her again. I had written a poem for her the day before she departed, which is below. God sometimes takes away the ones we love the most but this is not to be cruel or unkind; it is because he knows, as so many of us do, that there is a better place that we go to after life, where sickness, suffering and sorrow do not exist. It is here that my dog waits for me and where all those who have passed wait patiently for those who are left behind. This promise is made to us because such overwhelming love never exists in vain and even death cannot break it; he can only stall it. There is no such thing as goodbye; just goodbye for now.

My beautiful little Elsa

Time to sleep

Death has chosen to slyly creep

And take what doesn’t belong to him

And sprinkle the grief that Pain must bring

This cruel mist and blinding fog

Will soon take the life of my little dog.

So we will have one last perfect day

Without suffering or sadness or the thought of decay

Where Elsa will play and run and be glad

These last hours are not a time to be sad

But to remember how special and loved she is

A beautiful dog who will be greatly missed,

And though untimely for she did not hit seven,

They say all dogs go to Heaven,

And though Time was not with us from the start

Time will mend the cracks of my broken heart

Time will do his best to ease this pain

Time is the reassurance I will see her again.

Goodbye Elsa, soon you will be all brand new

For God has promised me he will look after you

For now I’ve got to stay and you must go through this door

But one day I’ll walk through and join you once more.

And no matter how long it is we are apart

You’ll always be number one

And hold a special place in my heart.


Why does fear of convention challenge our sense of right and wrong?

One evening some time ago, I was on the bus when it stopped and three “rudeboys” jumped on. Typically, they each wore a hooded jumper, moved in a slow, gorilla-type fashion and had the same arrogant sneer on their faces, the archetype of their kind. Two were mixed Jamaican/English, the other black. (And yes, I can imagine the SS of political correctness getting riled up at the fact that I mentioned the words ‘Jamaican, black and gorilla’ in the same paragraph; not different to the white teacher who once innocently called a black child a ‘cheeky monkey’ and found her job on the line for it. Please … before hurling any absurd left-wing accusations of racism at me, at least read the post. For this is not a post about colour; even the most stupid of people know that evil comes in many shades, white, black, yellow or brown. *eye roll*).

It turned out that the boys had no money to get on the bus and the bus driver asked them to leave. They refused. The next few minutes was spent with them tormenting the bus driver, and one of them arrogantly remarking, “I’ve got alllll day to do this!” (Of course you do; you don’t exactly go to school or work). The bus driver, who quite frankly was a pretty weak specimen of a man, repeatedly asked them to leave, to which they continued to laugh and jeer in his face.

By this time, I had had quite enough. I often feel a boiling rage inside of me when I witness one group of people picking on a singular weak one. There is something about groups and gangs that I thoroughly dislike; I think it’s because those who are part of them are often cowardly weeds when they are on their own. I rose from my seat and stormed over to them, demanding they leave. Naturally, being a girl and slightly shorter than them, I was met with raucous laughter, one of them even having the audacity to ask where I was from. I threatened to call the police if they didn’t leave. More laughter. One of the boys grinned, turned his back to me and started swinging from the hinges of the bus door. There was something about the sight of his swinging back that instilled in me this overwhelming urge to push him off. And I did. Except he didn’t fly from the bus as I had hoped. Instead, he saved himself by clutching each side of the door with his palms. Each boy turned to face me and suddenly it wasn’t a laughing matter anymore. One boy urged another to ‘hit me’ and the boy he was egging on took a lunge for my bag. I held on to it tight but he succeeded in breaking the strap. Infuriated, I yelled at them and it was at that point that they jumped off the bus. The bus driver (who had remained quiet throughout the whole incident) asked me if I was alright and I told him to close the doors and drive on.

My thoughts on the matter are this. Firstly, the bus driver should have exerted more authority and ordered the boys off, no matter what measures it took. It is his job to protect his bus and his passengers, yet I believe that his fear of the boys caused him to submit the way he did. He did not let them on without paying but he stood for their disrespectful jeers. Bus drivers have to put up with an awful lot of crap these days; rude behaviour, scammers, filthy looks. But one thing they shouldn’t tolerate is such an overwhelming act of disrespect towards them. What kind of a society is this where an adult man will cower in fear to a bunch of sneering, teenage layabouts who have nothing better to do with their time than  cause grief to normal, decent citizens? Furthermore, what kind of society is this where grown men will sit passively on a bus and watch a girl confront three hoodlums and do nothing to assist?

For that is exactly what happened. There were grown men on that bus. In fact, the majority of people on the lower deck were grown men. Yet they all sat there and pretended that nothing was happening. The honest reason I believe this was for? Because of the pressures of convention. Conventional society states that you do not speak out or act when something our of the ‘ordinary’ occurs; it demands that you retain a level of ignorance and keep yourself to yourself. In other words, it ensures that we are surrounded by cowards who will stand and watch while injustice occurs, rather than stand and fight in order to do what is right. I was lucky; the boys could have had knives or guns. I could have been stabbed or shot. But this says less about me than it does about the complete out-of-control spiral that this society has become, where teens run rampant with weapons and the decent citizen lives in fear. And the politician sits comfortably in his home, completely disconnected with the outside world (and, quite frankly, where is his compassion for it anyway?)

Perhaps everyone should start questioning themselves as to why we live in a society that teaches us to do the wrong thing. And why we obey it. No one likes confrontation; I absolutely hate it but I will do it if it is the right thing to do. And allowing a bunch of rude, disrespectful teens to behave in such a disgusting manner is definitely not the right thing to do. The bus driver cowering in fright was not in the right; the grown men and women who turned a blind eye were not in the right. So what does society consist of? Rude, cruel individuals who will torment others, cowards who refuse to stand up for themselves and physically powerful people who prefer to remain in ignorance for their own safety? We run the risk of harm to ourselves when we challenge any form of evil in this world; those boys would have run away in fear, had even one of those men rushed to my aid, but they did not. What is sad is that if they had chosen to speak up, the strength in number would have ensured the victory.

Evil prevails when good men do nothing. Next time you witness an injustice, remember that.