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Posts Tagged ‘nature of reality’

I’ve heard many unusual stories over the years. For instance, a farmer’s wife told me of seeing lightning go through a closed window, pass through her kitchen, through an open door, then out a window in the living room. Another time she told me about a night, not long after her husband died, when she’d been awakened by a bell. A bell he had used to summon her when he was sick. “I shoulda never given him that bell!” Then she felt his side of the bed go down. She asked him to please go—it was very frightening for her—she told him she couldn’t handle it, and he left.

 

When I sold encyclopedias I met an Episcopalian minister who told me that at one time he worshipped the devil. Back in those dark days he used to leave his body and fly with his friends to an enemy’s house to attack them. He also told me that the devil was very powerful and that he was like a light bulb in brightness compared to us who would be like a match. God, however, would be like the Sun.

 

A Mankind Project friend, Fred Cheyette, has compiled a book of stories of the strange and inexplicable things that have occurred to ordinary people; things that seem too amazing to be attributed to coincidence. After experiencing many unusual occurrences himself, he would often relate them to others. They, in turn, would tell him of theirs.

 

Here are some of the stories that will appear in his book:

 

During a trip to Los Angeles I went to the YWCA and had a massage with a woman named Eve, who I had never met before. During the massage she told me things about my family, which amazed me, because I had not mentioned them to her. Two days later I went back to the Y and asked to set up another appointment with Eve because I was so taken with what she had told me. The clerk said that was impossible to do because she had gone back to Hungary six months before!

In the ‘60s I was living in Cambridge, Massachusetts and my brother was living in a nearby town. One night he called me. Since this was before cell phones and speed dialing, he dialed my number manually. However I was not home, but was at a party somewhere in the suburbs. I had come with other people, I didn’t know the house and I had never met the host. At one point I decided to take a break from the party and was sitting alone next to the telephone. The phone rang and on impulse I answered it. It was my brother. I was incredulous. “How did you find me here?” I asked. He didn’t understand what I was talking about. After some discussion, we discovered that he had intended to dial my Cambridge apartment’s number and somehow dialed the number of the house I was visiting.

On September 21, 1938, I was leaving my house in Brooklyn to go to school. I was seven years old and fairly heavy. I closed the front door of the house and walked down the five steps to the landing. As I approached the two steps that led to the sidewalk, a gust of wind picked me up, carried me through the air and gently put me down on my feet on the sidewalk. I looked around and didn’t see anyone, so I walked to school and didn’t say anything about it. The wind that picked me up was part of the most severe hurricane to hit the Northeast in recorded history.

My wife and I were home, sitting in the same room, doing some mundane thing. Suddenly, at the same instant, we both broke out into song. We sang the same song, in the same key and started singing at the same place in the song. It was not a song we had been singing or listening to. It never happened before or since.

His publisher wants him to add more stories to his book before it’s published. If you have a story like the ones I’ve included from Fred’s book (not like mine) and you’d enjoy seeing it in print, email it to Fred at fredcheyette@earthlink.net. Let him know if you’d like it to appear with your byline.

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Why did Grandma die, doesn’t she love us anymore?”

When my mother was dying several years ago, we gathered for a week at her bedside, all eleven of us, her children, coming in from all parts of the country, also numerous grandchildren.

My mother’s body was shot, after living with cancer, diabetes, high blood pressure, and a host of other maladies, including my father who now had Alzheimer’s. She’d had enough; it was her time to go.

When I was growing up, we went on weekly picnics in the nice weather.  My mother loved to sing; she had a beautiful voice. She and my father, whose voice was not as exceptional, would lead us in the old songs that they grew up with. We would all sing around the fire at night and on all those drives to and from.

So, around my mother’s bed, we sang these same songs. When we got the words wrong she would jump in and help us. Then she died.

I missed when she passed out of her body and briefly burst into tears when one of my sisters said she was gone.

The next day I was hanging out with my nieces. Jana, a very vivacious eight year old, was very sad and angry.

“Why did Grandma die?” she asked. “Doesn’t she love us anymore?”

She could not understand why her grandma, who had held on until everyone had come in from Illinois, California, Connecticut, and Colorado, would abandon her. Jana sorely missed her.

I explained that Grandma’s body was all worn out, that it was very hard for her to stay alive when she was so old and so sick.

I said it was time for her to leave her body and go on to something else like a caterpillar in a chrysalis becomes a butterfly. “Would you want Grandma to stay the way she is, all sick and broken down, just because you don’t want her to go away?”

Jana’s face changed. Still serious, but now a little lighter, she asked, “Is Grandma a butterfly?”

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I’ve always enjoyed explaining to people, what the nature of reality is, especially when I first started on the spiritual path.

 I’d tell them stuff like “Everything is one,” “We all share the same spirit,” “When Jesus said, ‘I am the vine, you are the branches.’ he meant that we are all one being…” stuff like that.

 Well, one day, when I was staying with my family in San Clemente, I drove up to Laguna Beach with Phil, one of my younger brothers. After traipsing around town for a while, we went down to the ocean and sat on the rocks just about the intertidal zone and watched the waves roll in.

 I commenced sharing with this eight-year-old some of my great new-found wisdom: “We are a part of everything, Phil. The whole cosmos is taking place in this very instant. There is no past or future, the past is gone, the future hasn’t happened yet—the present is the only thing there is.” and so forth.

After I’d gone on for a bit, he turned to me and said, “I don’t know about all that, Larry, I just try to live one day at a time.”

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