by Tessa Lynne
“Angels carry messages from one spirit to another and to spiritual human beings with the ability to receive such messages. They also watch over situations on behalf of the Creator. Most angels are in that realm as a learning experience and will eventually return to the realm of spirits who take physical lives. Archangels remain in a permanent position of nurturing and teaching; it is the manner in which they have chosen to serve the Creator.”
I listen, still trying to take in the idea that Reality is a spirit.
“It is to the spirit world that I sometimes return—to replenish my strength and to seek the guidance of my superior. Permission was recently granted for me to reveal my identity to you. This was after close scrutiny of you in the years you have worked with Sally, and even before then. The final decision was not mine; it was made by those I answer to.”
Reality cuts off my next question and tells me that Sally’s schedule requires him to leave.
“I hope we can soon have a longer conversation. I will be alert for opportunities. Sally is to know of my identity, and all that I tell you, but not until she has made further progress toward full integration.”
In the moment it takes Sally to return, I consider the ethics of speaking to an entity who is not my client, but it would be useless to search the guidelines; they contain no reference to speaking to a client’s guardian. I would not have entertained the possibility early in her treatment. Now I need to give it further thought.
Sally is my last client of the day. As soon as the door closes behind her, I look for a notebook to record this encounter. So far, it is a matter-of-fact account, a reflection of my twenty years of experience writing reports and assessments. I start with known facts and observations and then add my professional analysis and conclusions, keeping my personal opinions and feelings at a far remove. I cannot do that with this development.
I would write of this encounter in my journal if I kept one current. Every few years I am hit with an urge to start one, and I carefully select the perfect notebook and pen. I compare cover designs—which one says me at that point in time? I touch the paper to find just the right feel, the subtle texture I like. Is the weight of the pen balanced, does it fit the contours of my hand? Does the ink glide on smoothly? And then the few sporadic entries I make in each one take less time than the selection process. I often recommend to clients that they journal, but it is not how I process my own life.
If I continue this conversation with Reality, I will want to record it, but not as case notes, and it does not precisely fit in a personal journal. It will require a recording of facts and a certain distance, my usual writing style, with the addition of personal reflections and opinions. I will use this ordinary spiral notebook, bought two for a dollar when my daughters were in junior high.
Rational vs. Intuitive
I stop at home for a quick bite to eat and to trade my dress for a tank top and shorts, all I need on this first day of September. Charkey comes running and meows for his supper and a little attention. I remember to turn on the sprinklers in the back yard, then drive a mile out of town and over the causeway to the island.
I have kept at bay my reaction to this encounter with a new reality (the pun is noticed, if not intended). I do not want to err on either side of this—by dismissing Reality’s claims outright or by blind acceptance of them. This is the place for me to consider them, but not quite yet.
I walk here on the island several times a week, making it a more intentional act when I need to reflect deeply or to center myself in meditation within the solitude and sustenance of nature. It is where I review my therapeutic work and my role as a single parent, where I release the tensions of the day or week. Less frequently, I give vent here to feelings of anger and frustration, a clearing of negative emotions as I walk. Always, I am replenished by the simple act of connecting with the earth. A fast walk over gently sloping natural trails puts me in touch with my body; a slower, meditative, walk connects me to myself.
This is where I reflect on and process the passages of my life. It is where I grieved for my father twelve years ago and where, a year before that, I made the anguished decision to divorce. More recently, it is here that I faced frustration and loss when my ability to walk for hours was reduced to five minutes or less. Now, three years later, I can manage an hour on my best days.
This ground has known my tears; the trees have absorbed my pain. I have picked up sizable rocks, transferred to them the weight of the past, and heaved them into the river—letting go. I have felt here the sheer joy of being alive and have merged with the sights, sounds, and textures of the natural world: a newborn fawn curled in a nest of grass; skunks scratching in the dirt for insects; minks playing tag among the ruins of an old stone cabin. I lean against the largest trees and feel their energy; the wind carries my prayers. This is my living journal: an organic, visceral process of reflection and renewal. I need no pen or paper—it is written directly on my soul.
Now, alternating fast and slow walking for thirty minutes, I make my way to the shelter on the bank of the river. The open, wooden structure, set among tall pines and cottonwoods, is a natural fit. I sit in a lotus position and admire the dusty-blue seed clusters of a dark green juniper, appreciate their contrast with the narrow, silver-green leaves of a nearby Russian olive tree. I listen to a squirrel’s angry chatter at my intrusion. While he makes his peace with me, I look out at the gently flowing water and up to the bluffs rising opposite. I settle into myself, take some deep, calming breaths, and consider the question I have come here seeking to answer.
I am aware first of an inner energy rising up within me in confirmation: some part of me knows Reality’s truth. I rest in that for a minute, until my rational mind asserts itself and asks if I am not being too quick—it is a familiar pattern.
When my more spiritual, intuitive self conflicts with my more practical, rational side, I have learned to seek inner guidance. More accurately, I have learned that it would be wise for me to do so, but I do not consistently follow the path of wisdom. Like a whining child, my rational mind has learned that persistence often prevails. It is louder and more insistent, convinced of its superiority and its ability to wear me down with repetition.
In contrast, when I work with clients on an intuitive level my rational self is blocked to some extent. At the close of a session, I often find myself incapable of writing a client’s name on a form, even one I have known for years. I need to pause, and I can almost feel the neural pathways of my brain shifting to the areas that deal more easily with memory and writing. Now I want input from both intuition and logic.
I will need to remain somewhat detached, as I do with my clients. It may prevent me from entering fully into this experience, but it will keep me grounded in my professional role and I can use my analytical skills to assess the credibility of what I have been told. Some part of me wants to cast aside rational thought and simply believe; my training and experience urge me to be more cautious.
Seeking inner resources and spiritual direction, I sit in meditation. I let my mind be clear and place my attention on my breath. After a time, I say a prayer for guidance and wisdom and then sit in reflection. I stay alert to messages from spirit while my rational mind, which never needs to be asked, frequently interrupts. Almost an hour goes by before I reach a tentative conclusion: Reality is who and what he says he is.
I base my belief, in part, on the history of our relationship and the role he has played in Sally’s life and throughout her healing journey. He has always represented truth, and he has supported Sally’s growth and independence. He has said there are strict limits on the degree to which he can interfere, and he has done so only a few times.
I cannot ignore the possibility that Reality is a part of Sally, that he is manipulating me, has a hidden agenda. I counter it with the fact that he has maintained complete consistency over the years—internally, as to who he is, and externally, in his interactions with me. Part of my work with the alters has been to help eac
h develop a sense of self-worth and to recognize her gifts. Reality supports me in that effort but maintains his distance and a low profile, allowing the alters to grow through the choices they make and through their relationships—with me, and with each other in their inner world. The totality of my experience of him fits better with his being Sally’s guardian than with his being a part of her.
I consider Sally’s experience of Reality as a presence, one she feels as external to both her mind and her body. I have been aware of at least one similar presence, throughout my life, that I have come to realize is of a spiritual nature. I believe that each of us has a spir-it and a guardian. It is an intuitive belief but, once accepted, logic would dictate that a guardian must play a more prominent role in the life of someone with Sally’s history.
As I lean toward acceptance, my rational mind interjects: what if you are wrong? It is a fair question: if Reality is not who he claims to be, it would be detrimental to Sally for me to listen to him. It would also be a strong blow to my sense of professional integrity and to my trust in my own judgment. How far could I go down a false path before it would become self-perpetuating and leave me mired in the mud of my misconceptions? I turn the question around: what if I were to discount what Reality said, but he spoke the truth? It is not something I can accept on an outside chance it might be so, but do I need to have absolute proof?
There are no reference books for me to consult, nothing with which I can compare this experience. I must trust my instincts and intuition as much as the logic I apply here. All that exists in me, outside of rational thought, believes; my logical self demands evidence. My belief outweighs any skepticism, and I can make it a working assumption that Reality is who and what he says. My logical argument carries weight, but my belief is more a matter of trusting in my ability to know truth. Reality’s words come back to me. “I have been authorized to reveal certain information to you, but I cannot tell you all that I know of the spirit world.” Though tentative, my acceptance of Reality’s truth is strong enough that I am eager to hear more.
Should I tell anyone? He said it is at my discretion to disclose as I see fit. My daughters have expressed an interest in spirituality and the supernatural, but I will wait and see how things develop before telling them. What about friends and colleagues? This community is small enough that I cannot afford to be known as a therapist outside of the mainstream. I know some, perhaps most, would question my conclusions. Could I convince them that my belief is based, not on what I was told, but on my inner, confirming experience of it?
It is not until I am walking back that I think to ask: why me? I am in close proximity to Reality on a regular basis, but that cannot be the only reason, which begs the question: why reveal himself at all? Have others been approached in this way? It is nearly dark, a few stars are visible as I make my way back to the trailhead. I have found the answer I came for. I leave full of questions.
2. The World of Spirit
I HAVE AN OUTDOOR SESSION WITH Sally. We cross the street and walk along the river path, then stop at a picnic table that gives us some privacy. Near the end of the hour, Reality appears and says he wants to meet with me in a natural setting. He adds that Sally has no other plans for this time and then he reminds me of his references to his superior in the spirit world. His next words take me by surprise.
“Eli wishes to speak to you. He desires direct contact to confirm that a wise choice has been made.”
Reality walks the short distance to the river’s edge and stands with his back to me as he faces the water. He seems to intensify his connection with the earth as he slowly raises his arms over his head and then lowers them. I observe a slight stiffening of the body and then a brief, mild tremor before he turns around.
It is Eli who walks slowly over and sits down across from me. I notice that he inhabits the physical body more fluidly and that his demeanor is softer; he carries with him a strong presence and emanates an aura of kindness and acceptance. Throughout our brief conversation, Eli’s voice is resonant, his eyes gently expressive. He speaks with quiet authority, his attention taking in the totality of my being. I am honored by his parting words.
“Zachary has chosen well.”
Eli’s presence is such that it is a confirmation in itself. All of who I am that has known the depths of despair, the heights of joy, has experienced the pain of another, has known love and laughter—from deep within my being, his truth is revealed.
Zachary returns seconds later, and I wait for him to speak.
“Eli is a strong spirit. Throughout his many lifetimes, his faith never wavered in his belief in, and service to, the Creator. He advanced steadily to a high Master level and now gives direction and guidance to a large group of spirits.”
I am not surprised at the change of name. When Zachary said, years ago, to call him Reality, he defined himself in terms of his function in Sally’s life. Now he explains that Eli’s assessment had more to do with what he could sense and observe about me than with what I said. I think of how the reverse is often true among us in the physical world. We grow attached to our thoughts and opinions and believe they are what define us, at the expense of learning to trust our senses and our intuition.
The World of Spirit
Zachary proceeds to tell me more about the spirit world. Influenced by the change of scene and the significance of Eli’s appearance, I want to know everything. I press him for specifics until he establishes parameters.
“Child, it is in your nature to want to know, and you do insist on details, which can sometimes get in the way of what simply is. It is beyond the scope of my current mission to fully describe the spirit world or even begin to do it justice. It is a place of acceptance and love, and it is a place of rules and consequences. It is vast, intricate, and purposeful—it is eternal.”
His voice is gentle, but I feel a bit chastened and wait for him to continue.
“It is my mission, at this critical time, to seek those in a position to reach out to others. My purpose is to share vital information. These approaches are being made to many, in every corner of the earth. Each of you will find your own way to tell the story. My approach to you is in line with your intended lessons for this lifetime. It is also a result of you having opened your mind and your heart to the world of spirit. You have been tested, faced with challenges, and we are pleased with how you have responded.”
We sit in silence for a moment as twilight descends. It may be that singular quality of the atmosphere that prompts Zachary to further describe the spirit world. His usual sedate manner conveys a timeless endeavor. I am left with sensory impressions: a great expanse, subtle movements and gentle currents, diffused light and muted colors. It is not so much a place as it is an ambiance—a deep resonance within which purpose is contained. Overlaying it all is a pure white light that illuminates everything and infuses it with love.
I am aware of images as much as I am of the words he uses. Perhaps the images come from my spirit or from Eli’s lingering presence; they surround me, inhabit me. I am aware of a subtle quality to Zachary’s tone. It is that of a distant traveler, speaking with longing of the place where he is grounded in connection and love—his mission takes him far from home.
The Creator
A longer silence … I notice our time is almost up, but I am determined to make use of every minute, and I ask Zachary about some popular conceptions of the spirit world.
“The spirit world is not a formless void in which all spirits merge as energy, and it is not a state of perpetual bliss. It provides opportunities for, and it nurtures the continued growth and education of, every individual spirit. It is the goal of each spirit to grow to be more like the Creator through the opportunities He has provided in the creation of this, and other, physical universes.”
I note his use of a masculine pronoun and ask if the Creator is male.
“Within the Creator is encompassed all; sometimes His appearance is that of a male; other times, it is that of a female. It
was necessary, for the purpose of procreation, that there be two genders, but it was never the intention that one be elevated over the other.”
I ask if Creator is the preferred or correct name.
“It is the closest equivalent, in the English language, to the spiritual concept. I could just as easily say God and will use that designation if you prefer.”
I tell him that Creator resonates with me, as does Great Spirit, in a way that childhood Sunday school images of either a wise or judgmental old man, sitting on a throne, did not. Reminded of childhood images, others come back to me. I questioned everything from harp-playing angels sitting on clouds, to streets paved with gold, to a fiery hell—the one I ask Zachary about.
“As it has generally been depicted, hell does not exist. There is what is called the wandering plane, distant from the Creator, where a spirit spends time for certain choices made, appropriate to the amount of reflection that is required. Indeed, there are consequences to human behavior, but the intent is to assist in learning, not to punish. There is always a path back to the presence of the Creator.”
We are out of time. I am aware of feeling a greater sense of awe than after my last meeting with Zachary, when it was difficult to view him as other than an earthbound entity called Reality. Eli’s presence tonight was such that it transcended human qualities, the physical body immaterial to his identity—he made use of it as a formality, not from necessity.
3. Creation
WE ARE BACK IN OUR usual office setting. At the end of an hour with Sally, Zachary appears and says we can take one more. I always set aside two hours, but we seldom need the second one now. (I will not bill for this time that does not directly involve her.)