The Story of the Intercession

Each one of us, as a condition of existence, is given an inheritance of genetics from generations of unknown ancestors, placed within an environment of time and community, and sent on our way to fulfill the destiny of a unique human being. This mixture of biology and society is our context eternally understood, as it was to those who came before us and will be to those yet born. It is a way to be and a way to look at the world, needing no special explanation and no unnecessary analysis which might otherwise interfere with the business of living.

But something can happen, within the many moments of this lifetime which challenges everything we believe to be real and compromises our expectations. It is a day when we are forced to confront something for which we are ill prepared, something for which the only logical explanation is one that defies sense and reason, and something that will forever change every moment to come. It is, perhaps, the one true test of faith.

This day came for me at the close of the year in December of 1996. While standing at the kitchen sink, I heard a voice. I didn't know who was speaking or where the sound was coming from. I wasn't even sure it was a voice or a 'who.' It was as if someone were calling me on the phone and engaging in a one-way conversation, except there was no ring, there was no telephone, there was no audible sound. There were only words within an odd formal sentence structure, the efforts of an unknown speaker translating its language into one that I would understand.

There was no doubt of its intention to be heard. It reminded me of the deliberate way a nurturing elder might address a child for whose education it felt responsible. It was neither male nor female, young or old. It felt close enough to touch, yet too far away to reach. It was, at once, everywhere and nowhere. I knew with absolute certainty that I was receiving information from an external source, completely outside of myself, completely out of my control. As I would learn later, I had become a channel through which the thoughts and words of another were being received.

If words were adequate to describe the range and intensity of emotions I experienced during those first short moments of contact, I have tried to find them. Even to this day 23 years later, I shudder at the memory as fresh as if it were yesterday While I was frightened, bordering more honestly on terror, I felt compelled to listen, remember what I was being told, and obey the unspoken directive to write down what was being said. At the same time I wished I could shut out the sound and run away. I also understood, in the best tradition of spiritual paradoxes, that I was free to reject the entire experience. Ultimately, had I chosen to walk away from the voice, its messages and what I believed it was asking of me it would have been alright. Not possible with the clarity of hindsight, but alright

In the end, I don't believe my response was ever in question. I couldn't leave the interaction, or deny that it had happened, because it had. Writing down "Body/Mind and Soul are separate," with my daughter's turquoise marker on a piece of recycled drawing paper, was the first act of participation that would dominate my existence for the next two years and color all of my days thereafter.

That evening, I confided the experience to my husband, who was intrigued but uneasy. My husband, a research scientist, had always been willing to entertain infinite possibilities and prided himself on being open-minded. He is convinced that there is no end to information and has great respect for the capacity of the human mind. He believes that scientists only discover what is already there, and is impressed by the complexity of creation. And because of this, he saw no conflict between science and spirituality. But my story was nearly too much for him to accept. It was as if his entire belief system and his expansive views of the universe were colliding in one momentous personal conflict of doubt. He wanted to believe me and tried to be supportive, but in those early days we were both wondering about my state of mind, rather than the importance of any information being transmitted or its source.

In the weeks that followed we looked for any rational explanation to explain things. But it was difficult to be objective when so much was at stake. In my darkest private moments, I would have welcomed a diagnosis of mental illness or a temporary mid-life lapse in sanity, rather than embrace the notion that I was the recipient of someone or something's external thoughts. Neither my husband or myself were ready for the enormity of the latter conclusion.

Eventually, I did see a psychiatrist, approaching the consultation as if constructing an experiment. I purposely omitted any mention of the channeling to eliminate the possibility of a conclusion based on prejudice. I passed the psychiatrist's scrutiny with flying colors. Had the outcome been different, it would have been the easy way out I neither expected nor was meant to have.

All during this sorting out period, I continued to receive and transcribe communications from this unseen presence. The messages were becoming longer and increasingly complex, occupying more of my thoughts and energy. I noticed, with interest, however, that while the channeling interrupted my full schedule of family responsibilities, the process of responding and recording had become a seamless addition to my daily activities. The interruptions were such that I could stop, write down what was being said and then simply pick up whatever I had been doing (or on numerous occasions go back to sleep) without missing a beat. What I came to fully appreciate after a few months of this routine was that I I was a participant in a specific project that was leading to a definite endpoint. While I understood my commitment and was gradually able to integrate my role comfortably, never could I have predicted what was to come.

As my emotions stabilized and this extraordinary experience became my ordinary life, it was becoming easier to talk about what had happened. My closest friends bad already noticed a subtle change in my behavior and made their own inquiries. Despite the fact thatI felt self-conscious, I was thankful for any opportunity to share. I desperately needed people to talk to, besides my husband, since he was still grappling with his own mixed feelings and after a while had run out of fresh insights. By sharing with others, I was being relieved of my solitary role, which, while not exactly a burden, felt like an overwhelming responsibility.

At first, I approached friends and acquaintances I sensed would be receptive and who knew me well enough to suspend judgment, at least temporarily. I avoided those likely to be difficult because I was not secure enough in my position to explain events I could barely understand myself. I also knew that I would be hard-pressed to defend myself against criticism and negativity because, at that point, a part of me felt indefensible. I showed them the materials I had received and related the transmission process. Some were amazed, some politely tolerant and others were understandably skeptical.

It was through these early discussions that I formed an ever-widening network of people, most of who were only too eager to share their individual stories, often with frightening honesty. In view of my reticence, their openness surprised me. For some, it was as if they were being relieved of their own burden of secrecy. For others, they were just happy to have a captive audience. Some stories were incredible, such as the woman who said she communicated with insects and saw alien vessels outside of her window as we spoke on the phone. Another woman, surprised by my naiveté in matters of the spirit, asked me to join her study circle and learn how to travel through the ethers. Yet, who was I to judge? From the outside looking in, my story was no less fantastic.

In the end, the help of strangers and friends allowed me to accept what I could barely fathom. That one day a voice reached out to speak, from a place beyond the limits of reason.

A few months into the work, a friend referred me to a respected psychic researcher and psychotherapist whose work she was familiar with. I contacted the woman, despite the fact that I was unsure of what I was asking for or what, exactly, I hoped to accomplish. I felt foolish at the prospect of blurting out my story to a complete stranger over the telephone, and the whole idea of initiating an uninvited call made me uncomfortable. However, my concerns were irrelevant. After a few introductory moments, the woman took control of the conversation leaving little room for my personal issues. Any concerns that I may have had were entirely eclipsed by her agenda. She was more than happy to listen to my story but her ground rules were non-negotiable. I was to follow her lead, answer her questions and comply with any and all requests. I agreed

For nearly three hours, she examined every aspect of my life, past and present, and labored over the details of my story. She listened intently to my responses and sometimes revisited sections of previous conversation, formulating new versions of earlier questions, or reworking an obscure permutation of a former idea, until she was completely satisfied. And then, all at once, she stopped to deliver a series of explicit instructions. She told me to date all of my previous creative work, which she implied had a bearing on the present, and continue to do so for all future work. She advised that I keep a detailed journal of my experiences and interactions in order to document and establish achronology of my process over time. And, finally, she recommended that I avoid reading or discussing other people's psychic experiences and materials, until my own work was complete.

Once again she was quiet. I was exhausted but calmed, in the short space between what she had said and what was to come. This time, when she spoke, she sounded distant and cold. She communicated no investment in my feelings, nor did she seem particularly concerned with what she was about to tell me. This faceless person then gave a name to everything that my life had become. And with her words, months of emotional and intellectual churning were brought to a grinding halt. She said that I was a channel and had been given the job because I would do it. And because she had done her job, she ended the conversation with the same element of control with which it had begun. We never spoke again nor did we ever meet. I was left alone, with disorganized thoughts and conflicting emotions, to interpret the meaning of her conclusion.

I felt entirely alone, separated, not only from the rest of humanity, but from the self I thought I understood so well. While my first reaction was utter disbelief, I knew she had spoken the truth. What followed, was an enormous sense of my own insignificance. I was an empty recipient, a responsible recorder. I felt as if I was being used, not for any skill or personal asset, but manipulated for unattractive inadequacies.

The same friend, who led me to the psychic researcher, was, herself, a pivotal piece of my new spiritual life. She turned up in unexpected ways throughout its evolution and gently moved me in new directions of thought and experience. She was a balancing influence, always ready with tea and conversation, regardless of what kind of information or emotions I brought to her doorstep. She became a treasured confidante. During one of our conversations she mentioned her association with an older man who had helped her through some difficult family times. While I'm certain she must have mentioned his name, it never registered with me. I was more focused on the miraculous` results of their interaction than on any details. Beyond my fascination with her story, I did not think any more about it until he surfaced in my own life, through a series of seemingly unconnected events.

The following week, I received a phone call from an acquaintance, inviting me to attend a lecture about an obscure form of mysticism. She explained that she was doing research for a book she was writing and thought I might be interested in the information, as well.

Although she seemed like a lovely person, I had no idea why she was contacting me. We were virtual strangers, having met only once five years before and spoken once more by phone, in the interim. However, I was both flattered and curious that she remembered me after such a limited association, and in view of my own circumstances, I decided to accept her invitation.

The presentation was instructional, and although I couldn't relate it to the channeling experience, I enjoyed it for what it was. But the lecture, like so many other things coming into my life, was just a fragment of a developing scenario, much more significant than I could have ever imagined.

During the question and answer period, I felt compelled to make an innocent but justified comment to the speaker. He had trivialized a question from an elderly man in the audience and observing the pained reaction of the man, I stood up when called on and asked the speaker to reconsider his dismissive response. Although I immediately felt uncomfortably conspicuous, I could see that my comment was appreciated by those directly around me and so knew that I had done the right thing. The speaker smoothed over the situation and things settled again until I tried to leave the auditorium. To my surprise, I was approached by a steady stream of people thanking me for my intervention.

One woman, in particular, barreled through the crowd, quickly introduced herself, then launched into a series of questions. She made, what I thought were some inappropriately personal inquiries and oblivious to my reactions, proceeded to tell me more about herself than one would ever expect of such a casual meeting. But there was something very sincere about her candidness and unaffected style. It was obvious that she meant no harm, and having been sensitized to the unexpected, I took our conversation, her appearance in my life, and what she said next, quite seriously.

She told me about a meeting of a near death studies group she belonged to and strongly suggested that I attend. The most I could summon was a weak maybe. As much as I had appreciated the lecture on mysticism, and even its emotional aftermath, by the time she extended her invitation, I couldn't see myself sitting through another presentation, even one that sounded potentially interesting. She rattled off the details and directions to a neighborhood church where the meeting was to be held, "just in case" she said, and hurried off with a friend.

When I got home, I recounted the evening to my husband. As we were talking, I remembered an article in my files about the subject of the near death experience referencing the group the woman had mentioned. When I'd originally come across it, in a local newspaper, the first person accounts of the near death experiences were so dazzling, and the journalist's treatment of the subject so objective, that I saved the article, hoping to attend one of the group's events some day. The woman's unsolicited overture reminded me of my forgotten intention and her persistence, as I thought back upon the encounter, wasintriguing. What's more, the location of the meeting, in a church no more than five minutes from my home, made it too convenient an opportunity to pass up.As the day of the meeting approached, for some reason I was reluctant to go by myself . Rather than ignore my feelings, I asked my husband if he would come with me.

When we arrived at the church, I expected to enter a room full of strangers, never having heard anyone I knew discuss near death phenomena. But, with a few exceptions, there were no strangers. Like the plot of a grade B movie, it was as if unconnected people from unrelated parts of my life had been purposefully gathered up in one place, waiting for me to join them. My confidante's son was there, as well as the woman from the lecture, friends and acquaintances and many prominent members of my community. While I should have felt reassured, I wasn't. Thankful for my husband's presence, I sensed that something necessary was unfolding before me. I had been brought to this place for a reason.

I assumed we would be learning about some aspect of the near-death experience. Instead, I listened, spellbound, to their guest speaker as he modestly discussed his work and the basis of his theories. An engineer and businessman by profession, be was a healer and a dowser by reputation. He described his ability to find underground water anywhere in the world, without prior knowledge of the topography, or even his physical presence. Often, with little more than a crude map of the area to guide him (most often with nothing but a verbal description of the landscape), he would provide precise drilling coordinates to on-site engineers, who would then dig a well to his specifications. His clients were multinational corporations and foreign governments searching for potable and industrial water sources.

Related to the dowsing, in a technical way I found incomprehensible, although he spent considerable time explaining the similarities, was his ability to cure illnesses on a cellular level using, what he characterized as, transmitted light and energy. Just as with water, he could heal in person or from a distance, having met or spoken with the patient or not, knowing everything or nothing about the illness or its cause.

For every cure, every story, he presented medical and scientific corroboration, and in the case of his dowsing skills, engineering documentation. While I couldn't make the connection between dowsing and healing, I understood the significance of what I was hearing. I was overcome by emotion, incredulous that such a person existed. Just like anyone you might see on the street in your hometown, he was the stereotype of a distinguished, elderly businessman.

But that kind of superficial judgment would have missed everything that mattered. His complete and true nature was contained in the double life he led moving deftly between the two. He inhabited a life in this world and a life in some other, given powers and information to effect miraculous results. He wasn't ashamed by his uniqueness, nor did he make apologies for his behavior and life choices. He was at peace, using his gifts to help humanity. And, because he could not be denied nor his accomplishments rationalized away, I knew that I had come face to face with the one person who could help me find my own peace.

After the meeting he made himself available for questions and casual conversation. I approached to wait my turn. Despite the fact that he was surrounded by a large group of people, he looked straight through them in my direction. He stared at me as if we were the only two people in the room. I was being summoned. Walking towards him, I realized that I had no idea what I was going to say. With little time to gather my thoughts, I felt under enormous pressure to say the right thing in the right way. I was afraid that one misspoken word or poorly formulated sentence might lose for me the one thing I felt certain that I needed to have.

Then, in a grateful flash of insight, I decided to use the information contained in the channeled material to guide the interaction. Choosing my words carefully, I told him what had happened to me. I described the first moments of contact in my kitchen and then quoted two of the channeled messages. In a scathing outburst, making no attempt to control his emotions or buffer his opinion, he said that I was a 'far seer' and if I did not publish what I knew I would be committing a mortal sin. I stood there, completely undone by his tirade. I couldn't reconcile this aggressive behavior with the gentle person I had just been listening to, for the past hour or so, let alone understand what he was talking about. Unable to say anything else, I backed away from him and the group, and left the church.

Over the course of the next day I experienced an extreme, intense reaction to the dowser/healer, a label that had become my mental shortcut for dealing with him and what he had brought into my life. As his words settled and their meaning became clear, my feelings crystallized into a hard ball of fury. How dare he humiliate me in public? Who was this stranger, to tell me what to do and then threaten me with damnation if I didn't? I needed support, not cruelty. Was he blind?

But, in fact, the man was not a stranger. I knew him, through a story that I had heard over a cup of tea only weeks before. The dowser/healer, who had left me so distraught, was the miracle man who had helped my confidante.

I immediately called my friend to confirm what I was already certain of. Controlling my raging emotions and without revealing anything about my purpose, I asked for the man's phone number, telling her that I needed his help. In hushed tones, she told me that one did not call him directly, and that she was not at liberty to give me his phone number. She said that he preferred to be contacted by mail so that he could eliminate frivolous requests and prioritize need. It was the only way, she explained, that he could manage his own busy schedule.

This was not what I wanted to hear. I didn't care a wit about his personal life preferences or organizational skills. Normally a respectful person, in terms of other people's boundaries, I ignored my usual good manners. I organized all of the pieces of information I had gathered about the man, looked for his name in several phone books, and although he used initials to elude unwanted callers, found the number. Without hesitation I called him.

He was not at all surprised to hear from me saying, in fact, that he was expecting my call, which further fueled my anger. My message to him was as unrestrained as his had been to me but, slightly more uncivil. I told him that he had no right to play with another person's life, that he was old and would soon be dead, and that if he knew something about my situation and refused to help, that he alone would bear responsibility for that decision for all eternity.

To my utter amazement, he wasn't upset or insulted by my barrage, he just listened, impassively. He agreed to work with me, but asked for time to review the materials I had channeled before starting. I was very impatient to embark upon whatever process he had in mind, but unlike the beginning of our conversation, I controlled myself. Three weeks later, after canceling one appointment, he came to my home for our first meeting. Reminiscent of my discussion with the psychic researcher, he questioned me extensively, but unlike a phone interview, he was able to watch my reactions. During the entire interview he barely took his eyes off my face.

He wanted the usual information about my experience and details of my personal life, as I anticipated he might, but brought other issues to the surface I didn't want to consider. He asked if I had tried to reverse the channeling process in order to request specific information, implying that I might have the potential to initiate an interaction at will. Then he asked for information about global events and scientific theories, hinting that I had more information than I was aware of with more to come. Both of these suggestions made me extremely uneasy. But, despite his personal brand of questioning and unsettling ideas, the interview came down to the same thing I had already experienced. He was measuring me against some inner standard, in order to decide whether I was worthy of his time and efforts.

A few days later he called to establish a structure for our relationship, with intermittent phone consultations and regular meetings. But, his straightforward offer was more of a contradiction. While he promised that he would always be available, he was quick to add that access to him was going to be very limited. And he was emphatic that I accept his judgment in all matters pertaining to my need for his attention. He explained that he had overwhelming responsibilities and prior commitments and very little time to meet them. I was confused, but accepted his terms without question. I don't know how he made his decision or why he allowed me to have even the smallest piece of his life, but this time his pronouncements filled me with only the most profound gratitude.

Grounded by his participation in my life, each time we spoke I felt like a novice at the feet of a superior master. There were times when his words were so baffling, that I couldn't understand what he was trying to communicate, but I didn't care, and often, I didn't try. I was being given something precious and felt privileged just to listen. He was unlike anybody I had ever met before. There was something elusive about his manner and unusual about the way he interacted. While I never felt anything less than his full attention, his focus always seemed to be elsewhere. But, whatever he was or wasn't, what he offered me was simple and sufficient. He was willing to help me, and willing me to continue on my own.

For one year I was allowed to call upon him when certain conditions were met. He put his requests in the same form each time, "When you see call me." None of these landmarks were time bound. I had no way of knowing whether I would see what he requested in one day or one month or the next item in the same or a different time period. None of these landmarks, people or events seemed to be related in any way, as far as I could tell. He was deliberately guiding me through a process, not unlike a scavenger hunt, but did not share his reasons or methods with me. Presenting yet a second ambiguous contradiction, though his instructions repeatedly directed me outside of myself, he insisted that I look inward for "the only relevant truth and support that matters," making sure, he said, "that everything fits with your knowledge of the big piece."

He died a year later and despite an ongoing relationship, I cannot say that I ever knew him. During one of our conversations, I asked if he would perform a healing for me. He bluntly refused, telling me that I needed nothing from him and could do it myself. Believing that I had overstepped my bounds, I never asked for clarification, nor did I ever ask him for anything again. He departed from my life as much of a mystery as he had entered it. But he left me the peace I had hoped for, the certainty that I had been purposely led to him, and the strength to confront other truths that I had pushed deeply away from my consciousness. I was no longer afraid of what the future had to offer or what the past had to reveal.

I wrote a poem that spoke of each life as its own story written moment to moment as a work in progress, but only understood, in its entirety, from the distance of time. I believe that my life has been ordinary. I come from a working class background, not unlike others of my age and stage, with parents who wanted me to have a better life than they had. My father worked in a factory and my mother stayed at home. We had all of the basics and few extras, although when possible, sacrifices were made for books and music lessons. Even though neither one of my parents went to college, they had a sincere appreciation of art and intellect and expected academic excellence from their children. At an early age, I learned to accept the disciplined life my parents required.

As a young child, I thought often and seriously about life and death and the existence of spent trying to understand where and what I had been before I was born. I understood the continuity of life moving towards death, but couldn't conceptualize a continuum in the opposite direction. Once in school, I was amazed by the sheer numbers of people in the world and learned about indiscriminate suffering and hardship in places I could never hope to see. I wondered why some were selected for misery, while others were destined for pleasure and comfort, and how, by extension, I had come to be placed in my particular life as opposed to a different setting somewhere else. When I was developmentally able to envision the vastness of the universe, I felt insignificant within it. I wanted answers, but there simply were too many questions.

As a teen I was sensitive to cues from other people and my environment. I was intuitive and often had premonitions, but chose to dismiss them as teen-age drama or just plain silliness. Even if I had wanted to, it did not seem prudent to share these kinds of thoughts. They were not a comfortable fit for most people of my generation, and would have, most certainly, upset my parents. I worked diligently in high school, married a medical student at age 17, had one child before I graduated from college, a second child shortly after graduation, divorced after six years of marriage, went to graduate school, remarried an older man with a teen-age daughter, moved across the country twice, and worked as a speech therapist. All of this occurred before the age of twenty-six. By the time I was forty, I had two more children and an overflowing plate of obligations.

In my attempts to fashion a respectable life, I rejected anything that might undermine my resolve to do so. Alternatives that didn't fit my well-ordered program of conformity with my surroundings or my husband's professional agenda, had no place in my life. Fortunately, fulfilling the constant demands of the American dream made it easy to ignore unwanted thoughts, but only for so long. Despite my best efforts to eliminate psychic distractions, they refused to be denied.

In my late twenties, I became very aware of the content of my dreams. It was as if I was inhabiting a second existence. No longer were my dreams meaningless stories, issues to be worked out, the unfinished spillover of the day's events or any one of a number of popular psychological models I studied in college. They were night messages, filled with names and numbers, places and events. In one dream, I lived through a robbery, complete with details and a location with street names. When I awoke to the morning news, the robbery had occurred during the night in exactly the way I had seen it, at the intersection of the same two streets named in my dream.

After this incident, I decided to write down all of the information I received. The only time I ever shared one of these information specific dreams, other than with my husband, was when I 'saw' an impending suicide in a neighbor's family. This was the first time I felt required to take action, as the consequences of emotional self-preservation were less important than the potential for tragedy. It meant that I had to approach relative strangers and tell them what could have been viewed as an insane story. I steeled myself against their reaction and told them what I had seen. They knew immediately from my physical description that it was their troubled niece, who had had a previous suicide attempt.

As a result of what I had been experiencing with my dreams and some personal interests of his own, my husband and I began to research topics outside of our usual realm of study. We selected reputable, well documented sources and tried to keep an open mind as we read literature about aliens, ghosts, reincarnation, astral travel, precognition, automatic writing, possession, different approaches to the Bible, and diverse religious practices, to name a few. The more we studied, the more apparent it became that there were universal themes and questions repeating throughout time, and strange occurrences that begged for explanations. The quest for answers took many different routes, but it was always the same quest.

Among the ways we chose to explore alternative thought, was through our participation in a fundamentalist religious group. This decision bewildered family members. Although neither one of us had been raised strictly in any religious tradition we were the products of a shared ethnic background. It was during our association with this group that I was strongly encouraged to destroy our library of non-conforming materials, many pieces of beloved art, and my dream journal, with its facts and numbers and explicit information. All of these things were considered blasphemous by the elders of the congregation.

After a year or so we left the group, whose precepts, upon closer examination, were riddled with inconsistencies and whose practices were irrationally rigid. In some ways, I was enriched by the entire experience, in a way that mattered a great deal to me, I suffered a loss whose full consequence I could not foresee. Because by obediently placating the elders, who had no motive other than to faithfully support their beliefs, not only did I destroy meaningful pieces of personal history and possessions I enjoyed, I destroyed the only objective data that I had. And, until recently, being unable to prove myself to the outside world made it difficult to fulfill my responsibility to what I believe is the true nature and purpose of the channeled materials.

Time has served to soften my need for self-defense and helped me regain perspective. Before there was ever a whisper of the complex turn my life would take, I always believed there are reasons for everything, even if they are not obvious. Then as now, I believe that no event is ever wasted and that regrets are destructive. I also have respect for the wisdom of the universe, and know that most, if not all of the time we are given exactly what we need to receive.And so, I accept that there was a necessary reason for the purging of my possessions, as there was for our foray into the fundamentalist group that was the catalyst for their destruction.

I also understand with the perfect vision of hindsight, that while I may have wished for the protection of my journal, and the validation it would have provided, for at least part of my story, it's probably not by accident that it no longer exists. Because what happened tome isn't about the existence or absence of proof, nor is it about my sincerity as a truth-teller. It is about an interaction with what I believe is an intercession on our behalf. It is an open window onto the vast possibilities that exist beyond the boundaries of our five senses.

The symbol you see is the name of its author, the being whose words you must judge.

It is likely that we lose something precious as we make our way into adulthood and become educated by the world in which we live. If we listen carefully, we are told, if not directly than in subtle ways, that wonder and innocent faith are not intellectually fashionable. If we are good students of our world, we learn that it is better to ignore or rationalize, belittle or put aside for limited use in safe places, all of the daily miracles and coincidences we collectively encounter on a regular basis. Better than to allow them to interfere with the mature conduct of life. Better than to admit they might be telling us something we don't want to hear. Perhaps that explains why I had difficulty believing the most important thing that ever happened to me. And why it is now 23 years later.

Once I had channeled and recorded the Intercession, my first instinct was to make it publicly available, as quickly as possible. To that end, I made a thousand copies of the manuscript, at my own expense and gave away more than half of them. I had other ideas, but didn't know bow to implement them, or whether they were appropriate. I felt under urgent pressure to do the right thing and erroneously assumed I would automatically know what that was. Even more troubling was my difficulty reconciling commercial and spiritual issues. Yet after incurring the significant expense of duplicating more than one hundred pages, one thousand times, I couldn't ignore financial realities. For a while, I was going around in tired, unproductive circles.

Not long after distributing the Intercession, I sensed momentum being generated as a result of my efforts, and I became more secure about the decisions I was making. I was surprised when requests for the book originated from people and places with which I had no connection, and pleased when an acquaintance asked me to create a workshop based on my interpretation of the messages and their potential application. I had some concerns about fending for myself in a public setting, but reasoned it might be part of a natural progression I was meant to pursue. A learning experience of some kind.

While the workshop experience helped me organize my thoughts and yielded some wonderful discussions and relationships, both the workshop, and my optimism about fulfilling my responsibility to the Intercession, were short lived. I was intensely uncomfortable interpreting the messages, and even more uncomfortable dispensing wisdom, whether in person or through correspondence. If it were today, I think I'd be able to handle the situation with more confidence and maturity but then I was floundering. I was becoming increasingly convinced that a significant and unidentifiable piece of the puzzle was missing or at the very least, that I was missing something important I should have known.

After a few months I experienced a complete reversal of attitude. I no longer had confidence in my ability to represent such important material and felt as removed from the words of the Intercession as if I'd been a stranger to them. I was frustrated because there seemed to be so much at stake and yet I had been left to my own imperfect and meager resources, with no more than best guesses and the best of intentions to guide me. And so I stopped guessing. I declined to organize the next workshop and tried to forget my dilemma. Although I had serious doubts, I forced myself to believe it was inconceivable I would forever be abandoned after all I had gone through.

Without the pressure of responsibility to distract me, I noticed that I was studying the messages with renewed interest. Despite the fact that I was determined to distance myself from them, they were never out of my thoughts. I would remember fragments of sentences and find that I was using them in conversation or discussing them with friends and family members. Through no force of my own, the channeled messages were quietly integrating themselves into my repertoire of responses and beliefs. By renouncing my attachment to the Intercession, I had increased its presence in my life.

Contradictions seemed to be running through my experience as if by design and, because of this, I knew well enough by now not to make predictions. I had hoped that contemplation would give me a rest, which it had, and perhaps a novel view and more balanced perspective of my situation, but I never imagined how it would transform my relationship to the outside world. Rather than reinforcing my feelings of failure and isolation, my solitude was drawing me closer to everyone and everything around me. I felt as if I belonged to something very great whose origin was both apart from me and a part of me.

Nothing seemed accidental, nothing unrelated or disconnected from anything else. One thing had led to another, invisible connections became obvious, small things were part of a larger whole. People, events, places, my poetry, the death of my guide, coincidences and plans, encompassed who I was, who I would become, and why, whether I understood it or not. When viewed in the context of the Intercession, all of these life pieces were imbued with a magical correspondence. As I looked backwards trying to find a way to tell my story, the consequence of one of these pieces took on the importance of an epiphany. And this is the one that made all the difference.

Writing has always been as natural to me as walking and so, I shouldn't be surprised that my assignment as a recorder involved the written word. Music, on the other hand, has been as necessary as breath, a place I could go for comfort and clarity. These two elements conjoined unexpectedly, when I decided to pursue my dream of playing the violin.

I have always loved the violin, but was discouraged by my parents, who insisted I study the piano. No longer concerned about parental preferences as an adult, I decided to pursue my childhood dream. I fancied myself a middle-aged prodigy in the making and contacted a prestigious music school whose teachers were some of the most prominent musicians in my area. The administrator of the school did not seem as confident about my prospects as a late bloomer but, nonetheless, agreed to let me enroll and assigned me a teacher. She described my prospective mentor as a brilliant musician but critical and demanding. Because of this, she said, most of his students left him within a short time, which was why he usually had an opening in his schedule. She watched my reaction closely, expecting, perhaps, that I would reconsider, but I refused to be discouraged by her. This was exactly what I wanted, a serious musician whose emotions would match my desire to master the instrument, a willing partner in my delusion.

He was an imposing man, tall and strong, and frightening in his steely intensity. He was obsessed by his music and devotion to an instrument he loved beyond all reason and compromise. He was a genius whose personality and possibly a hostile musical universe had conspired to deny him a career as a soloist. The administrator of the music school told me some of these things. The rest I learned for myself over time. He was too hard, too different, too uncooperative, always fighting against reality and perceived injustices. It was these qualities that had destroyed him in the past and would destroy him in the end. He talked about returning to the concert stage, while, silently, I fantasized about accompanying him on the piano. But we both knew it was too late for dreams.

He died in a cold school auditorium too stubborn to heed my sense, months before, that he was ill. His heart, weakened by cigarettes and a lack of fulfillment, failed him as had so many other things, in a place where there was no way to save his life. The day before he left to die in winter, there was a prophetic interchange between us. As he turned to leave, he told me he would be back to see me the next week. Abruptly, almost cruelly, I told him that he wouldn't. I don't know what made me say those words, but I did. He died the next day. In some way, I too had failed him.

His death devastated me. I couldn't understand how a person could be brought into a life to mean so much for such a short time and then be taken away. For nearly a year, I tried to work with other teachers but couldn't separate the music from my grief. Without E. and a will to continue my studies, I turned for comfort to my writing, whose depth and purpose became all consuming. The flow of words matched my stolen passion for the violin, and over the next two years I created more than two hundred poems.

Some of them were the obvious products of mourning and the need for self-expression, while others, though well crafted, did not feel or sound as if I had written them at all. Because these unfamiliar poems were embedded within such a vast and insistently growing quantity of material, they registered only a fleeting sense of disquiet and were easily set aside as I moved on to the next piece. However, when, a year later, I decided to amend the title of my first book of poetry to include the phrase, A Solo in Many Voices, I believe it was a statement, not only about the genesis of these rogue poems, but a subconscious admission that in creating them, I was involved in something beyond the soothing of my personal sorrow.

Then, as one year became two, E's death found its final resting place in my memory and the poetry that had sustained me gradually stopped. Below any conscious level of awareness, something had taken its place. Gently, under the guise of grief and its resolution, a mechanism had been set into motion. The necessary combination of pain and circumstance had removed the last of my defenses between intellect and possibility and opened me to the sounds of the universe. It had replaced my words with those of another, then lead me to know the name of their author.

A year prior to receiving what I recognized as the first channeled message, at about the same time I was organizing the first large wave of my poetry, I experienced a strange sequence of computer events. I would write something then print out what should have been a cleanly edited piece of text from the preview on my screen. Instead there were unexplained letters or numbers imbedded in the final printouts. In a few cases this happened months later, using an untouched computer disc with unchanged text that had previously yielded perfect copies. When these figures first appeared in my work, I looked for a reasonable explanation. Allowing myself to discount the evidence of the clean previews on my monitor, I assumed that I was dealing with typographical errors or a computer malfunction of some kind. But neither was the case. When I studied the printouts, none of the letters or numbers was near a keyboard position to account for human error and according to the technician who examined my equipment, there was nothing wrong with the computer to have produced such results.

Because there were only a dozen or so of these instances scattered through my work in no particular order or pattern, not unlike my previous disposition of the rogue poems, I ignored them. Normally I would have discarded extraneous pieces of paper, but something made me save and protect these in a separate file at the back of a drawer. Since things eventually righted themselves and the flawed printouts stopped, I forgot about them until months later when I had to create some space in my desk for the early channeled materials. This time, when faced with the contents of the file, taken against the backdrop of all that was happening to me, I knew that they had been rediscovered because they contained something I needed to see.

The symbols name derived, in part, from my hidden cache of papers. One day, after having transcribed a section of channeled material, I decided to study the file of flawed printouts. One of the text errors was so blatant and different in quality from all of the others that I was riveted to its form. In the final paragraph of a lengthy prose poem, the letter sequence gbbgbb appeared in the middle of the word 'wordless.' It was one of a few un-programmed letters and numbers that had appeared in that particular piece. As I sat staring at this sequence, having moved the letters to a separate piece of paper, the symbol wrote itself. The rounded portions of the lower case `113' and the lower case 'g' joined together, forming a rotating central part and the rest, the circle and cross pieces, were just there somehow. Although I knew that I was holding pencil to paper and could see the obvious result before me, I did not remember the physical process.

This instance of automatic writing was a serious blow to my already tenuous state of mind. It reminded me of a repressed memory I neither wanted nor expected to retrieve, when years before I had experienced a similar incident. It also caused me to reconsider the origin of the rogue poems, as well as a few other pieces whose style I had questioned and to wonder if or for how long my writing had been under the influence of outside forces. Having made an acceptable peace with the channeling, I was, once again, being strained to the limits by the manner in which the symbol emerged. And yet before too long, I would be tested again.

One evening around midnight, I was given the information that the universe was configured like hives or cells. I was confused by this idea as I had received previous information about the spherical nature of parts of the universe. In fact, circles and spheres had been mentioned a number of times. I visualized this new information as two-dimensional and, for no lack of trying, couldn't figure out how to integrate or combine hives and cells with the previous concept of a three dimensional sphere. I tried to work it out on paper but tired and frustrated, around two in the morning I gave up and went to bed, no closer to a solution.

The next morning, as I sat on a local train with my daughter headed to New York City, I heard the noise of papers being shuffled across the aisle next to me. Not one to make eye contact with strangers on the train or watch other people's actions, I ignored both the man and the sound of his papers. The shuffling continued loudly for what seemed like an eternity but was probably only about three minutes. Then all of a sudden it stopped. And it was the sound of startling silence, that drew my attention across the aisle.

I looked over and saw a nondescript but well dressed man with a briefcase on his lap. On top of the briefcase was a stack of papers and on the very top, was a scientific drawing titled, The Spherical Configuration of Hives or Cells, the exact visual representation I had tried unsuccessfully to figure out just six hours earlier. I was so shaken I nearly passed out. I said nothing. For what could I say and to whom...a child? a scientist on his way to work? And what would I say...that something had happened so coincidental as to be impossible to call a coincidence? Then, the words I had used to criticize the unkindness of a holy man as he dismissed the question of an old man seeking comfort, came back to haunt me. I said out loud as the old man wept, that coincidence is the proof we have been given to remind us of the existence of our God.

I regained my composure as I grappled with what had just happened. I needed proof, I wanted proof, I had always stubbornly insisted things be proven and on this day, amidst a group of strangers on a train, I was given a proof so undeniable as to forever bind me to the work of the Intercession; a proof so perfect, there was no opening for me to reject it on any basis or deny it ever happened.

What this incident will mean to you as you read my story I don't know. I can only know how it affected me. It says, "Look at the way I made a thought take form; remember this when you doubt the truth of infinite possibility. Know that you have been given evidence of a universe, divine and complex, teeming with activity far beyond the realm of your senses." I understand that each one of us needs something very different and that what constitutes proof for one person may not for another. My doubts had been silenced.

I believe the words of the Intercession are a portion of the Creators thoughts/voice made manifest, the symbol a visual portion of its name. I do not know why this happened as it did, in this way or at this time, but I do know that I am not the same person I was nine(now twenty three) years ago because of it. It has changed my life, its course and belief system. I can only wish that the part that makes us resonate as one will allow you to accept what I have said and if not embrace it, at least know that I have told you everything as it happened. My choice of the word 'intercession' and its repeated use in this story, in no way represents or supports any religious orientation, rather it is the only vocabulary I thought might characterize with sufficient respect, my personal understanding of the gravity of its purpose.

In rereading this story I see that, unconsciously, I left my personal proof until the end of the manuscript, my very last chance to convince you that I am an honest person worthy of your trust. But I am, in fact, an anonymous person to you. As an anonymous person, you have no way of knowing or evaluating me, or believing anything that I have told you except through your own heart and mind. I suppose this is as it must be. I believe it was the intent of the Creative Infinite to guide us through its words and allow us to reach our own conclusions, just as I am certain that I was prepared to receive and deliver the Intercession, over years and experiences meant to help me do so.

In the appendix I include copies of my notes and drawings, and the poems whose derivation I questioned, as well as poems I believe are directly related to specific messages, written before the channeling manifested. In a separate section there is a group of messages that have appeared, sporadically, since the original book was recorded up to the current time. These messages don't appear to be part of a bigger whole, but I offer them to you even though I'm not sure of their function. If I were to guess, rather than a residue of information, I think they represent a subtle change in my relationship to what is around me, and a heightened sensitivity that I have retained to its voice. I've also listed articles that I've collected through the years that seem to reference or be relevant to the Intercession. I've not quoted or used them in any way.

I notice that in retelling my story I sometimes shift moods. This is a reflection of the intense range of emotion that I have when I think about or relive the experience, whether in writing or in conversation. I had a difficult time attributing a name to the symbol and called it many things before committing to my choice based on a partial communication from 11/20/03 that said, "Creative Infinite, whose name is God and symbol"... [Two minutes later] "High God." While it is not a name that I am entirely comfortable with, it is the one I thought had to be used. I was given a message a year and a half into writing and re-writing this story, which clarified the name dilemma. Aside from my own practical need to choose a name for the purpose of this manuscript, the only true name that matters is the one that resides in the heart of the reader. 4/2/04 "That is because there is not one name. I have not one name/no one name...the ones that you state...they are unto/of you." [Three minutes laterl "But the name does not matter, that is because..."

Everything in the Intercession was recorded just as it was said. I did not edit. I also tried to communicate a sense of the rhythm and tone of the speaker so a reader might actually hear what I heard. This is why, for example, I used to indicate a break in thought or speech. They represent extended pauses. When there is a slash mark between two words I was not sure which word was said. If there is a break or omission it is because I lost the words. I recorded the time when there N‘ as an addition to the original message later in the day, rather than a novel thought, or when I thought the time of day was significant.

The titles for the three section headings, Silent Dialogues, Elaborations Day 2 and Final Offering, were chosen by me, as was the size of the symbol designs used to illustrate each one. The design of the cover page incorporating the symbol, as well as the choice of cobalt blue and sun yellow, were given to me in the same way as the materials themselves were generated. When I first printed the Intercession to give away, I wrote a letter to the reader before each section. Looking at them today, they seem overly dramatic in places; however, I've included them in the Appendix because of their temporal relationship to the channeling. I think their style was more a function of my earnest desire to be helpful and the residue of fear I was feeling when I wrote them more than anything else. I do not believe we were given this Intercession for anything other than positive reasons.

Occasionally, early on, I was asked to interpret passages for meaning more often to share my story. I have become more comfortable with the latter over the last seven (now 23) years and remain wary of the former. Many of the concepts I believe I understand; others, I cannot even pretend to know. The complexity of the Intercession noticeably and incrementally increases as the format changes from question and answer to essay. Some of the materials embarrass me or seem somehow trivial, such as the essay referring to simplicity and the insurance industry. Others, such as the section discussing criminal justice and the purpose of Hitler, are disturbing.

I cannot offer any insight into the later essays dealing with science and mathematics. I hope that these parts can be studied and interpreted by people who can knowledgeably address them. In particular, I would like to see someone generate a three-dimensional computer model of the symbol with the addition of movement, and then amplify and project the image within the space of a large room. I believe the symbol itself transcends the text of the Intercession as a separate source of power...its universal form outside of the boundaries of any familiar or codified linguistic system.

Finally, if I were granted the right to have a specific outcome, it would be that I or someone else, in the future, collates the information provided by the readers of this Intercession in order to develop a separate companion commentary. This in no way will compromise the integrity of the messages, as long as it is clear that the order and form of intercession must be left intact, and that the individual words themselves and semantic structures are never to be altered. Because there are so many different aspects of this communication, it is likely, that different parts are meant for different people.

As for my role in this process, I believe that I have done what I was supposed to do. I have given to you what was given to me. Any failure of courage on my part was, I believe, a failure of ego, or if not that, at least a failure of understanding. Whatever I thought was standing in my way, whether denial or fear, personal weakness or something completely different depending on the year or the moment, time has brought resolution. It took me nine years to choose to live through my experience as a channel, once again, by writing about it. And nine years to understand why I must. I felt responsibility for the weight and fate of the intercession where none exists. Now it is mid 2020, twenty three plus years later, and I am certain it will find its way as it was meant to. And there are and will be others present and future who will try to share what they know of the eternal, as it has been so in the past.

Is this religion, is this science, is it insanity, or is it redemption? It is what you make of it, what your heart and mind say it is, no more, no less. It is yours to use or discard. You will know.

There was a time when I felt that there was no eternal being for me. I believed in the existence of the Infinite in my head, but I could not feel it in my heart. The absence of faith and connection made me very sad. But now I know that we are never alone. Now I see the connections that reside within and between us all. We are surrounded by generations, options, universes and beings that radiate from us in an unending way. And we have each other, keeping safe within us a portion of eternity, as we move together, no soul left behind, to become one. Now too I understand that although twenty-three years have passed since I tried to share what I was given, concealing from myself over and over again the most important event in my life, it's alright. Time means nothing in the eternal existence of the universe This is the purpose and blessing of infinity.

These are not easy times in which we live nor has there ever been a time in history without its challenges. Each culture, each season, each soul knows its own joys and sorrows, each with lessons to be learned and trials yet to come. Perhaps the same is true across all of the boundaries of space and time. Perhaps the One who has made its name known through this symbol, and its words known through the Intercession speaks now, in response to a universal yearning for guidance. Perhaps it is answering our call.

...have been from afar and now wish to speak.

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The Story of the Intercession

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