An Accidental Psychic

By Judy Bishop

The following words are from an internationally recognised Professor.. one of many who requested I put pen to paper and share my unusual life story.

Yesterday I did nothing other than read.. read your gripping, fascinating account of how you discovered your own psychic abilities and how you coped with those people who both rejected and (warmly) accepted you. In fact, I went to bed far too late, because I could not stop until I had finished reading the very last page.

Your capacity for story telling is quite extraordinary. Instance after instance is told in a most compelling manner, even (or especially?) when it concerns animals, such as the story of your relationship with the dog Tiger and his sad death by bait poisoning.

The ways in which you increasingly, throughout your life, have been able to open up to a Spirit dimension is both comforting and enviable to someone such as me who at times tried, but failed and I am pleased to learn that others, too, are hoping you will make the grippingly told story of your exceptional talent and physical/spiritual experiences available to a large readership.

My last conversation with my Father might best explain my life and my qualification for writing this autobiography. Perhaps Gift might be more appropriate.

You have an amazing gift my Girl, said he with kindness, having spent the entire four days of Easter talking to family and friends, long since dead, outlined on a wall behind my shoulders! Talked and talked about his past and a life I could not have known anything of. Make sure you use it wisely.

Mother interrupted here and, with scathing tongue, said: Just make sure none of our friends know what you do! They might think were peculiar too!

My Dad, nearly ninety five and not long to live, turned with sadness etched across his wise old face and said softly: I should have left her in the gutter where I found her!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Jan 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452588995

Book preview

CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Rough Direction for Locating Spirit Shapes In Photographs

Introduction

L eaning relaxed against an old shingle fence one day, pleasantly tired from toiling in the garden of an old house in an old Tasmanian town when an enormous bay horse walked by, beautifully groomed and elegant in old fashioned dark leather harness… his head held high… his neck arched proud… his very ‘being’ inviting my co mment.

Aren’t you magnificent! I enthused, as would anyone with an eye for a good horse, dismissing the fact he was ‘riderless’…

I belong to the superintendent. Said he with pride and deep masculine voice… for which I quickly scanned the area to ensure no one around to hear a human conversing with a horse then leaned again to observe and admire until he passed from sight around the corner of a high sandstone wall opposite my back gate…

Relaxed… at peace with myself for a change I lingered on… my mind drifting back through the years to activities his unexpected emergence presented… to Sydney… to a young life filled with activities where police horses paraded similarly bedecked and handsome… our birthday parties in the grounds of Government House where the birthday child would be permitted a brief, if heavily supervised, time in the saddle… to the lavish social events with which my parents were involved where we, with Nurse in attendance, would be chauffer driven past for a ‘quick peep’ at the glamour and glitter each occasion attracted… when a little older and similarly escorted to the Royal Sydney Show to view their Grand Parade… a venue where, years later and relatively free to roam the grounds on my own, I could watch with admiration the devotion each rider expressed to their mount and the understanding with which each animal responded… my respect enhanced during their hectic ten day schedule where horse and rider, after months of bonding and tuition would be placed under constant scrutiny directing crowds of noisy people seemingly oblivious to competitors need to reach the marshalling yard in time for their event… a marshalling yard adjoining which was an enclosed area where competitors ‘friends and helpers’ were able to sit on splintery wooden benches to view the ring events and where, on more than one occasion I watched spellbound while the mounted police presented their Mass Display… their unique composition and intricate ‘passage’ impressing other spectators as deeply to call for encore after encore… after which, often well into the night, time for all to return to their (then) nearby Barracks for a hearty rub down and well deserved meal…

I giggled a bit to myself as memories flooded back of having later been caught in the police stables with one young rider tending to his mount well after acceptable hours… an area off limits to us ‘civilians’ without permission from their senior Sergeant which prompted a threat to inform my doting father of his daughter’s wayward antics and which, thank heaven, proved to be just that… a threat…

Memory then of Dad and his love of and respect for horses enhanced, as it had been with many during time spent ‘serving’ with the Light Horse… his later observance of ANZAC Day, often with me by his side, where parades triggered memories from the past… his respect obvious for those who marched and a private tear I’m sure for those who had given their young lives… my awareness more for the solemnity and pride with which horse and rider escorted the returned servicemen and women… an occasional shake of one’s head or another’s movement on bridle and bit almost as if to deflect crowd scrutiny and, in some small way, help ease the hurt every man woman and child ‘watching on’ would carry for life…

My thoughts then to mother… to the difference in their age… and their personality… and their priorities.

The importance mother placed on society and society’s expectation of and for our family… those with whom she considered we should associate and those with whom she said we could not… the invitations she said we ‘would’ accept and those she said we could not and the subservience she expected from my brother and I… all good enough reason when young to discover the most boring entourage could be interesting when the mounted police were involved… and later, when forced to attend some of the more boring functions myself, to admire their discipline when fashionably attired socialites, mere inches from the delicate ear of a horse, would entice photographers their way with squeals of delight to friends not spoken to for an hour or so as they arrived amid pomp and glitter to an opening night or one of the many gala events I, especially, was made to suffer…

We argued constantly, Mother and I, arguments often so heated Dad would be called to quell… arguments, more often than not about mundane matters her dependence on alcohol seemed to distort… my refusal to enrol for ‘tertiary education’… the ‘lack of social suitability my male companion of the day’ might present… a garment she considered not entirely appropriate for an event she determined I should attend, after which I would retaliate my reticence to attend the event at all, often joking I would feel more comfortable in a pair of jeans… and enjoyed the tension my sense of humour introduced to the moment…

My preference of course would have been to remain at our country retreat and tend to the horses and learn many more important skills from the men in my father’s employ who I, like he, considered to be ‘real people’ with real knowledge…

I sighed deeply… aware the absolute absurdity of it all now and thankful my life had, without planning, taken a very different path… a daunting path perhaps with hindsight, where the innocence and protection of one educated without a great deal of ‘spiritual truth’ would be ignominiously stripped away and replaced, after much heartache, with determination to succeed where none with ‘such peculiarity’ as I apparently exhibited, ever had… thanks to the patient understanding of those around me from a different world and introduction to a ‘sensitivity’ I might otherwise never have realised…

Here, my reverie was unexpectedly interrupted. A sudden noise a quiet cough and high pitched voice as if a long way of: Sorry Duck! I didn’t mean to startle you! enough to bring me unceremoniously and none too happily back to reality… to discover a man on the other side of the fence in somewhat unusual guise… a bowler hat, which he doffed while bowing when he gained my attention, a fawn waistcoat over a bright yellow shirt with black bow tie, and early forties style brown shoes and trousers… a man to whom I had not been introduced but had been ‘advised’ was the local ghost tour guide…

He bowed again… and with a nervous smile and some embarrassment, apologized for having invaded my privacy to suggest: You must have been deep in thought?

When I failed to respond… seeming a little concerned… he asked: Are you alright Duck?

Grappling with my mind in effort to make sense of the moment I murmured what I hoped would be a suitable acceptance and where, to my dismay, heard my voice roll on as if it had a life of it’s own to describe the horse and it’s presentation… a truly magnificent creature as if on parade… then, embarrassed and confused and biting my tongue to prevent more, I began to gather the tools with which I’d been gardening, hoping such action might restore a semblance of sanity to my wayward tongue and prompt the man to move on…

But no!

Did you ‘see’ it Duck? Did you? Did you actually ‘see’ the horse?

He seemed excited… and moved closer to the fence to peer at me more intently than before…

Of course I saw it! I replied tritely… defensive… angry for confiding my experience to a complete stranger while somewhat confused he had not seen it himself ‘unless,’ my mind began to rationalise the situation, ‘he had been inside the old court house preparing the fire for his evening tour and the horse perhaps out of sight before he emerged?’ where upon I softened a little and began to describe again: An enormous bay gelding with black points and mane and tail crimped as if for a show or a parade…

Would you recognize it again? His interruption, high pitched and rude as the first seemed unrealistically excited… which the expression on my face must have registered for he changed his tone and asked, quietly: Do you think Duck, if you were able to see the horse again you might be able to recognize it? Still excited but with a sense of urgency I could not comprehend.

Of course! I scoffed over my shoulder, readying the tools for the shed in effort to end the conversation. You don’t see a horse such as ‘that’ every day!

Come! Almost a command, his hand across the top of the gate as if to assist me through it enough to set me back a few paces and draw from him yet another apology: I’m sorry Duck. I wonder would you come with me to my house, my wife is home and has something I’m sure would be of interest you.

Then, suddenly awkward, perhaps embarrassed, he looked around as if to make sure no one around to hear his words before confiding in hushed tone: Several people have been known to hear a horse you know, but to my knowledge, none have actually seen it.

Another pause, then: Pease Duck, would you not come with me for a quick visit? Our house isn’t far…

He repeated his request again and again, doing his best to assure me of his sincerity and his belief in the horse… and my presumed interest in whatever it was his wife had that might interest me…

Eventually I agreed… and would have moved to the gate had he not reached for my arm as if to assist me through… to finally realize the look on my face stated quite clearly: I might be ageing but I am perfectly able to walk unaided! where upon he dropped his arm, bowed ever so slightly then, gesturing the direction we would take, set off at a determined pace… his slightly stooped stance similar to that of Court Jesters of old…

He spoke not a word on our journey to part of the town I had not yet visited, affording time for me to gather my thoughts and ponder his sense of urgency… and to recall my first terrifying ‘sighting’ of him…

At the time I had not long moved to Tasmania from Canberra… an impulsive move made after a particularly gruelling time with my work… to Oatlands, a Southern Midlands Garrison town… to retire, so I thought… to immerse myself in the peace and tranquillity I imagined this tiny isolated village could offer… to explore my creativity in a newly restored cottage and unfinished garden and leave the politics of life and all things psychic, far behind…

I arrived ahead of my furniture on a freezing mid August day (1991) by cab from Hobart Airport with two cats and their luxuries, a few essentials for myself and barely enough daylight remaining for a quick walk to the small corner store for necessities when a howling blizzard set in…

Often, in the days preceding my move, friends had done their best to dissuade my intent with monstrous tales of haunted buildings and horrendous weather patterns this part of the world could experience… to which the practical side of me ‘pooh poohed’ of course… but here, as the wind howled and gathered strength to beat unmercifully a tin fence atop a high sandstone wall opposite my back gate, (once a gaol complex, complete with working gallows) and raised roofing iron to flap and crash noisily above my head and twist branches of an enormous old ‘multi grafted’ apple tree to scrape against the kitchen window, I prayed I would live long enough to retract my scepticism… more, to thank them for suggesting my ‘bare essentials’ would do well to include an electric blanket for my fragile ‘fold up bed’.

That night, staring bleakly into a cold combustion heater, for which I had not thought to enquire about wood on my brief trip to purchase the house, I heard voices near the small back gate.

Thinking perhaps neighbours might be calling, I moved to open the back door… there to be met with silence eerie enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck and send cats and I racing to the comparative safety of my makeshift bed… until it seemed the voices moved to the front garden… and cats and I crept cautiously forward to peer between lounge room curtains… horrified to see a ghostly Undertaker and several ghostly looking people walk by… or did they glide… the flicker of light from old fashioned lanterns distorting their features… their faces eerie in the night snow… their clothing, almost to the ground, as if from another time… sight enough to warrant another dive for my fragile bed… from where we did not move until broad daylight…

Next morning, making my way carefully down hill to the main road amid brilliant sunlight and snow inches deep from the previous night’s storm and almost to the corner of the main road when, to my horror, I nearly collided with the same Undertaker… large as life and unmistakable in top hat and tails and orange shirt so bright to highlight his ghostly pallor… sight enough to stop me in my tracks, my heart in my boots as I wondered whether I’d taken leave of my senses or had somehow stepped back in time… until a man on the opposite side of the road bade the Undertaker Good day! for my breath to flow once more… briefly, though, when I realized he too wore old fashioned clothing…

Perhaps everyone in the town is weird… I thought as I continued my way hesitantly to the corner store, or maybe dead… and maybe the cats and I are too! Died in an accident somewhere en route and not aware of our demise… when a lady (wearing normal clothes) called a complimentary greeting to the Undertaker… something about his performance the previous evening… reason enough to feel a little relieved and assume him to be an actor taking part in a film… on his way to the ‘set’… or something…

Fortunately my mail that day contained a magazine article from a friend on the mainland about the man and his Oatlands Ghost Tours along with a picture and a brief note asking if I’d met him yet… for which I sent silent thanks and breathed a sigh of relief… and decided ‘this might be as normal a life as I was likely to encounter in this part of the world and perhaps I had better accept and get on with it accordingly!’

And for a couple of months I did just that…

Far from the then brittle façade of Canberra, (once an Aborigine Meeting Ground) with politics and academe and all things ‘just right’ far behind me, with the house freshly painted and carpeted and furniture placed pleasingly, I gave my attention to the garden…

On my first ‘dedicated’ morning I stepped out through the back door to a snow swept landscape and pristine surrounds and bevy of smiling spirit faces… my long suffering spirit helpers standing side by side with my beloved Peter and Dad and Nan (a lady loved as a mother) and Doaky (a policeman I would have married when young had mother not bemoaned his lack of suitability and social standing…) and they were beaming…

I must be doing something right! I mused as I acknowledged their presence before involving myself with some thoroughly grounding physical work. Though I’m darned if I know precisely what!

Cut off from all but God and Nature I revelled in their sanity to wander leisurely the shore of the beautiful lake and nature reserve not far from the house… to admire breed of bird so rare and others exquisitely plumed. Pelican and Swan majestic… and multi coloured Ducks who seemed to know my every thought… Proud, aloof, perfection, presided over by enormous Old Man Pines, tall and broad and privy to many a secret… from where I awoke one day to realize my wounds no longer the heavy burden of the past… my anger and resentment subdued… inner peace prevailed… my faith restored somehow. I was, at long last, at one with myself… and determined my life should remain unchanged and uncomplicated for the duration!

I’m not sure when I first became aware my spirit friends were not hovering close by as I worked in the garden or walked the nature reserve… or when, with sinking heart, I realized the lake was drying and there seemed an unusual sadness in the air around…

In time though I did become aware a sort of ‘misty shadow’ followed me to the back door at the end of a particularly difficult session in the garden but on the odd occasion I turned to see what or who, I was met with an unwillingness to be seen and a sense of despair which eventually permeated the entire area.

Once or twice I hurried in through the back door and quickly out again hoping for a glimpse of my intruder… unsuccessfully of course… and stopped trying when I remembered I had turned my back on all of that…

Was he the intruder though? Perhaps it was I who disturbed his peace and he might rather I not be here? Unsure as to why I thought it a male…

Weeks went by during which I occasionally sent silent thoughts to the shadow… plied it with questions… to which I received no response… which didn’t really worry me as it seemed neither of us were going anywhere and I had retired, hadn’t I!

However persistence did pay off, whether his or mine, (or was it karma?) when I thought he seemed a little less sad and aloof and might even be enjoying my time in the garden. Perhaps my pleasure pleased him?

Gradually the shadow began to emerge from behind what ever he had been cowering… mentioned, in thanking me at the kitchen door at the end of a long tiring session in a more difficult section of the garden, that ‘his physical death had come suddenly and he’d not been aware, until my arrival, that he had actually passed from the earthly dimension to another and while he’d been reluctant to accept his physical demise, he had been more reluctant to accept the possibility of an afterlife…’

Some weeks later, (our progress painfully slow I must say…) he told me of his Scandinavian heritage… later, a little about his life… and later, somewhat hesitantly, that he had not died here nor had he ever lived here… he had a friend who had died here… he and I had known each other in the past and had chosen this time as catalyst for greater understanding…

Information offered then about the friend who died… sentenced to death on the local gallows for a murder he had not committed… an accident… out on the lake one evening amid a heavy bout of drinking with a friend who had not returned… perhaps I would care to check the details for myself one day…

Finally, one evening, he allowed me to see him in person… for one magical moment… just on dusk… a sight I will never forget. An enormous man… a gentle giant with skin so white and hair and beard so thick and black standing firm on the deck of a fishing vessel in black oilskins with trousers rolled above the ankles… wind and rain so fierce against his face it almost blew the ‘Sou’ wester’ from his head…

Had I reached out that evening I know I could have touched him… yet the storm around us touched me not.

How could that be… and why… but he vanished… and my questions hung unanswered in the evening air…

While ‘our scene’ was never repeated, his presence visited with me in the garden for months… quietly and contentedly… Healing… He said one day… Just healing…

Now, walking beside the Ghost Tour Guide and nearing his house, I suddenly felt awkward about my ability to see and hear people who are no longer living in this world…

I began to wonder about his family and my unexpected intrusion to their home and what their reaction might be when he mentioned my sighting of an invisible horse…

I had been aware a horse wandered the streets almost from my first night in the town… roaming freely at the oddest hours it ‘whinnied’ softly at times in passing the house as if suddenly finding his owner who, I assumed, tethered it down by the lake… and wondered at their patience with it constantly breaking away…

Now with vision of the Scandinavian fresh in my mind, I was strangely surprised to realize it a spirit horse, more surprised though at the ease with which I had allowed a near stranger to take me to his home to request, of a somewhat perplexed wife, whether he might show me one of her old portraits… and as an afterthought, perhaps she might make us a cup of tea…

He disappeared then… to emerge a few moments later holding high an old fashioned, heavily framed portrait of the horse… astride which sat an extremely proud Superintendent, (apparently a great grand relative of his wife…) at which point I heard a quiet spirit voice quip: Told you!

Oh Well! I thought to myself. If it’s possible to converse with spirit people, why not spirit animals too! Then: Perhaps, if the man and his wife are aware of the horse, they might have heard something about the Scandinavian… and warming to the idea of sharing an experience with people with an obvious interest in history, I mentioned my encounter with the man and the circumstances regarding the friend who died on the gallows… surprised to be admonished by the Ghost Tour Guide who replied: Sorry Duck! We can’t help you there. We don’t believe in Ghosts.

I thought you operated ghost tours! I exclaimed (probably a little rudely!) Besides… he isn’t a ghost… he’s a guy who’s died and gone to heaven!

And what’s that, if not a ghost? Came his staid reply.

I returned to my little part of paradise saddened, hoping my Scandinavian had not heard our conversation or if he had, he would not be upset by it…

Some days later, walking past the corner of the old gaol wall around which the horse had walked from my view, I suddenly seemed to walk out of one moment in time in to another.

Here, the sandstone wall seemed higher than usual and children I had not previously seen, (but seemed to know) were playing happily, their laughter filling the air. A small girl with fair hair and pale skin and two older boys also with fair hair…

I wondered why they were not at school… and the girl in unusual clothes. Her hair in plaits draped over the bib front of an old fashioned white muslin type pinafore protecting a special dress which almost reached her ankles, her legs in stockings, her feet in boots.

The boys, (cousins, I seemed to know) were also in unusual clothes but wore no shoes. One, the brother of the small girl and quite obviously dressed in his older brother’s clothes, balanced precariously at the top of the sandstone wall… which now seemed much higher than I’d previously thought. The other, who’s father, I seemed to know was employed in some capacity at the gaol was also, in his spare time, the town barber who apparently made a mess of many a hair cut, was encouraging the first boy to jump…

In this strange twilight time I seemed to know ‘if the boy were to jump, he would be in very real danger’ and, not wanting to embarrass him in front of the others, I cautioned quietly in passing: I wouldn’t jump from there if I were you, you might hurt yourself.

But the boy ignored my warning and jumped and where, landing lightly on his feet and straightening himself up, said cheekily: Can’t hurt ‘meself’ any more lady, I’ve already broke me neck!

Words enough for me to turn to suggest he not be so cheeky… amazed to find them gone… nothing now except long grass and a small tree (which had not been there when the children played) and the old gaol wall returned to it’s modern day height.

No children. No chatter. No laughter. Not a sound… save that of the wind in the pine trees at the edge of the lake… and blow flies buzzing as only they can… sounds I had not been aware of when the children played…

Oh well! I thought to myself. "That’s what you get for living in isolation!

Senility hadn’t taken long to set in, had it!"

It was an experience I was unable to dismiss… and in time began to worry me… to wonder why I was walking so close to spirit people, especially since I had decided to turn away from ‘that’ way of life!

Perhaps I would soon die myself… and they doing their best to introduce me to my demise?

Perhaps the children were showing me the way, or the Scandinavian letting me know how simple… perhaps even the horse letting me know the energies we enjoy while living might still remain…

So I waited… and waited… but nothing happened… not to my physical counterpart at least, though the Ghost Tour Guide called in one day to say, while researching for one of his historical tours, he had unexpectedly discovered an old fashioned photograph of my Scandinavian, (which quite took my breath away) and details about the man who died on the gallows for the murder of his friend… ‘perhaps not a murder after all as both men were said to have been under the influence of alcohol and one who died might simply have fallen from the boat and the other too intoxicated to realise his absence…’

Here, with baited breath I broached the subject again… asked if I could confide my experience with children I had spoken to at the wall… pleasantly surprised when he agreed and mentioned ‘the gaol wall was originally the heights I had seen… and the children’s clothes matched the time… and while he’d heard a boy had died in just such a fall, he did not know his name, nor any further detail…’

Still though I was none the wiser for their intrusion in my life… such images had not occurred before, other than with a card or two in my hand from an ordinary deck of cards a client shuffled during their session with me, from where it seemed all manner of detail could be passed to those who had need for such advise…

Several weeks later, toying with a now completed garden and aware my original intensity of interest was waning, (which was beginning to worry me…) I heard a voice say: Why should I help her? She’s soon to leave! Why should I bother!

The little girl from the wall! I thought and called to ask if she would show herself to me again… assuring her I had no intention of leaving, if anything, I felt my spirit friends had left me!

She called she would not and I was wrong. They said to tell you so. They say they are not needed. Words which struck an icy blow and I felt my heart sink…

They said they helped you to discover your higher mind and prepared you for the coming of your Teacher’s physical counterpart.

What ever do you mean? I questioned of thin air, hysteria not far from my side…

"You! The one who watched us play near the wall and asks so many questions.

You helped me once before and they said it is my turn to help you now, though I don’t think you deserve it!

Your friends in my world say they have taken you as far as was in the plan for the moment and they advised you so once before.

They say you will soon walk with one who resembles your Teacher."

What rubbish! my quick retort. Apart from having no intention of moving from here, I have no intention of allowing anyone else to walk my physical path with me! As for someone taking my spirit friend’s place, there is no one for whom I would have sufficient respect! but even as I uttered the words, aware they fell on deaf ears, I knew my future. I had a gift that must be shared and work would eventually find me and force me from my retreat…

I knew too I could not walk the path and work alone and the time would come for someone, no matter how much I wished otherwise, to enter the chasm Peter’s death created… thoughts, for the first time in the years since his untimely death, caused me to break down completely and exhaustedly… to weep for what might have been and now could not… for our life and our learning… for our love and our friendship… to weep uncontrollably throughout the four long days of Easter…

That I had lost my way and my friends would do nothing to help was apparent.

That they could sit on their fat butts and watch me sweat it out was worse, causing my mood to swing from frustration to sadness to resentment for their sanctimonious ways and privileged awareness and, not far from hating them and all we apparently planned to put into operation, I turned my back and sulked…

The weather closed in over Easter.

A feral cat dropped her two babies at my back door and between bouts of tears and moods of anger, with intermittent concern the kittens should continue to enjoy their feral freedom, I cleaned the house from front to back… then rearranged the furniture several times until finally content with my desk in the kitchen/dining area close to the combustion heater and the back door where, on Easter Monday night, I was surprised to look up and see a woman standing in the sandstone porch… even more surprised on opening the door, to find her gone… vanished… into the crisp night air…

She appeared again next evening… and disappeared the same way… and did so for days… until one night I did not move to the door and she did not leave… just stood her ground and continued to do so for months for a nightly vigil seeming without reason. A beautiful young spirit lady, staring sad and lost across an invisible barrier about which I, a confused and angry human, could do nothing but return stare with stare… with not a thought nor a word between us…

One evening she seemed to stand in a slightly different area… from where I thought the light reflected a scar on her face and I moved forward to observe more clearly…

It was a large scar… similar to a ‘birth mark’… and seemed to cover much of her right cheek.

My heart ached for her… and I prayed silently for her healing… after which she moved back from the light and covered that side of her face with a scarf… a long fawn wool scarf, one end tucked under the lapel of an old fashioned fawn and brown fleck wool coat, the other lifted up around her face to be thrown loosely over her left shoulder…

She was very beautiful. Thick brown collar length hair bobbed under… long lashes over large dark eyes… skin, so pale and soft and while very young, seemed old beyond her years with a sadness I had not seen in death before haunting her lovely face…

She stayed for months. Every night, with the light on to welcome her visit and not one word spoken, we observed each other as if waiting… though for what, I did not know…

Eventually the ‘spirit brat’ who told the world I would soon move on, proved right!

Contacted by clients over seas to give postal readings and deciding ‘perhaps retirement in exile was not my specialty after all!’ I agreed… and a few months later chose to move to a smaller house on the main road…

On my first visit to the new cottage, (150 years old!) with a tiny kitten rescued along the way tucked safely in my jacket, I strode up the front path so quickly I nearly knocked an old guy from his rocker…

I’m sorry! I apologized while helping to straighten his chair. I didn’t see you until I was almost up to you!

Righting the wrong and ensuring his comfort, I could not help but notice he wore old fashioned glasses… round, tortoiseshell rims with gold, coiled, ear keepers… and something unusual about his clothing too… braces, over an old fashioned collarless shirt… trousers made from unusual fleck material… and he was sitting in his rocker with his back to the road reading an old, so old, news paper…

Who were you talking to? Asked the young owners, opening the door to my noisy arrival…

The old guy in that rocker reading the paper. I nearly tripped over him! and turning to point in the general direction discovered, to my dismay, he did not exist at all… and tried not to read too much into the puzzled expressions the youngsters exchanged with each other…

I fell in love with the cottage and enormous block of land: Once an old school house. I seemed to hear… and decided, ‘haunted or not, it was just what I needed…’ though for what, I was not entirely sure…

Back at the first house I introduced the new kitten to the oversized Canberra duo Mr Bits and Muffy, (who I must say were not overly impressed!) then set about some paper work and packing and, not until late in the evening, did I begin to worry about the spirit lady… whether my departure would sadden her… whether the noise of the new owners children would upset her peace or invade her privacy…

It seemed I need not have concerned myself for if she was disappointed, she failed to convey it.

When I turned on the light that night she stood her ground… if any change at all, perhaps just the hint of a smile on her lovely face…

By now my non believer of ghosts were intermittent visitors to my home, the Ghost Tour man visiting a few days before my move when a lady (physical) came to the back door and asked if she could have a quick peep through the door to see some of the improvements the previous owners had put in place…

Apparently ‘she’d spent many happy days in the house in her youth and would have bought it had she known it was for sale…’

I began to introduce myself but she already knew me by name and remained at the door… said she would not come in… nor have a cup of tea… she didn’t believe in people like me nor the things we believed in… found it all quite frightening…

Not to be put off (and never one for diplomacy) her mention of early childhood intrigued me and I launched into account and description of my spirit lady, more aware as I spoke than at any other time of her fragile life and tragic death, ‘in early pregnancy’ I seemed to hear…

My impression must have been fairly accurate for goose bumps began to rise on my visitors arm and before long she decided she: would come in and sit down and have that cup of tea after all!

A little later, when settled, and a little more composed, she verified all I had mentioned. The birthmark, and the clothing, her mannerisms, her beauty, her sadness, and a rough estimate of her age at death… then confided her tragic death during pregnancy…

That night when I turned on the light in welcome, the smile on my spirit lady’s face was one of pure satisfaction…

Somehow her thoughts melded with mine to let me know she had been another Miracle in my life…

We had viewed each other for the best part of nine months without either one understanding why or turning away… no matter how frustrating… for us each to gain healing and knowledge… ‘she teaching me patience. I, in sharing the difficulties of my pathway, offering her a philosophy she had not heard of during her all too brief life…’

My beautiful Easter Miracle.

Her final vigil took place on the last night I spent in the house… where she actually spoke… advising: I will be reborn in this area soon, to live as a woman and reach maturity and have children of my own and, in good time, develop my own spirituality…

She entered the house, touched my shoulder in passing and quietly advised ‘my unseen spirit helpers had helped my life come full cycle, to find again the intuitive accuracy and simplicity of the senses I had known as a child and seemed to know I would know again one day in the future… when the time was ready,’ then, moving through the thick sandstone wall behind me, her facial scar no longer visible… perhaps no longer necessary… she assured me ‘our meeting had offered us completion… and helped restore my need in my ability to go forward…’

I sat on, deep in thought, longing to be able to retract my recent temperamental outpourings to those around me in spirit… hurtful words ‘flung’ without thought or care through absolute frustration, for while I had long been aware of my inherent and seemingly inexplicable peculiarity, (flaunting it for all it was worth when young I might add to a bewildered assortment of friends…) until this point in time, I had been totally unaware of the enormity of my responsibilities…

Today, still not quite so accepting of my ability (loosely termed psychic) as I would like to be or probably should be, I think I am, at long last, at least able to understand the enormous chasm which exists between people like myself and those who fear the tenuous path we walk… remembering well a ‘Lay Teacher’ who down graded my son’s maths report from his usual A+ to D when he heard of my work… almost hissing at me between clenched teeth when I questioned the reason: We could do more to help you if you were a prostitute!

Would you suggest I change my profession? I replied impudently… and if so, what of the Bible? I thought it taught: ‘Jesus loved the prostitute and the psychic equally’! and strode from his room…

While part of me remains human… defensively snapping at bait tantalizingly offered by every bigot who strides my way… another is close to accepting the oft quoted: We experience only what we need… whether we like it or not… or think we want it or not.

I know now each pitfall will be followed by a rescue, (called learning) whether ‘we’ think we want it or need it or even recognize it as such… a rescue as happened soon after my clash with the unfortunate math’s teacher by way of a builder working on a site opposite the house in which we lived in at the time.

He introduced himself one morning when I was collecting the mail and mentioned the sadness on the faces of some of the people who entered my home and their transformation on leaving… then asked about my work… and wondered whether I would accept a small gift… a token of his appreciation…

Still smarting from my clash with the maths teacher my initial thought: What a great line! I’ll bet he’s out to make a pass! gave way to anger and an arrogant defensive retort: I’m psychic! My work is my business and turning away and I don’t accept gifts! which he of course ignored… said he ‘he didn’t care what I called myself… he was a man of the cloth (and named the church) and recognized only that I cared for people…’ to feel humbled and chastened when he said he hoped ‘I would continue my work…’ and thoroughly ashamed when the gift he offered proved to be a small Bible…

A rescue… or a plus? I wasn’t sure… but I decided I had better treat any future inquiries with a little more sensitivity… which of course I did not! By the time each came around I would have forgotten my intention through other harrowing experiences and be back to my old defensive self!

Today, my head more often than not in the clouds wishing horrible lessons over in a hurry that I might have wisdom ahead of time, doing my best to embrace the cumbersome needs my life introduces (in seemingly haphazard way I might add) I continue to meet people who ostracize my ideals and criticize my (presumed) lack of belief in God (never mind my faith) or condemn as irresponsible the healing I am privileged to offer some, (each, helping to enhance my learning) while still human enough to find them aggravating, I note with sense of glee they worry me less with each passing year… and while I am now conversant with the plethora of psychics (or eccentrics if you prefer, since delightful misuse of the word has enabled society to categorize those of us who are of ‘unknown quality’) and the individuality we exhibit, my faltering development and subsequent interest in a philosophy so foreign to my fashionable upbringing and orthodox western religion, was neither accepted nor understood by my society conscious Mother…

Unlike most psychics one hears about my formative years were not spiritually inclined nor much spiritually influenced beyond the age of seven, circumstances instead introducing a hostile fight for survival through a maze of bureaucratic and indoctrinated expectations which in turn produced a somewhat lost soul searching for recognition of sanity and freedom from the influence of society’s falsehoods it’s a wonder I emerged alive, never mind with a sense of decency…

My life began in a private hospital in Woollahra, one of Sydney’s fashionable Eastern Suburbs at the time, where nursing staff danced attendance on socialite mother and babe and father, I was reliably informed by all who knew him, so immensely proud one could be forgiven for assuming he had given birth himself, (or that there had never been another child born!)

He was well in his forties when I was born. A widower in his second marriage to a lady barely half his age, he had not considered children would enter his life and though retired, from what I’m not quite sure as he was an active member of Bankstown Aero Club, competed in sky races, was heavily involved with the stock market and fledgling Real Estate and Concrete Companies, was the RAAF Aid to N.S.W Governor Lord Wakehurst and, somehow, ensured the necessary time to lead me toward the appreciation for nature I enjoy today…

So perfect was his child and so much adored he decided my arrival event enough to ‘work up’ some lush pasture land on his Moss Vale property an hour or so south of Sydney… where he added farming to his portfolio of abilities… and where he later taught me the art of survival, even if I was a girl!

I remember well a frequent comment made by Mother’s friends of his teaching me to deliver a calf, or a foal… or sling bales of hay… or ‘break in’ young horses: But Norman! She’s a girl!

She may well be! He’d respond laughing at them and winking at me But who are we to presume she will never need such skills?

Beneath his gentle way with animals (and a compliance with nature many envied…) towered a man of inordinate entrepreneurial skills, never so engrossed as with the gamble of a new enterprise but around whom, whether he was aware of it or not, money and status would mould my life with precision… in fact it ruled our lives to such an extent the entire household would come to a halt during the twice daily stock market broadcasts… about which, I wondered later, ‘had I been injured during a broadcast where no one dared disturb him, would my wounds have come first… or put on hold until it concluded? ‘and decided: Probably the later!

The custom at my birth, in households like ‘ours’, was to model all children (boys or girls) on the two British Princesses and their homes on Buckingham Palace… reason, I expect, for the Chauffer to enquire of Dad when driving him to register my birth, the name they intended for me and who, when hearing Jane was Mother’s preference, interrupted with: Beg pardon Sir. I think this wee lassie is going to need much more the strength of a name such as Judith. and Dad, because he was Dad and respected the man who, as his Batman and confidant had seen him through much turmoil, took his advise… and suffered the consequences later, quietly and patiently…

On leaving the private hospital I was apparently handed to a somewhat tyrannical Nursing Sister who took immediate control… parading me first before the assembled household staff as if I was the latest in a long line of aristocracy… then strode haughtily up stairs to the day nursery… and closed the door on the world: Away from infection! She apparently advised any who questioned her intent… and set out to rule my day in meticulous way… which did little to endear her to Father or the staff and who, when I was three months old, was replaced with a gentle, loving, Nanny (or Nurse as Mother preferred) who was instructed to care for me (and later my brother) as if she were in charge of the two young Princesses… with identical pram, clothes, (hand made by two spinster sisters who called to the house each season to take our measurements) and etiquette, (don’t lets forget the etiquette!) who, thankfully, saw through the brittle facade of artificiality to become: ‘My own Darling Nurnie.’

From later accounts it would seem I had been difficult from birth… rarely closed my eyes… was anorexic, hyperactive and wilful… but one, it would seem, Nurnie was well able to understand… patiently enticing food between tiny pursed lips… adept in repairing some of my more special toys and pacifying the unaccountable temper tantrums which usually half destroyed them… deft in easing tangles in my rapidly lengthening hair… and later, gentle in explaining why it was preferable for me to love my new baby brother rather than try to poke his tiny eyeballs out through the back of his head or, when a little older and in care of a parlour maid on Nurse’s afternoon off, wheel him in his stroller to the nearby shopping centre and leave for a stranger to find and take home with them…

Apparently the thought ‘that particular escapade might be repeated’ frightened the poor parlour maid to such an extent she ensured my safety in a ‘cloak cupboard’ beneath the domestics stairs every Wednesday afternoon… a musty, smelly cupboard where lived a large dark moth with a large black spot on either wing, of which I was terrified and eventually caused sufficient hysteria for me to be hospitalised. The end result, claustrophobia… and fear of moths and birds!

While I had been quick to talk, I was apparently late to walk, (probably a good thing with hindsight!) and when unable to so much as stand on my feet by an acceptable age, was taken to specialist after specialist… there to be prodded and poked and nothing untoward found until, with family concern mounting I might never walk, I advised Nurnie I had no wish to visit more doctors, confiding: The Ladies who play with me in the garden tell me I will walk when I am two and a half!

Nurnie, gentle in her acceptance of my innocence questioned persistently, to eventually gain my description of ‘gentle people in long white robes with grey hair a little longer than Mother’s’ to decide we had Angels at the bottom of our garden and, because they wore long gowns, her reply: We will have to ask your Angel Ladies why you are not yet walking… won’t we?

There, I dutifully enquired… and confided again: They said I hurt my legs before.

Before when, Judith Dear?

But Judith Dear would say no more other than: Before! You know! Before!

Nurnie seemed pleased with my information and relayed it with great enthusiasm to Mother, who was not so impressed and promptly dismissed it as the ‘chattering of a childish mind!’

Ignore her Nurse! she advised with characteristic aloofness and flap of the hand, which suggested all things not clearly understood or acceptable were to be swept under the carpet. She can be most odd at times and would appear to be developing a highly active imagination!

Fortunately Nurse did not ignore! Instead she informed my doting father who seemed nearly as able as she to accept the ‘possibility I could communicate with extraneous life forms…’ but who, before setting up his home movie equipment in effort to record my afternoon antics, checked all adjoining gardens to ensure neighbours or their pets were not at the other side of fence attracting my attention!

His movies, of course, did not so much as glimpse the Ladies, though they did capture a sullen child who, when placed on the rug amid an assortment of toys, and sure she was alone, would undergo an amazing transformation… a brilliant smile would crease my tiny face, accompanied by laughter and animated chatter… while my hands would reach eagerly for things unseen… from sources unseen…

Most noticeable it seemed were my legs, apparently moving in grotesque fashion where I would be seen to grimace as if in pain… but did not once lose my animation or smile… with me until I appeared to sense intruders to my game where small lips could clearly be seen to mouth: Good Bye to who ever or what ever was with me at the rug… to blow kisses and wave… before the same sullen expression with which I had been placed in the garden resumed…

True to my word I apparently walked when the Angel Ladies said I would! Simply got out of bed one night and walked! Without faltering! As if I’d been walking all my life!

Dad heard thumps and bumps on the stairs in the early hours of the morning and assumed we were being burgled so got out his rifle and called: Stop! Or I’ll shoot!

Youthful giggles met his stern command and when the lights were switched on and the culprit revealed, Dad and Nurnie spoke in unison: What ever are you doing Judith Dear!

I’m going home! I apparently informed them.

But you are home Judith Dear! Said Nurnie gently.

I’m going to my real home! Said defiantly… (practice which, to the consternation of some, apparently continued until I was nearly five…)

Come on then, if you insist… from Nurnie, We’ll look for that home together. To take me by the hand and lead me back to bed… as aware as I that I was wide awake and had not been walking in my sleep as others presumed…

Unlike mother, who by now had been married to Dad for sufficient time to become completely absorbed with the brittle façade and sophistication of a social life to which she’d not previously been accustomed, Nurnie was blessed with a down-to-earth practicality… without doubt the most wonderful addition to my life… one so special I would have given her my all.

She was my friend, my confidant and my teacher. One who earned my respect and returned my affection as if I were her own and I know her now to be the gentle stream running parallel to my raging tempest… one who offered a gentle love and brought harmony and balance to my life… one, though I would not be aware for years, who taught me life’s real values… for God and Nature and unconditional love… spiritual values my Dad would unexpectedly offer later…

When we were small we played in a park not far from the house where Nurnie would sit with other Nannies and watch us ‘playing acceptable games with acceptable children with acceptable demeanour…’ though I remember another park without those Nannies where we were encouraged to play with ‘other’ children… a park where she was able to ignore my selfish tears or spoiled behaviour and skilfully instruct us to play in an area heavily covered in bamboo ‘which’, she whispered quietly on more than one occasion, ‘we should treat with respect for it was home and sustenance for Fairy Folk and their friends…’ and I wonder now, whether my Angel Ladies and her Fairy Folk might not be one and the same…

Perhaps she was psychic and communicated as a medium… and perhaps she knew my explanation for not being able to walk long before I mentioned it…

She taught us indoor games and kept us amused for hours… and when the day was dull, (having explained the need for wind and rain and sun) would have our tiny faces pressed to the day nursery window to search the sky: For enough blue to make a sailor a pair of trousers! which, when found, would entitle us to a walk or play out doors…

Sometimes we’d get caught in a sun shower and reaching the house a member of staff might scold we’d catch our death of cold, which Nurnie would ignore and counter with her explanation of a sun shower: If it rains while the sun is out, that’s a sun shower, she would quietly calm, and, (because we were fascinated with weddings at nearby All Saints Church) you can be sure a Fox is getting married! They like to marry during a sun shower when beautiful rainbows arch overhead… and if a sun shower does not harm them, it can hardly be harmful for us. Now, (preparing us for our baths…) I wonder was Mr Brown Fox getting married today or might it have been Mr Red Fox? with any fear of impending illness, completely forgotten!

In frightening storms, where lightning flashed and thunder roared with sufficient accompaniment to shake the house to it’s foundation, she’d pretend to admonish God for frightening us or for being too noisy in attending to His Heavenly Chores!

In answer to a very heavy crash she might say: There goes the grand piano! God must be tending to His housework again! We’ll have to ask Him if He could he be a little more quiet! and as if by magic, (or did God hear her?) the thunder would lower enough for her to settle us to sleep.

When it rained so heavily the streets were awash: We’ll have to ask God to tip His cleaning water down the drain! He might give someone an unwanted shower!

When raining was just right, we would listen to it on the roof, or the window… hearing God’s Angels as they played their music in concert at His feet with all of Nature listening to their magic…

Our walks were magical too… each one a nature lesson in which we’d be absorbed… her tales, made up for us about the smallest insect or the largest bird known to grace the sky in most magnificent flight…

When I was old enough to attend nearby Ascham School Kindergarten, it was Nurnie who experienced my tempestuous morning tears and my rumbustious afternoon release from bondage.

She would gently advise the merits of learning, wisely advise not all times in life are pleasurable and deftly ease my temperamental mood with a story… usually of nature… a creature we just ‘happened’ to meet along the way… more likely one she ‘planted’ on her way to collect me… with splendid anticipation!

Bedtime was always a nightmare, in more ways than one… horrific dreams… accompanied by sleep walking and talking and absolute fear of the dark.

Even with the night nursery lit like a department store (as well as the upstairs landing and hall…) I would take to my bed with a flying leap… almost from the door, (just in case someone had somehow crept in to the room during the day and was waiting to ‘get me’) with all attempts to investigate the dark space beneath my bed absolutely futile… my torment eased only with a gentle tale about the Fairy People… ‘who lived with God… and loved the night because only when the world was asleep could they play with the stars. If I had the light off I could see the stars…’ by which time I would usually be asleep… always in her arms…

To this point I remember little of my parents other than a woman resplendent in ball gown with hair elegantly quaffed peering around the door of the nursery to say good night… one adept at avoiding sticky little fingers when greeting guests at our birthday parties… or a formal Sunday Dinner with a goblet of Coca Cola I would much preferred to have slurped from it’s green glass bottle!

Later, when Dad’s busy schedule permitted, some Sunday afternoons were spent with him at his Maroubra Estate Office, where he and Les Hooker would take it in turn to spin me in their swivel chairs and ply me with Cooks Jellettes (which Mother would never have allowed…) and where they were sometimes joined by Jimmy Banks of Ginger Meggs fame, who would sit me on his knee and enquire of my exploits during that week, (my attempts to kill my young brother I rather suspect!) then model some of Gingers escapes from the bully ‘Tiger Kelly’ on the wily sense of protection our staff afforded my sensitive young brother…

‘Once,’ Dad confided many years later, ‘on his way to dine at Government House he came to the night nursery to say goodnight and, advised by Nurnie a miniature deck of playing cards enabled me to ‘tell her a bed time story‘, he selected a card and suggested I tell him a story too… seeming amused when I described a man who I said would: fall from the sky… extremely upset though, when, some weeks later, a friends bi-plane did exactly that… and reason enough for my ‘story book source’ to be removed from the nursery…’

When I was about six and a half, because it was the ‘accepted way for people from our way of life’ (Mother’s words…) I was placed in a country boarding school… which I found totally devastating…

To be fair to my father, the second world war was under way, there were thought to be foreign submarines crisscrossing Sydney Harbour and he had been called up from RAAF reserve as C.O Eastern Area…

His instructions to Mother were ‘to dismiss the servants and have as much furniture as we might need taken to the comparative safety of our property in the Southern Highlands… to carry as much gold as she could least she be apprehended by men from the submarines… to enrol us as day