Bridges Of Time

By Shirley J. Smith

Have you ever wondered what life is all about or the secret mysteries our ancients left behind? Bridges Of Time has exciting adventurous answering those types of questions.
Bridges Of Time is a book written by Shirley J. Smith who at a young age discovers she is psychic but doesn't know what to do until she meets Maggy Conn, her mentor. Shirley soon emerges from her cocoon learning about her psychic gifts and moves on from a naïve farmer's wife to working in law enforcement. With Maggy's help guiding her passion to achieve, Shirley soon rose to positions of authority in law enforcement, local, state and national politics.
Maggy passes away, Shirley takes serious Maggy's tutoring art of self-awareness and Universal love, moves to Dallas and starts teaching the masses. Her seminar travels take her to the Hopi Indian reservation, a Mayan village in Mexico and to the Australian Outback. The Indians taught her their secrets which was the next step of better understanding Universal Love.
Then it starts, a flashing lighten bolt in the night followed by a big thunder that cracked like fireworks on the fourth of July. A startled Shirley bolts upright to see a Mayan Priest, spiritual guide, at the foot of her bed. He tells her get pen in hand, it's time to write. The automatic writing started like white heat. It felt as though someone actually took her hand and started drawing a map. The writings were precise in detail showing where Maya artifacts were hidden long ago off a reef in the Mexico Yucatan sea. He wrote it is time for the Mayan crystal and its bowl to come out of the sea. Their energy would help balance earth's negative vibrations. Then the writing said it would be during her lecture in Aspen, Colorado she would meet the right couple to complete this mission.
Sailing out of Cozumel harbor everyone's faith was strong. The Mayan Priest maps holds the answers for the success of helping Mother Earth. After recovering the artifacts, the writings said to immediately leave but the captain refused. His mind was still on the sunken ship ad its treasurers he saw while diving.
They were at sea in a 144-foot schooner when Hurricane Gilbert hit. The Priest's writings were right. Three days they fought for survival, lost at sea for additional eight days. No one expected them to live, they finally sailed their crippled ship into Veracruz Harbor. This story was published in U.S. newspapers.
Bridges Of Time title serves its purpose by telling how Shirley constantly had to bring her own bridge of time to get herself out of the mess she got into. It was easy to follow the automatic writing messages but Shirley had to learn earth has repercussions. For every action there is a re-action since everything has its own energy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098330781

Book preview

cover.jpg

Front cover illustration by Anne Enochs

Copyright 8/13/2018 by Shirley J. Smith

All rights reserved

Print ISBN: 978-1-09833-077-4

eBook ISBN: 978-1-09833-078-1

No part of this book may be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form or by means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is dedicated to my editor and teacher, Marti Dryk. Marti is the best teacher I could ever hope for! Thank you for all your hard work and dedication. The lessons you taught will be remembered and your inspiration will always give me strength to succeed. Thank you.

Faith has the power to connect you with the light in your heart. It truly increases your love power.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Shadows of My Life

Chapter 2: My Quiet Time

Chapter 3: Hickory Haven

Chapter 4: Time and Reality Meet

Chapter 5: Rock Bible

Chapter 6: Where to Go and What to Do?

Chapter 7: My Gypsy Days

Chapter 8: When Maggy Meets Duke

Chapter 9: Sweet Home, Texas

Chapter 10: Comanche Medicine Man

Chapter 11: The Quest Begins

Chapter 12: North, South, East and West

Chapter 13: Power at Chichen Itza

Chapter 14: Aspen Surprises

Chapter 15: Messages from Above

Chapter 16: Yucatán Calling

Chapter 17: Double Trouble

Chapter 18: Tequila

Chapter 19: Crystal Mission

Chapter 20: A Shaman’s Message

Chapter 1:

Shadows of My Life

I want to start at the beginning and tell you a story of time.

Early morning slipped quietly into my bedroom. As I rose gently from sleep, I heard the soft humming of my ceiling fan and the occasional twitter of a bird. I smiled at the joy of waking up to a new day. God only knows it was not always this way. I’d learned to love sunrises with dewy mornings and breathed deeply with anticipation of another day. I’d finally learned how precious time is. Time is what gives us new chances, new ideas, new dreams, new adventures and best of all, time to make amends. Time to say, I’m sorry, time to say, I’ll change, time to heal old wounds or to make new friends, and sadly, time to make more mistakes, bad choices or to do hurtful things. Time is the only thing I took so long to understand, appreciate, and relish. How beautiful is time!

I want to start at the beginning and tell you a story of time. When I was young and came into adulthood, it was the early fifties, and things were very different for women. This was way before women rights and equal partners in the marriage and all the incredible perks open to women today. I lived my life and made my choices in the world I was in, as did all of us. I played the hand I was dealt, and it will be hard for people who didn’t live in that era to understand. It was very hard. What different roads our lives have taken if each had walked a different path, but it all seems destined as everything comes together.

I was a very attractive, popular, and outgoing teenager. I had lots of friends. My parents owned a business, and we had a wonderful life for the small town we lived in. We lived in a lovely, big white house with beautiful furniture. My bedroom and that of my sisters were visions of fluffy pink curtains and dressing tables. I am the oldest of three children, all girls. My parents were happy and fun loving, and our life was fun and exciting.

I met my future husband, Donald Smith, when our small school consolidated with other schools and new pupils arrived. His parents lived on a farm in a nearby community. We were excited and happy to meet new kids. It made school more fun.

Donald and his brother were born to older parents who, although they lived very humbly, threw money at their sons. They each drove a new car, which was unheard of in those days when families often all shared one car. Donald was very handsome and popular, so all the girls tried to date him, and he dated quite a lot.

My sisters were terrible brats who delighted in teasing him; he was an easy target because he had never had to deal with this kind of behavior. I’m sure my folks thought he would tire of this, but he bravely withstood every effort to break us up. I had never seen before or after anyone dating as consistently as my future husband dated me. He brought beautiful gifts on holidays and took me to all the school proms. We both attended the same church. He had joined my church when we had started going steady in my junior year of high school. I was elected president of my class and participated in band, cheerleading, and lots of sports.

My mother took me aside one day and said, Shirley, do you realize that you have begun to give up a lot of your friends and school activities?

Donald wanted all my time and attention, and I thought I was truly blessed. I could not see it then. I was angry and defensive, and my mother finally threw up her hands and left. In my senior year, he proposed at Christmas with a lovely ring. You see, back in the ’50s if you did not have someone in mind to marry when you graduated from high school, you were considered a loser. We all married young. It was the goal, the plan of that era. Few women worked outside the home; few girls went on to college.

If you saw the TV series Mad Men, you have a small picture of what life was like back then, but ours was even worse in the ’50s. You belonged to your father until you were married, and then you were owned by your husband. It sounded like a brutal joke even at that time, but it was true. We were expected to be loving, dutiful wives, prepare excellent meals, and keep the house clean and shiny. You also, of course, were supposed to keep his clothing clean and ironed. It was a very time-consuming job because there were no washers and dryers then.

Back then, we had to use a Maytag wringer washer. All the clothes had to be hung up on an outside clothesline to dry regardless of the weather. After they were taken down, they were sprinkled with water, rolled into tight rolls, put in a basket, and covered for a while to dampen them to be ironed. It all took hours. We always washed on Monday and ironed on Tuesday. The beds were all stripped before you started the laundry. All our meals were cooked from scratch. There were no fast foods and only a few restaurants. We were trained by our mothers all our lives for this role, and I was well prepared by my mother. I was good at it, and mother was proud of me.

Every girl had a hope chest in early high school days. We gathered beautiful things for our future homes. My mother, grandmother, and I constantly shopped for years for mine. I had dishes, glasses, stemware, cooking pans, quilts, sheets, beautiful towels, and every kind of doily and picture. Mother was so proud of that chest. We added to it every day until I was married, but first let me tell you about my love for this man.

I recall it so well. I was going to walk to school and explain to him that my parents had agreed to let us marry in September after I graduated in May. In a final bid to break us up, my parents took the family on an extended vacation to California in July. They thought he might date someone else or tire of me. They were wrong. When we finally got home, he was there, waiting as always. Nothing could deter him from marrying me.

On my way to meet him, I walked down the brick street lined with beautiful honeysuckle bushes that I love. It had antique streetlights with shimmering soft yellow rings around the lights. My sandals made a merry click when they touched the brick street…click, click, click…and a delightful little rhythm. We walked this street a lot, Donald and I, holding hands. I loved the way I felt beside him. He was tall with broad shoulders. I loved the smell of him when I leaned in close to speak, the way he looked down through his thick lashes to smile at me, and his gaze, his clear blue eyes looking down at me lovingly. I loved his attentive, grabbing gaze for it felt like standing in the sun or a spotlight. It just felt so good. I could have stood there and soaked up his presence forever with his wide, perfect smile and the tiny dimple on the left corner of his mouth.

What made it so unique was he was so oblivious to the effect of his presence on others, so blind, like everyone shared this gift. Later, that was part of the problem; everyone wanted that feeling too of the sun on your face and the warmth of the heart. I just loved him so much. I might have known it couldn’t have lasted, but it was good for so long between us. I will always grieve losing that part of my life. I might have known it was too much like magic, but back then I just heard the click, click, click of my sandals hitting the street. I could see him coming toward me. Click, click, click. My sandals almost sang a song. So long ago, so happy…click, click, click. I can still hear my sandals on the brick street.

The wedding was the event of the season in our community. Mother loved making wedding plans. We pored over magazines for weeks and went to St. Louis to a large bridal store to select the dress. We choose a ball gown, ivory creation with a scooped neck and long tapered sleeves with lots of tiny, covered buttons down the back. The dress was heavily beaded with a lot of lace detail on the skirt. It had a huge, enchanting cathedral train. We choose a full length, full lacy veil with layers of net. It was breathtaking. Since the train was so long, we had to add a junior bridesmaid to help with it and arrange it at the altar.

My bridesmaids were all wearing dark emerald green dresses with tiny cap sleeves, full skirts, and matching long over the elbow gloves. We had them wear their hair up with a gorgeous band of fresh ivory roses on a satin band. The dark green was for the fall season. They carried small bouquets of ivory roses and dark green satin ribbons. My bouquet was a masterpiece in itself. Donald had said to choose anything I wanted, and I did. It was ivory roses, seed pearls, and stephanotis centered with an antique cameo pin of my grandmother and long flowing green trim. It was captivating!

We had sent the bridesmaids ahead in two cars, and my father drove me. When we got to the church, there were so many cars it looked like a rock concert. My knees were a little shaky. It took us ten minutes to get me out of the car and my huge dress arranged. I could hear the vocalist ending her solo of Oh, promise me. As I entered the flower-decked, candle-lit church, I should have turned around and run back, but then I couldn’t have been happier to get inside and meet my groom at the altar.

He had brought me a diamond necklace as a wedding gift. I had gotten him a gold watch that I had inscribed inside ‘Love is Eternal SP to DS 09-25-1954.’ It had always been special to him.

After the last bridesmaid had walked down the aisle, I entered the sanctuary on my father’s arm. I could hear the crowd gasp. It really was an exceptional dress. My father kept patting my hand, saying, You are going to be fine, sweetie. Such dear memories!

I caught Donald’s eye as I started down the aisle and I instantly felt better, steady, and sure as I made my way to the altar. The minister Heather smiled at us; the junior bridesmaid carefully arranged my train. The ceremony began. It was happy time memories.

Back in those days, it was all so different. We had a very attractive house, and our marriage was solid and happy for several years. Donald was very generous with money. He always made a good living, but he was jealous and controlling. His mother was jealous of me and caused a lot of unnecessary quarrels, but I soldiered on.

Back when I had my children, all of us had them by natural childbirth as we had no choice. It was very barbaric for many women who had complications. There was no epidural. You just waited out the pain and hoped all would be well.

My first child, a beautiful baby girl, was an uneventful birth. We adored her. Four years later, my son was born, and both of us almost died. I had a tumor the size of the baby’s head in the birth canal. I labored over sixteen hours before the umbilical cord was delivered. The baby was behind the cord shutting off oxygen. The only thing that saved our lives was the fact that the doctors and nurses were already scrubbed and ready for another scheduled surgery when my emergency happened. They did a C-section and got the baby out before he died. He was blue but alive. I bled heavily and was sedated afterward for two days.

When I woke up, Donald was in the room sitting quietly in a chair.

I asked, Is the baby okay?

He seemed so quiet. A chill went through me.

He’s fine, he said, but then he added, I didn’t want a red-haired baby boy.

I actually gasped and was crushed beyond belief. He recovered himself and tried to laugh it off, but my heart was broken. I never forgave him for that. It still hurts talking about it. My father had red hair.

We went home and started our life again and were happy for a while. As I branched out and became involved in PTA, politics, and community projects, he was always angry. I was elected the president of many organizations, but he tolerated it poorly. I had to ask permission for a lot of things. I was a free spirit and wanted to enjoy more of my life. I could be a perfect wife and mother, cook all his meals and clean, but I also wanted a life outside those walls. I am and always have been a free spirit. He would not embrace that part of my personality. If only he had, maybe he would have loved me more or found out before he married me, he could not. I will never know. I tried so hard, for so long. How long can I keep saying If only… if only… if only?

The beginning of the end began slowly. He was forever a big flirt, like he had to keep proving he was attractive, and I had to tolerate it. He joined a group of young, unmarried men when he was about 28 or 29. They spent all their time drinking and chasing women. They were not married, he was. So, he started running with them and soon he too was chasing women. I was devastated. I had tried so hard, had invested so much of myself in this relationship that it utterly destroyed me when he did this. I was so wounded. Would I ever recover from this?

By this time, he missed the water. His well had gone dry. He tried to reconcile, and no one could cry louder than he did, but I was miserable. I felt trapped and betrayed. Something like, All the kings’ horses and all the kings’ men can never put it back together again.

I had to go…goodbye, my love, goodbye, my dreams. I was walking up that same street as I did so many years ago when I was so in love, but this time it was to say goodbye. I told him my decision. He dropped his head, turned around, and walked away. I watched him for the longest time until I could no longer see him. I sat down in the grass and cried for all the things that just couldn’t be. This wouldn’t defeat me! Then I lifted my head, straightened my back and started walking home. Click, click, click…my sandals said on the brick road. I had come full circle. I had to be me. I couldn’t be this grief-stricken shell of myself anymore. He had killed our love but not me, the real me.

I was devastated on my walk home. Totally defeated. I knew I had a hard time ahead of me. Now, I had to grieve the loss of my husband, my dreams, my marriage, and grieve I did, alone and in private. You see, life is a hard teacher. It gives the test first and the lesson afterward. I cried so hard I choked on my tears and couldn’t breathe. Sleep was an elusive shadow around my bed, but it never came to me. For months, I hardly slept. I had this trick of putting a pan of water on the stove and bringing it to a boil. I held my face over the pan so the steam could soothe my sore eyes and a swollen face. Then, I would put on soft moccasins so I could walk silently on the brick village streets after midnight when no one could see me. I would step behind a tree and hide if I saw a car. It was a very, strange, dark world out there. I wasn’t alone. I caught fleeting glimpses of other people walking alone, hiding behind trees to avoid being seen. I recognized one man, and I think he did me, but we never acknowledged each other. There were others out there, too. I wondered what life had done to them.

Betrayal comes in many forms. It comes with tears, anger, heartbreak, and laughter. But one thing for certain, it comes from lessons. I’m not talking about learning your multiplication tables or the time you put on two different colors of shoes when you went to the office. Those are lessons forgotten, only to be remembered later with fondness when you have wisdom.

Betrayals come from many people, family, friends, those you trust, those you thought would be a friend for life, and those you barely know. But the one thing we learn from our betrayals is who we are and what strength we really have. Believe it or not, betrayals are good, and everyone has them. They bring us wisdom, knowledge, insight, and integrity.

Spiritual betrayal can be one of the most emotional forms of betrayal we can experience. It is a betrayal that splits our hearts so in any relationship, it is often found in the moment when we realize, in small or big ways, that our spiritual friends or teachers, the people in whom we have entrusted so much faith, are not perfect.

It is when we realize in whatever way that our friends and teachers may not have had our best interests at heart. It is when we learn they are lying, manipulating, or discovering that in whatever way there is a massive disconnect between what they say and what they do. This outer figure on to which we projected so much faith and sense of stability has just evaporated. We are floating free in the suspension of disbelief, anger, sadness, and fiery blame. When the pain and shock pass from spiritual betrayal, take the time to sit for a moment and go inside yourself. Get real with yourself. Take responsibility for your part in what was created. Then, make a choice to get to know who you are and what you want. Get raw, dirty, and release all the stuff you were hoping that person could help you with. Stop the cycle and make different choices. Get to know yourself. When you know yourself, nothing like this can have that big of an effect on you. You realize you are always safe in who you are. And most importantly, you begin to realize that you have truth, beauty, and limitless nature of love you carry inside yourself.

In this book about betrayals, I use the word in its plural form because I was betrayed more than once. Betrayal is something every person will experience; it is as though God gave us this to learn. People face their punishment of their karma in life itself through betrayal.

By way of betrayals, we learn to love more, grow more, care for others and love ourselves more.

Every morning, I put on fresh makeup and fixed my hair to put on my game face. No one would ever know of my misery! I would not have it! Isn’t this the way we were trained? Time, my dear old friend, became my salvation.

Gently, as the changing of the seasons, I began to heal. What once was bubbling flowers in the spring turned into summer, humid, green grass, and heat. By fall, I was stronger and could keep food down and be able to sleep at night. Never again would I let myself love someone more than I loved myself. One must always love themselves first and only then can one love someone and share happiness without getting hurt. You can only truly love one person and never get hurt, and that person is yourself.

By now, I had many questions about life with no answers until I met my friend and mentor, Maggy Conn. Maggy never told me what to do; instead, she taught me to realize my strengths and potential, and to trust my intuition. She held the answers to my spiritual questions—and fear was not an option.

A year later, I walked into her home and announced I was appointed the Shelby County Probation Officer.

She jumped up from her dining room table and said, You are our Shelby County Probation Officer?

Timidly, I asked, "Don’t you think I can do it?

She laughed saying I could do anything I wanted to do. It was this position of the probation officer that my work soon showed my abilities. I was invited by the governor to work for the Illinois Bureau of Investigation. It was the same Governor Thompson who recommended me to President Ronald Reagan for work at the Security Council in Washington, D.C.

Daily, I happily clicked, clicked, clicked…my sandals to Hickory Haven, Maggy’s home. She taught me how to cope with life rather than run it. Life is how we take our time making it productive for ourselves yet helping others along the way to rise to the occasion and to just do it.

Chapter 2:

My Quiet Time

There are those among us who possess the ability to look down at the sky.

A soft winter breeze blew through the tall oak trees, causing shadows to dance in the room at Hickory Haven. The sun rays flashed rainbows on Maggy’s vaudeville pictures hanging on the wall. Her memorabilia on one wall and my law enforcement awards on the other. As I was looking out through the Dutch doors, my thoughts wandered to Maggy Conn, my mentor, and to her soulmate, Duke Sheahan. Even though I was so misunderstood and lonely, I felt their love, and I knew they were with me, but with their love, it was different from the love of family or friends. Most people didn’t understand when I talk about Maggy and Duke’s love. It’s like we were ships passing in the night and our expressions of affection sailed right past each other without understanding. Merely being in the presences of Maggy and Duke’s energy created a positive, happy feeling. I truly longed for others to feel what I did.

I remember Maggy once telling me, There are those among us who possess the ability to look down at the sky.

She also went on to say that our achievements in life are in direct proportion to the magnitude of our dreams. Then, this spiritually motivated, loving-giving life of a vaudeville superstar singer, Bobby Adams, who later became Maggy Conn, filled peoples’ hearts with unending joy.

On one evening in 1971 on CBS, Walter Cronkite and Charles Kuralt named her The Pistol Packing Mayor of Herrick, Illinois. Maggy was blessed with special abilities from birth. A psychic awareness filled her with a passionate love for all living things. Maggy never lost focus on the actual meaning of unconditional love, or her instinctive need to spread spiritual sanity wherever she traveled.

Maggy made her transition on November 4th, 1977, when she was finally reunited with Duke, her true love, and her soulmate. On that day, I took charge of what she left behind—all the trunks filled with automatic writings about teachings Universal Love, vaudeville scrapbooks, her dairy, newspaper clippings, Maggy’s Corner, newspaper articles, and letters from famous people. My head was spinning, yet I managed to focus on her wishes, mailing letters she had written, newspaper reporters calling, and cremation arrangements. Hickory Haven, her beautiful, peaceful home was a buzzing. Time had not allowed me to miss her or realize that she was physically off this planet. I was so busy following her orders that I didn’t have time to miss her. I felt like a robot that was programmed with data of what to do, and now was the time to do it. It’s one of those things that you don’t know how much it takes out of you until you halt. Everything stops moving around you, just plain stops.

Maggy always told me,