No One Radiates Love Alone

By Jaclyn Maria Fowler

Although the author was born a skeptical seer, she accepted the words of spirit whisperers; they stepped in often to remind her of a mission she accepted in a time between lives. To find it, the author traveled the world searching for clarity. On the way she learned from the people she met: monks and movie stars, philosophers and kings, a trio of Emirati sisters, an accountant on a dusty street corner in Addis Ababa. With each place, each person, each experience, the author came closer to realizing what she had come into this life to do. After reading a book about life between lives, she traveled again to a little office in northern Colorado to find a psychospiritual counselor certified in LBL hypnosis. Through a series of regressions, the author finally found her path. It was never a physical place. Instead, she is an ambassador for The Twelve.

You see . . . the spirit world has a message for us. It is a wake-up call, a love letter, an invitation to a life filled with happiness, purpose, love. In No One Radiates Love Alone, twelve ascended masters speak through the author to offer practical, intuitive advice for making our lives more joyous, more purpose-driven. Through them, we rediscover our natural state hidden at the core of our collective soul. So while this book is the culmination of a lifelong spiritual journey for the author, it is only the beginning of a transcendent, joy-inducing vibration that will change all our lives for the better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Aug 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781982270445

Jaclyn Maria Fowler

Jaclyn Maria Fowler loves to write, but she doesn’t go looking for stories; instead, they find her. Sometimes they meet on a dusty road in the middle of nowhere or on a plane high above the Indian Ocean or on the back of a lumbering camel. Wherever they meet, however, Jackie sees the stories as gifts. She has published several short stories, a novel about William Butler Yeats, It is Myself that I Remake, and a well-reviewed chapter in the 2020 Colorado Book of the Year prize-winning anthology, Rise! An Anthology of Change. She is currently working on a new memoir, Memoir of a Medium, and the next book in The Twelve series, Change is the Only Constant. To pay for obsession, she works as an associate professor of English at American Public University where she is the Head of the English Department. Jackie has a doctorate in education from Penn State and an MA and MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes. She lives in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, with her little Shih Tzu, Doodles.

Book preview

No One Radiates

Love Alone

JACLYN MARIA FOWLER

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Copyright © 2021 Jaclyn Maria Fowler.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or

by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the

author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use

of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical

problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The

intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you

in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any

of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right,

the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Cover Design by Antonio Gabriél Martinez

ISBN: 978-1-9822-7046-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-7045-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-7044-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021912620

Balboa Press rev. date:   08/12/2021

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Act I: Journeys

The Tibetan Cowboy of Old Colorado City

The First Hypnotic Session: Meeting my Destiny

A Message from The Twelve: The Connectedness of all Things

Act II: Gift from God

To Believe or Not To Believe; That is the Question

The Second Hypnotic Session: Going Home to The Pleiades

A Message from The Twelve: Jasmine and the Beginning of the Story

Act III: Fireflies

A Seer of Spirits; A Seeker of Truth

The Third Hypnotic Session: The Oneness of All in Source

A Message from The Twelve: Love Breaks the Stranglehold of the Story

Act IV: The Cosmos is Within Us

Negativity Finds Me . . . For a Little While At Least

The Fourth Hypnotic Session: Stellars and Astrals and Ships. Oh My!

A Message from The Twelve: Like a Fish in Water who Finally Notices Water

Act V: Learning from a Past Life

Intuition’s Call to Action was Strong When I Actually Listened

The Fifth Hypnotic Session: Meeting the Me of Another Lifetime

A Message from The Twelve: Love as the Amalgam of Many Vibrations

Act VI: The Immensity and Almost-Eternity of Souls

Understanding the Place of the Soul in the Universes

The Sixth Hypnotic Session: The Soul’s Magnitude of Knowingness

A Message from The Twelve: Reintegrate the Other for Wholeness

Act VII: The Source of All Things

Ethel from Decatur and Other Important Reminders

The Seventh Hypnotic Session: The History of the Universe and Other Really Cool Things

A Message from The Twelve: Accepting that We are Holograms of Source

If You Want to Live in the Light . . .

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my parents, Joanne and Jack, who blazed a trail of light for me to follow. To Katlyn and Collin who wrapped me in love and kept me grounded on this beautiful spinning globe. To my great good friend, Barb, who edited my book and made me feel normal throughout the whole experience. To Douglas who learned to ask the questions that helped me find my way home. And to all the light-workers who continue to deliver messages from the spirit world. I hope my words honor you. Thank you.

Introduction

For as long as I can remember, I have been driven to find my path. It’s more of a push really. A prodding. A call from somewhere I used to know. It’s something buried so deep I can’t quite access it, but it’s just on the tip of my tongue too. To find it, I’ve wandered around the world as if, through movement, I’d somehow bump into it. I traveled to the base of Pharaoh’s Great Pyramid and, on the back of a camel, looked for answers across the monument-strewn sands of Giza’s desert. Hoping to find spiritual clarity, I made a pilgrimage to the palace of the Dalai Lama; it sat perched on top of the world but did not offer a clear view of my path. In the birthplace of Buddha and the lands where Jesus and Muhammad walked, I searched for markers that pointed to the Divine; I went to the source of world religion to find the Source of all. When it did not offer answers, I listened to spirit whispers at the slave transport in Zanzibar, and in the slums outside Nairobi, I sat in meditative silence at Mother Teresa’s orphanage. Prayers hung suspended in incense, yet my mission remained hidden in plain sight. So I wandered through the twisty, turning alleyways of Oman’s Arab souk and hoped to discover what I could not quite name. I felt my beginning—some primordial scream of recognition—as I stood between the sandy beaches and crashing waves of Cape May, New Jersey; there, my pleas for answers were carried by the waves and wind and the salt-heavy air. Each place left an imprint on my soul; each delivered a clue to finding my path. But none provided the answer.

Follow your path, a voice whispers when I stop writing.

I have heard this voice before.

Just tell me where it is, I respond. I beg.

Feel your way to home, I hear. Pay attention to the signs.

Why is it so hard?

Because you don’t listen. You don’t believe, I hear in response.

There is truth in the statement.

My path, I learned, is not a physical location; so, in desperation, I turned to my fellow travelers. I met with healers and mediums, psychics and psychologists, teachers, philosophers, and poets and asked my questions. On the gulf in far-away Ras al Khaimah, I picnicked with three Emirati sisters who tiptoed at the water’s edge after hiking up their long black abayas. I bumped into movie stars, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a king, sat on a dusty street in Ethiopia with a man whose legs zig-zagged in broken angles under his torso, and cried with an orphaned baby elephant who wrapped her weathered-gray trunk around my arm. I swapped stories with a Tibetan cowboy in Old Colorado City and married a Palestinian refugee who found a permanent home in my heart. Each interaction left its trace on my soul, each a signpost on the way to my path. And as I got closer to it, I began to learn the fundamental truth of who I am.

I am a teacher, a messenger, a visitor. I am here to help.

Tell them what you know, I hear. Write what you have experienced.

Who will believe it? I ask.

It is for us to work on beliefs; it is your mission to write, I hear in response.

Help me? I ask.

Of course, I hear.

I already know the truth of it; I need to learn to accept it.

Before the soul incarnates into a physical body, it chooses a path, so it can focus on growth. It is a choice; no soul is compelled to take on a life. But when it does, the laboratory of physicality provides the lessons, and a soul determines the best way—not always the easiest way—to learn the lessons. Each soul understands what it chooses, even when the choice leads to what humans consider a bad life or a painful life or an unfulfilling life. But the type of physical existence is not the point; rather, the lessons are the purpose of physical incarnation, and sometimes lessons are better learned from a bad or painful or unfulfilling life. And while a human may live for eighty, ninety, even a hundred years, the lifespan of a human is miniscule compared to the infinitude of a soul. A physical incarnation is nothing more than a mini vacation of sorts from our natural state of spirit.

Write what you know, I am instructed.

No one will believe me, I respond. I’m not sure I believe me.

The logic will become evident. This is your mission.

Although I fight what I know must be, there is a part of me—screaming out to be heard—that absolutely believes, that absolutely recognizes the intuitive truth of what I have heard and experienced.

Because each soul is almost limitless, huge, unfathomable, we enter this world with only a tiny fraction of the soul we are. Entering a physical existence with our full souls would be impossible; the physical body could not support such immense expansion. But because of this, a fragmented soul does not have all the resources it once had, so the reasons for choosing a physical existence are obscured if not lost completely. A soul plans for the inevitability of muted memory, however, by establishing signposts to be discovered along the way. Like a scavenger hunt, we find clues in places and with people, through stories and songs and poems, in works of art, a morsel of music, the look of the ocean, the desert, the sky at sunset. We hear clues in laughter and sighs and tears of both joy and pain. We lock eyes with a stranger and know we know them. Even when we don’t. All are purposeful interactions; all help us find our way.

Although only a tiny fragment of soul incarnates in physical form, some souls have a larger fragment than others. When this happens, the individual soul remembers more of the time between lives in the spirit world. Not everything, of course, but enough to make the yearning greater. Enough to feel slightly out of step, lost, maybe a little sad at not being able to satisfy the ache of the knowledge just beyond reach. Many of these souls also retain a greater link to inner guidance; their intuition is sharper, physically louder. They often hear their intuition. Sometimes they see holograms of other souls who have come and gone from the physical world. Ghosts, society calls them. It’s not correct to believe that spirits materialize in front of souls in physical bodies; rather, those who incarnate on earth with an oversized soul fragment simply have more access to the other side. They can see the spirit world. Regardless of the size of the soul fragment, however, we all experience inner guidance or intuition in one form or another: a feeling that stops one from boarding a plane or taking another route or calling a long-absent friend, for example. Some of us choose to ignore our guidance; others tap into it. I am of the latter group.

I am an intuitive, a seer, a medium, I proclaim loudly, no longer afraid of who I am and what I know. This book is a testament to my proclamation.

Sometimes I see images of spirit projected into what appears to be flesh and blood manifestations. Or, more accurately, I see a projection of a soul in flesh. These flashes of face and body last barely a moment. A fraction of a second. Just enough to mark me—at least in my mind—as different. I understood, even as a little girl, that I experienced the world differently and that the world did not take kindly to such difference. I learned this young. From a nun.

We must all pray to Jesus, Sister told us day after day. Did you pray to Jesus today? she asked each of us each day.

Yes, sister, each child answered afraid of being the one who said no.

When she reached me, she asked, Did you pray to Jesus today, Jaclyn?

Yes, sister, I answered. Before she could walk to the desk behind me and ask the same question of the next student, I added, he told me to pray from my heart. In my own words.

What? she screamed, stopping dead in her tracks.

He told me . . . I said in a tiny voice full of fear before sister cut me off.

I heard what you said! she glared at me. Sister allowed the students to mock me, laugh at me, sneer; she encouraged it really, and she sent me to the principal for good measure.

I learned that day that conversation with the spirit world is supposed to be one-way. Receiving a response was certainly not the norm; it was also something to be feared and ridiculed. So, out of fear, I hid my truth. I doubted it. I pushed myself to be left-brained. I studied, collected degrees, relied on logic, and discounted my intuition. I still doubt it despite the evidence of hundreds of interactions verified by the family and friends of the spirits I see.

One morning a few years ago, the spirit world decided to test my logic with a book about angels I had received from a friend. According to the authors, angels would send feathers or pennies as verification of miraculous intent. Right, I thought, rolling my eyes and closing the book.

It better be a whole boatload of feathers, I said out loud just as my son entered the room.

Who’re you talking to, mom?

No one, I laughed and added; Help me get the comforter, huh?

When I opened the dryer door, hundreds of white feathers blew out. Hundreds of them. The air was thick with the thinnest white as they drifted and took their time to settle on the wall, the floor, me, my son. It seemed too coincidental for it not to be a result of my challenge.

Impossible, I whispered.

Cool! Collin laughed in the rain of feathers.

As I regrouped, logic kicked in.

It had to be from the comforter, I said to no one in particular.

It was a good argument too. Except for the fact that I’m allergic to feathers. So, the comforter was synthetic. Synthetic. In other words, no feathers.

Believe, I heard from somewhere deep inside me. Believe, the voice chuckled at how stunned I was as I surveyed the floating feathers all around me.

Impossible, I said again as I filled three full garbage bags with the fluff.

It is possible, I heard. It is right in front of you.

The day of the feathers, I stared at the proof of the possible in what I had considered impossible, and I realized that the impossible becomes possible every day. There are so many examples of the unimaginable, the too-incredible-to-believe that ultimately become believable. Once the impossible becomes plausible, members of the general population move on to characterizing other things as impossible. Consider, for example, the impossibility of airplanes in the 1910s, space travel in the 1930s, or palm-sized personal computers in the 1970s. They were all impossible . . . until they weren’t. Today physicists prove the unimaginable when they demonstrate how our intentions affect physical reality. Medical doctors successfully prescribe alternative treatments to what had been considered incurable, and police chiefs employ seers that solve unsolvable crimes. We confront the evidence of the possible in the impossible every day. It is our collective journey to find the possible in what we consider impossible. We do it every day.

As with most journeys, mine began with a whole bunch of questions and few answers. In the household where I grew up, whenever we asked our father for answers, his response was agonizingly predictable: read a book, he would say. I have been listening to that advice throughout my life, more than a half century now.

A few years back, I was feeling the need for answers, so I picked up a book about a counselor who bumped into a hypnotic technique that would become known as life-between-lives regressions. Dr. Michael Newton was not prone to thinking about the Divine; he was an agnostic at heart who believed in hypnosis as a way to get to the root of neurosis. But his path diverged, and he found himself being used in a different way. Through hypnosis, his patients were moved to a time before their human lives. Not to a past life, but to the time in between, and Dr. Newton studied these regressions for years.

When I found his book, I was living in Dubai where such talk was considered something close to blasphemy. Such a book could get you in big trouble in an authoritarian society. I was forced, therefore, to read it quietly, secretly. It resonated with me, though; it gnawed at me, and I came to believe there was a message in it for me. I knew it had something to do with kick-starting my quest to find my path. But, as with traveling and interacting with other souls, the way was not made clear in the book. Again, it was a sign, but not an answer.

After four years in the Middle East, I returned to the US and settled in Colorado, a far cry from Pennsylvania where home had always been. And eight miles away, a psychotherapist who practiced a type of hypnosis akin to the kind Dr. Newton pioneered, waited for me to find him. Neither of us were conscious that the other was coming, but there was something hidden deep that reverberated when we met. Through a series of regressions by the psychotherapist, I connected with my greater soul. And it was in his office, I finally found answers. I finally found my path. When I am part of my greater soul, it is me and not me at the same time; I am still the human physical me, but I have reconnected with the spiritual me as well. And, as I’ve learned, the point of being reconnected to the whole of my soul is to forward an important message. This message is an expression of hope guided by a group of twelve advanced spirit beings; they are the arbiters of universal vibrations. They are The Twelve.

You honor my journey by reading this book. Whether you read it as fiction or nonfiction and whether or not you question its fundamental truths, know that these are the memories of my experiences. The words are the reflection of my innermost truth, a message from my higher soul. To the best of my ability, I have recreated the images and intent of The Twelve, an advanced spirit group where my larger soul resides. In connecting the me of this physical incarnation with the me of my larger soul, my words have been infused with a joy vibration. The message contained within is a gift from across the veil.

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ACT I

Journeys

23 May 2019

The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting

for our senses to grow sharper.

William Butler Yeats

The Tibetan Cowboy of

Old Colorado City

Really important meetings are planned by the souls

long before the bodies see each other.

~Paolo Coelho

This is the story of a journey. My journey. The journey to find myself, and the journey to accept what I ultimately found. As with most journeys of this sort, mine played out in two main spheres. The first tracked with physical movement through the material world. I developed relationships with family and friends, animals, locations, and concepts. I traveled around the world seeking answers in the ubiquitous, and I spent time interacting in the social domains that dominate our lives: schools and shopping centers and a variety of workplaces. Movement through the material realm was, by far, the easier of the two spheres in my on-going journey although no one who knows me would say my life has been easy. Joyous, yes. But not easy.

The more difficult part of my journey—and by most accounts, the more important part—required the honest mining of my soul for hidden truths. It took me time—more than fifty years, in fact—to rediscover what I had always known and to recover what had been hidden from me by me. Once I found my truth, I worked to integrate it with the half-identity I had carefully constructed over the course of my life; in so doing, I was able to reclaim what had always been mine. Along the way, there were signposts and messengers. Once in the middle of Old Colorado City amidst traditional western wares—cowboy hats and leather boots, blanket rolls and saddles—I met a messenger in an exotic jewel of a store that shared a sidewalk with the more traditional trade of a typical Western town. A tiny place devoted to the display and sale of Tibetan clothing and sacred items, every available space in the store was filled with all manner of the Buddha—weeping, in lotus position, laughing—as well as antiqued prayer wheels and colorful flags, a splendid selection of olfactory needs, art and jewelry and Om tapestries.

My daughter and I were walking through the town on a late summer day into evening when the sky had purpled and the moon and stars were only just beginning to make themselves known. The almost-night air was cool—a bit too cool for summer; it smelled of sage and lavender and the dry heat of the Rocky Mountain West. The brilliance of the sun on that summer day had left its signature burnt on our necks and shoulders, so as evening drew near, we shivered in our new Colorado College sweatshirts. Katlyn and I babbled about everything and anything and nothing at all. All was right with the world, I thought, as we pushed open the door to the little store.

Cleverly repurposed Tibetan tingsha (tiny prayer cymbals), clinked and tinkled against each other and the closing door. More than the traditional bell that alerts owners to potential customers, the tingsha had the additional function of offering up a little prayer for those who entered the store. An auspicious