Metaphysical Author
Soul Travel

Soul Travel

by | Sep 6, 2025 | Soul, Spirituality, Writing From Within

It’s 1965. My best friend Beverly lives next door. She and I are sitting on our porch playing jacks.

A girl a few years older than us walks by snapping her gum while holding a transistor radio to her ear. It’s loud enough to hear the music, Johnny Angel, How I love him … every time he says hello my heart begins to fly …

“Aren’t you two a little old to be playing jacks?” she asks.

We ignore her and she walks away.

“If someone told me a spaceship dropped me off and I’d been sent here to save humanity, I’d believe them.” I say.

“I know what you mean,” says Beverly, who reminds me of a painting with her beautiful fawn colored eyes.

“Aren’t you going into the city today to meet your boyfriend?” she asks.

His name is Paul. He’s nineteen and plays in a band. Paul lives in the Bronx and I live in Queens, so sometimes we meet in Manhattan and sit under a tree in Central Park and kiss. He told me he loves me.

“Yes, I am going into the city today. Better go get ready,” I reply.

My mother comes to the window of our downstairs apartment, a few feet away from where we’re sitting, “Want a grilled cheese sandwich and apple juice?”

“Thanks mom. I’ll be right in. See you later Bev.”

After I eat, I walk past rows of two-story brick buildings that all look the same. Then I cross the overpass of the Long Island Expressway and arrive at the bus stop.

There is no bench, so I lean against the wall to wait. The sun warms my face.

Suddenly my body feels lighter.

I see a girl leaning against a wall. That’s me! No. That’s not me. I’m me, the one looking at her. I get it. The girl at the bus stop is the form my soul has taken this lifetime.

In a blink, I look out from behind the eyes of a fourteen-year-old girl waiting for a bus. It just stopped in front of her. I mean me. It just stopped in front of me, since I am her.

I go up the bus stairs, drop the fare into the coin box, take a window seat, and stare out at the blue sky. Was I floating? What is going on?

Twenty minutes later, the bus route ends at a corner store near the subway entrance. I buy a Twix and put it in my purse for later. Then I head down the steep staircase, where I am greeted by florescent lights, white tiled walls, and the familiar sound of train wheels screeching on metal tracks.

I get on line to buy a token. “Two please. No make it three.” I’ll get one for the way back and one for the bus ride home. I push my money through the little slot on the counter, the only opening in the mini-fortress the token lady sits in.

She pushes three tokens back through the slot without raising her head. If you look up, you might see my soul. I just did. Or rather, my soul saw me. Not quite sure how that works yet. You have a soul too. Is it in there with you?

 “Next,” she yells.

The train from Queens to Manhattan is only half full, so there are plenty of seats. That’s good. Don’t like when it’s crowded. People press up against me, and some of them are men. I wonder how our souls feel pressed together like that. Do souls feel? They must, mustn’t they?

Several riders read books or newspapers. A few wear headphones and hold portable tape players. Most wear the glazed facial expression every New Yorker knows that says, “I don’t care what you think of me.” Does that mean they don’t care? Or does it mean they do care and want people to think they don’t?

The train jolts forward, and the lights flicker. It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. Maybe I’ll eat half my Twix now and save the rest for the way home. My soul and I settle in for the forty-minute ride to Manhattan.

A Writer is Born

A Writer is Born

by | Sep 4, 2025 | Books, Self-Empowerment, Self-Publishing

In my first Jyotish reading in LA, maybe 40 years ago, the astrologer talked about how far reaching my writing would become. I had no point of reference for what he was saying and no impulse to write. Having spent most of college days at the potter’s wheel, I couldn’t recall writing a single paper.

Years passed. The recording of that reading was long forgotten in a drawer. I was living in a meditating community surrounded by good friends. I had a great job, wonderful employer, apartment with floor to ceiling windows and handmade lace curtains, and I just bought my first new car. Life was good.

Until it wasn’t. Until it felt like my seams were unraveling. Day after day I had this feeling, this inner prompting, that I had to do more with my life. But more what?

Without knowing what the future held, I left that life behind to find an answer. I quit the job, gave up the apartment, sold the car, but kept the friends. And went to India, where I began to write and write and write. I haven’t stopped since.

When the thought to write a book was enlivened, I had no idea how to begin. Fortunately, nature intervened. The words just poured out.

But how does one go from writing to publishing? Today, with information at our fingertips, I imagine it is easier for new writers to get their footing. It was not easy for me to get mine. It was a long learning curve.

Finding a gifted editor who force-fed me grammar helped. (Thank you, Jim F.)

Finding a talented and kind graphic artist also helped. These days most graphic artists work on their own, but this generous artist let me watch her work. Aside from having an adorable bird sitting on my knee each session, I began to see how books are constructed, details about layout, etc. In short, I was educated. I’m forever grateful. (Thank you, Liz H.)

I found a publisher interested in my first book right away. When they suggested there were changes they wanted me to make, I declined their offer. In retrospect, it’s likely their ideas would have enhanced the book. I’ll never know because I never took the time to listen.

Why? Because I felt guided to put those words on paper, and there wasn’t anything I wanted to change. I began to explore self-publishing where I could make all my own decisions. The rest is history.

In short, it took two months to write my first book and two years until I held a copy in my hand.

Since then, I’ve written two more books but I’ve never taken a writing class. The closest I came was when I was living in Venice, California. A friend invited me to sit in on a few of her writing classes in Marina Del Ray taught by an exceptional teacher named Bernard Selling.

I was invested in writing lyrics at the time and never signed up for Bernard’s class. Decades later, that experience became a milestone in my life. You can read more about it in my blog Psychic Whispers.

Cancer Diary 2025

Cancer Diary 2025

by | Sep 2, 2025 | Cancer Diagnosis, Caregiving, Self-Empowerment

September 1, 2025 Cancer Diary

I was diagnosed with Breast Cancer around March or April 2025 and received a lumpectomy and breast reduction May 1st. (The latter was to compensate for the former.) These past few months have been intense. I am deeply grateful for the kindness of doctors and their staff, combined with the support of friends and family on a GoFundMe page put up by two angels. One is a long-term friend; the other is a new angel in my life. I appreciate their efforts, especially with so many unexpected expenses.

Still, it’s an unsettling ride. Healing from surgery was tender, followed by inflammation and an on-going rash with no known cause. Next came physical therapy. Then radiation. Two weeks later I had an adverse reaction. Distressing. Painful. Soon the nerve pains began. Doing better now. Meeting with an Oncologist this week while continuing to take an herbal formula prescribed by a Naturopath who specializes in cancer. Feeling inward. Keeping my cell ringer off for the most part. I can easily see why people get overwhelmed in this situation. Doing what I can to stay centered. Meditating regularly helps. Practicing self-care. Thankful for my faith.

Cancer Gift

Cancer Gift

by | Aug 12, 2025 | Cancer Diagnosis, Caregiving, Self-Empowerment

I was raised by a lovely giver and became a giver myself. I recall my first job after college (many years ago) at the Lighthouse for the Blind in San Francisco, a sheltered workshop for visually impaired and hearing impaired adults. On my lunch hour I did volunteer work at the Salvation Army. It was an older building, so the friendly nun who worked there would buy me big poster boards and markers. I’d draw colorful pictures with inspirational sayings under them to brighten up the walls.

Honestly, I always thought my giving nature was one of my best qualities.

Then I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Although insurance covered the major cost of surgeries and medical visits, there were numerous co-pays and unforeseen expenses that began to mount up. A caring friend suggested putting up a GoFundMe page.

While I have done my share of outreach and fund-raising for others, doing it for myself was a different matter. The idea of talking about my personal health and asking for financial help in a public arena was equivalent to an invitation to go mountain climbing, something I do not plan on doing in this lifetime or the next.

Months went by. My friend kept asking, and I kept saying I will think about it. Meanwhile, a number of you encouraged me to say yes.

Finally my well-meaning friend asked me why I find it so difficult to receive. I asked myself the same question. Why am I so resistant to asking for help when I am so willing to offer it? And why can’t I take care of myself financially?

The last question is easier to answer than the former. It’s a combination of circumstances that some of you may be familiar with. As a full-time caregiver for my beautiful mother, we lived modestly on two incomes. When she passed the expenses remained the same, only I was down to one income. At the same time, the years of caregiving took a toll. I was tired and inward. I hardly left the house for a year, then two, maybe more.

Was I working? Yes, I worked from home an average of six days a week before this unexpected cancer diagnosis. Right now I am close to finishing the redesign for my first three book interiors and covers. But creativity doesn’t necessarily translate to financial success unless you actively promote yourself.

As it happens, before my mother’s needs became demanding I consulted for other authors, helping them with all aspects of writing and publishing. And every time a new client called, the first thing they asked was if I could help them market their books. It was like a cosmic joke because I never excelled at marketing my own.

Wait. Could my resistance to putting up a GoFundMe page have something to do with my failure to promote myself aggressively? Am I, a self-help author and professed seer of energy, unaware of my own resistance and secretly harboring low self-worth?

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer, I had the thought there might be a gift in this situation. Is this it?

This cancer experience has changed me. Humbled me. I acknowledge that giving comes naturally. I acknowledge that I have not (past tense) been as open about receiving. I’m working on it. Deep breath. Arms open wide. We all know the drill.

I finally said yes to the GoFundMe page and will share the link. Also, I am ready to promote myself and be proactive about marketing my books. Maybe not right away but once I deal with the physicality of my current situation.

If you feel called to help me, I am deeply grateful. (Link at bottom of screen.)

In conclusion, we are all engaged in a giant game of expansion and contraction, where the places we move forward and the places we hold back (resist) shape our reality.

Fortunately, healing is within our grasp. So if anyone reading this can relate to my experience, may I suggest you also practice saying ‘YES’ when someone offers you their help.

 

Cancer Diagnosis

Cancer Diagnosis

by | Aug 10, 2025 | Cancer Diagnosis, Self-Empowerment

My cancer diagnosis arrives by phone. The first thing I do is pull up a picture of Jesus on my computer and look him in the eyes. He speaks to me as clear as a bell. “Magic is underfoot,” he says.

Moments later I receive a text from a healer I’d reached out to saying that he can see me the next day. Followed by a text from my neighbor saying that she can drive me the four hours to see him the next day. My faith has not wavered since.

I am inspired by the visit to the healer. A firm reminder that our bodies have restorative powers. I decide positivity is the best medicine.

I’m 74 years old and don’t take any medication. I attribute it to being a long-term meditator, twice a day for over fifty years. When I am under the weather, I prefer herbalists or homeopaths or chiropractors to traditional doctors. Suddenly finding myself in a medical drama facing life or death choices is challenging.

Every interaction I have with doctors, surgeons, nurses, office staff, technicians is caring and professional. I am humbled to receive that level of personal attention.

As for those serious choices, I have spent a lifetime relying on my intuition so that is what I do. I listen within. When the answer isn’t clear, I take advice from a knowledgeable friend (a scientist) and a naturopath (who developed a synergistically blended formula to address hormone mediated cancers to keep them from proliferating).

There are a lot of decisions over the next few months. When my inner light is green, I take the doctor’s suggestions. When it’s red, I don’t. As you can imagine, it’s not easy to go against medical advice.

In the end I agree to surgery. Prior to going into the operating room, I see a TV mounted on the wall with changing nature scenes. I hear Jesus speak through the screen. He says, “I am in the doctor’s hands.”

In spite of the heart-warming message, when they roll me into the operating room I have a break with reality, convinced I’ve stumbled onto the set of Grey’s Anatomy.

Two months pass. Many friends become angels.

I say yes to physical therapy and radiation. Physical therapy is a learning experience. I like it.

Radiation is painless at first except for the position you’re poised in depending on your situation. In my case, my neck and shoulder are compromised. In the morning my whole body hurts. I pray for relief. Something sweeps over me as gentle as a summer’s breeze. My discomfort fades.

I receive radiation for several weeks. Things get complicated. I get a skin rash that spreads. The doctors and nurses are beyond kind. I’d call them regal. They assure me the rash is not related to the treatment. That doesn’t stop the sleepless nights or calm the irritation.

Next, I have trouble swallowing and nerve pain. I am told these are temporary side effects, along with severe redness.

Understanding helps. I discover the reason my neck is placed in that uncomfortable position is to safeguard my esophagus, which lies close to the lymph nodes the radiation is targeting. Evidently it can still cause inflammation, but if you’re reading this and about to get treatment yourself, try not to worry. It may not happen to you. Now I purée my food.

Fortunately my swallowing improves. Another side effect appears. It’s scary. I feel my positivity wobble. Thank you Google. Knowledge is comforting. It doesn’t take away the pain but it helps to give a name to my experience. I see my radiation oncologist. The situation begins to resolve.

I ring the bell at the women’s cancer center. A lovely man with one of those toy bubble-maker guns fills the air with bubbles while others clap. The healing begins.