Tap Once For Yes by Jacquie Parton

Author:Jacquie Parton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: suicide, bereavement, death, grief, spirit, spirit world, survival, communication, EVP, voice recorder, message, tap
ISBN: 9781907203794
Publisher: Andrews UK Limited 2013
Published: 2013-05-17T00:00:00+00:00

Warning Shot!

‘Man’s mind, stretched to a new idea, never goes back to its original dimensions.’ ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

I’m feeling brighter lately. A newly found confidence has entered the stage. With the books that are now encroaching on most of my bedroom, my once strong durable bookcase is now beginning to bend and bow towards the centres of the shelves.

I draw on different aspects of the varying hypotheses of opinion - some based purely on the spiritual, others are the cutting edge of science, giving rise in my mind to the increasing unification of the two. It strikes me that most of the interesting research and the more important potential outcomes or conclusions (outside parapsychology) is carried out by retired professors or established academic authors. This makes me question the in-post academics’ inability to explore what in the mainstream are considered fringe concepts. But our governing masters decree the educational diet of the current dogma, giving little room for ‘paradigm shifts’.

I have been unable to resist telling some of my clients that I knew Andrew was ok because I had contacted him. Many had queried why I was still walking. Some of them looked at me in the way you observe someone who is badly deluded, but others now enquire if I have heard from Andrew lately - waiting with bated breath for the next instalment.

One of my more frequent experiences is their very human tendency to express that almost thoughtless response “It would kill me!” and other such reactions. Do they think that I, for one moment before the fact, could have envisioned living with it? I wonder if by negotiating my way in the only way I could, I had somehow let collective motherhood down. I muse that if I somehow climbed upon some sort of metaphoric funeral pyre, I would exonerate myself of my failure to grieve appropriately, acquitting myself with excellence in mothering credentials. They could then stand back with mutual approval as “It was only to be expected because, as we all know, no mother could live with that.”

My normal routine has resumed now. I arise at eight o’clock in the morning. I have more focus than I had because I now have a project. I look in the mirror, the pallor I had has abated and I look healthy. The reflection is appraised by sad blue eyes; I lift my eyebrows along with my lids consciously, in remembrance of how they used to look. Raising my forehead against its apparent tendency to frown, I realise I have to make an effort in that department. I don’t want people to know from the way I look or comport myself the catastrophe I have experienced. For some reason, I find their sympathy debilitating, it weakens me. If on the other hand people interact with me normally, I find that affirming and strengthening. I sometimes pass my more intimate feelings to Clive who awaits these opportunities, always taking the time to stop what he is doing. It

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