Abby's journal



January 30, 2017


Steve is rusty at channeling, and doesn't feel my presence so strongly, but he is rested and has some time, so we will give it a go. He is in the process of moving to Portland, Maine, the scene of our marriage in 1839-41. There was a gap, there, Steve has determined, while I convalesced in some warmer clime over the winter of 1839/40 (probably, he thinks, my father's native Guadeloupe, where my cousin would have taken care of me); but still, there are many references to this period of time. Mathew even recorded a silly version of one of our spats, which I believe we have shared with you, before. It seems that we were economizing, and I was bravely going along with it, even though I had been raised with every comfort. Matt would bring back used items more like what I was accustomed to, as he believed this would make me more comfortable (some of them were seedy, and all had the wafting--Steve can't get the word--the psychic vibration of the previous owners, which I could sense). But sometimes my patience wore thin, and I wanted just a little luxury in our lives, and on this principle--as a test case, if truth be known--I asked him to bring catfish home for breakfast, instead of the cheaper perch we were economizing with. He promised, and I said no more about it--but I was waiting. And what did he bring home the following morning? Perch. I hit the ceiling--all my 20-something-year-old petulance rose in a great thunder storm, and cleared the air. (Matt has me dying on the spot from the shock of it, in his parody.)

But at first, until we were shunned, we lived what you would think of as an upper-middle class life there. I even had a piano, and it is during this period that I would play some of the songs we have shared with you, as I also was (Steve feels) involved with the Portland Sacred Music Society, putting my talents as a pianist, which my mother had taught me, to good use there.

When Steve has moved to Portland, which is scheduled for a couple of weeks, he will be in the physical location of our life, there, and his life after my passing up until 1861, when he moved to Boston. Will he feel anything? Did I help arrange this move? These are some of the questions you might have.

Many things come into play. This is, first of all, karma, and the people he will meet are karmic connections. Not everybody reincarnates back in the same locale; but some do. A certain percentage--just like a certain percentage reincarnate back into their extended family. It depends on the strength of identification, and on the amount of unfinished business. Steve has recognized some of his connections from that lifetime even in North Myrtle Beach--he felt that one old fellow he would fall into conversation with, who was walking his dog, was an old sea captain.* Not a captain of a large ship--something smaller, like a coastal steamer. In this life he had a Southern accent, but everything else about him screamed "New England," and the sea, to Steve.

How much I can guide and help, is a complicated question, for channeled communication like this, where Steve is rarely sure how much is me, and how much him. I can facilitate--I can "nudge." I see the patterns, I see the past-life connections, and if one conceptualizes it as billiard balls, I can blow vigorously, as it were, on the ball as it travels, and influence the outcome thereby. If you could nudge a billiard ball even a fraction of an inch off its course, you could make the ball go into the pocket. Like that.

Am I allowed to do that? Here is where it gets tricky, talking about Fate, and karma. I am in his life; therefore I am part of his karma. You see? I play my part; and my influence is factored in, so-to-speak. That's the best I can explain it through this medium of channeling. If we were face-to-face talking over a cup of tea, I probably could do better.

I am reminding Steve of a clip he showed me on YouTube from the film, "The Music Man." Now, why am I reminding him of that? The clip was very, very funny, and we will share it with you in a cut-and-paste link here, in a moment. I am bringing it up because this is what I faced, in Portland. The women of the town had turned against the librarian. That's the reference, the parallel. Steve remembered, in a flash (i.e., a year or two ago), that we had moved to Portland to escape persecution by the small-town locals. We had in mind to start over in the big city, to blend in, and never let anyone know we were anti-slavery, or that I was a witch--well, that's how they would perceive it, as I had been schooled in the psychic arts. We joined a church, and acted like respectable citizens. We had the house, and the piano, and Matt had the business.

What happened? In the little group at church--Steve doesn't know if it was a class, or a musical group, a study group--I'm saying a study group, but some sewing circle or something--a book club, something like that--one of the ladies told a racist joke. (It was, of course, an all-white club in those times.) I didn't laugh, and it was all I could do to keep silent, in obedience to my husband's wishes. But just not laughing, just that much, was the end of everything. Because one of them asked, pointedly, something to the effect of whether I was a nigger-lover; and then I could hold back no more, and told them I had dear friends who were black, and that I had found them people of high principle and integrity, every bit as human as white people, and deserving of our respect. Then I left the room, with as much dignity as I could muster. When Matt came home that evening he found me in tears--I thought I had ruined everything we were striving for; I had let him down. But he gathered me to him, looked deeply into my eyes, and whispered, "I am so proud of you."

Word spread quickly, we left the church, and Matt's busines dropped off, and you can guess the rest. It ended with us in a cold room in a hotel, provided as charity by Matt's extended family, and my dying of consumption, despite the period of convalescence in Guadeloupe (if Guadeloupe it was). But you don't want to hear more of my personal history, and our tragedy.

Will Steve experience shunning once again, in Portland of 2018? Quite possibly. But there will be Portland's payback. Just as a person owes you karmic restitution, so (believe it or not--this is a new concept for Steve) can a city, or more specifically, a community. So where they prevented you from earning a living, now they must facilitate the same thing, by the same measure. So this may be a period of bounty, for Steve, where doors open magically, as it seems. Mark my words. This doesn't mean it will last forever. It will, however, last long enough for us to get our assigned work done, there.

Note that the link for this journal is now off the home page. We will continue in that way for an indefinite amount of time. You are free, of course, to tell friends about it.

Love to each and all,

Oh, here is your link :-)

*Later this same day, I met this man at the department store. It's the only time I have ever seen him outside of the context of walking in my old neighborhood, and the only time I have seen him since I moved about nine blocks away, two years ago. We were able to exchange warm greetings and goodbyes, no-doubt the last time I will ever see him. Precisely what generated this synchronicity, I don't know.--S