March 6, 2017

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We're picking up where we left off a couple of days earlier. Almost seven years ago, Steve arranged a phone reading with a medium. He had been experiencing my presence off-and-on, and wanted to see whether it was possible that I was trying to contact him; and, perhaps, that I wanted to get back together (as best we could, across the Divide). The psychic didn't record the conversation, but Steve kept notes during the session, and it is these notes I'll be commenting on.

She had an etching of Mathew in his mid-40's, which Steve had sent her; and she knew that he wanted her to try to contact Mathew's wife from that lifetime. That's all. This is March 10, 2010.

So she starts out, looking at the etching, saying:

Nobility, stature, status. Wife not right religion, family against. Loved her dearly. Family or families feuded, rejected him. "You can come but she can't"--because of religion or status.

On the face of it, it was I who had the nobility, since my father was a marquis. But there is more in past lives. Mathew, despite being a farm boy, was noble. I could sense it. We could sense it in each other. Look at us: he is a king from the past, and a sage; while I am what Mathew used to call me, a "dauphine," or a queen-in-waiting; and also a mystic from many lives back. The psychic sensed it, too. Never-mind vanity--this just is what it is.



As for the rest, she was "spot-on." I was Catholic, Mathew was Quaker. Both families were against the marriage, because of religion and social class. My father was trying to regain his family's wealthy state by marrying his daughters well--he had invested a great deal of money into their education. He didn't want to waste it on a hayseed! (Let's tell it straight--sorry, Dad.)

Steve's notes continue:

I could be Matthew--confirmed, she's certain.

And there it is, in "black-and-white." If I can show that she was substantially right about everything else, why would you disbelieve this flat-out statement?

Steve then reports her perception of the two lifetimes superimposed on his consciousness--she had originally refused to read him because of her discomfort in perceiving it:

Candace's perception--like a fun-house mirror, distorted, because of both lives running parallel. More like a parallel universe, overlaid. Warped in time?

One may say Steve is doing something unnatural; or one may say she is expressing prejudice. Both would be correct. But perception is in the eye of the beholder. Remember that for many years, Spiritualists, being trained in the (distorted) Bible, rejected reincarnation altogether. Some of this "taint" of reincarnation remains in the Spiritualist community, although Candace, herself, is not averse. Still, the prejudice remains subtley.

His notes continue...

I asked if Abby was contacting me now--she says off and on. More about parallel life overlapping, time warping in on itself, etc.

This is where Steve expressed his concerns that I was inconsistent, and that I might be rejecting him. He, also, was quite keen to get back together at this point, you see--but he wanted to know two things: 1) was it real, and 2) was I willing? What is not recorded here, is that Candace told him, "You loved her dearly, and she loves you more than you can understand."

Now Steve draws a horizontal line, for reasons he can't remember, and his notes continue:

I was Matthew, confirmed. Was meant to be (marriage). Was some trouble in the marriage, mostly caused by influences and pressures from outside, still loved each other. I don't have any fear of crossing over, Abby says. Her energy gets low. Because of how she died--weak, voice hardly audible. Laying on rail bed with thin mattress. At home. One child died in fire? Her death of disease--tuberculosis?

Keep in mind (I am emphasizing now, to Steve) that she knew nothing about these two people by any earthly means. Over the next few years, researching with my help-unseen, Steve confirmed these details in the history. Our "troubles" were jealousy, because we were both attractive, I was insecure, and Mathew was a born comedian who liked to try out his "material" on anybody he could find. Because he was handsome, often the audience he gathered was made up of women who had other ideas, you see. I could see it plainly--but Matt was naive. I was terrified. I knew he was faithful, but I had been told, by wise mentors, that men could not control themselves, and were easy prey to designing women. I did not have confidence in myself--I saw myself as little and skinny, not "ample" as was the fashion of the time. How could I compete? And these women were laughing at his jokes, their ample bosoms heaving right under his nose! So I would let some male friend think maybe I was paying attention to him, looking over my shoulder to see whether Matt noticed--not because I wanted anything to do with him, but just to get Matt away from those girls! Because I was terrified. But he was very, very sensitive underneath all his farm-boy bravado, and that terrified him, and we fought... But Candace was quite delicate in the way she put it, you see. We found evidence for all this in the stories we wrote.

Steve finally found an obituary which says I died of "consumption," which is what we called tuberculosis. Clearly, I was the spiritually strong one, as Candace said. Steve did not remember me dying at home, as she implies--but it turned out both he and she were right, because I was taken to my father's house just days before I died.

I lost two children, both under a year old. The first, a son named Joseph (after my father, in a gesture of conciliation), died of scarlet fever. Steve has never found how our second child, Sarah, died. He has remembered a scene of me singing to her. He seems to have blocked out her death. He knows I "let myself go"; and he has found a reference to me in "wild despair" after her death. But the cause of her death is a mystery. Steve has for years assumed she, also, must have died of tuberculosis. But I have just now asked Steve to look up the statistics online. He had forgotten that tuberculosis typically takes some years to develop--and Sarah died at eight months. (He will now have to add this insight to his book.) I can say no more. We were in a cold, drafty hotel room. Heating was primitive--New England winters are fierce. Children did die when their clothing caught fire in that era. But one historical listing has Sarah dying in a different town, near my hometown. Could we have sent her to be cared for by someone else? And were they careless? If such a thing happened, the burden of guilt would have crushed me. This is a picture of the statue that made Mathew think of me at this time, when he encountered it by chance ten years later. The original was in the 1851 London World's Fair.

He was going to a panorama--like a movie, today, a large moving painting which took you to a place, vicariously. This one was of the World's Fair. This is what he wrote:

In one side scene, withdrawn from sight,
The "Nymph of Lurleibergh" is sitting,
I think you'll find her on the right,
She holds a lute, and not her knitting,
And in her wild, dejected air
I seemed to read a fixed despair,
That blinded me to all the glare
Of pomp and pride that glistened there.

Some memory of the past came o'er me,
And days long vanished rose before me;
I thought--no matter what I thought--
Such dreams as mine are lightly wrought,
And, lightly made, as lightly shivered;
And now it seemed as if in truth
A beam of light that gleamed and quivered
Upon the silvery tide of youth
Came back to cheer, and not in vain,
A spirit dulled with voiceless pain;
And as I pressed my couch at night,
Her image hovering round me seemed,
And at the first of morning light
I jotted down the things I dreamed,
And once again to slumber sunk,
With chattering teeth, your friend,    A. Trunk.

Matt always made light of things, to protect himself from the power of his own sensitive nature, you see. And more so when writing humor for the public. But you can read between the lines. That is a long story, which perhaps we won't digress into, now. But he did remember me being in despair after our daughter's death--and it is unlikely to have been from tuberculosis.

And, what was that vision he jotted down? A month earlier, he had put it in another entirely different story, in a different publication. Here, he is pretending to be a bad poet, so that the "editor" has to revise it. But the "editor" is symbolic for his skeptical mind! So we will stick with what the "poet" initially writes, which (as is typically the case) is the more accurate one:

I dreamed that I was on the water,
And that I met an old man's daughter.
We glided o'er the stream together;
And she and I the storms did weather.
And though this girl on the water I met,
We arrived in safety without getting wet;
And she told me sweetly that Hope had taught her
How to pass in safety over the water.

And when I 'woke from the dream of the water,
Over which I glided with the old man's daughter,
I felt that the true meaning of the vision
Was that I should soon be released from prison.

"Released from prison," of course, means to pass. Keep in mind that you only see the complete picture when you put both of these pieces--one signed "A Trunk," and the other unsigned--in two different newspapers--together. He had a spirit contact after I arranged a sign--the "nymph"--and then a vistation dream that night. I instigated all of it. That's because he was heading into a very difficult time. Through his satirical writing, he was angering some nasty people, what is now called the "military-industrial complex"--and I knew that they had identified him and very soon they would burn down his apartment. Which, in fact, they did. He also learned who had been betraying him, men he had counted as friends. All this is in our big book.

Returning to Steve's notes from the reading, he receives the answer to his question about my inconsistent contact that (per his notes) it is "because of earth conditions, veil is getting thinner, but still some times are better than others." This, you, too, should know :-).

Perhaps we will pick the rest of this up another day--we still have four days until the anniversary!

Love to each and all,
Abby