March 7, 2017
Steve had some philosophical comments to open with, about taking care of his aged mother, and old age, and the folly of identifying (too strongly) with the human body, and so-on. But I think I've just about covered it ;-). So we will proceed, without further ado, to discussing the psychic reading which brought us back together on March 10, 2010.
Where we left off yesterday, the medium, Candace, had explained to Steve that his perception of my presence was periodic, not because I had actually stopped contacting him for days at a time, but because of "earth conditions." We need not elaborate on that. I have explained a little more to Steve, but he is not sure what I'm permitted to share publicly, so we will leave it at that.
Next, Steve asked her about his researcher at the time, whether that person had any place in his past life as Mathew. No historical person has been found to match. And here, we will gently insert the observation that this psychic is more accurate when she is not being asked questions; because she works by relaying messages through a chain which includes, at the end of it, her own astral helpers. But when she is asked a question, she tends to give her own personal opinion, you see, with the helpers out of the loop. Because it might take them quite some time to get the answer. Let's imagine this situation: you are on the internet, and you are telling someone what you have found on the internet. That, in turn, is being relayed to someone in a country which has never heard of computers (just suppose).
Suddenly, the person on the end of the chain asks a question. Instead of relaying that question to you, so you can look it up on the internet, that person tries to answer from his or her own understanding. Well, likely it won't be as accurate, you see. Does that mean the whole process is bogus, when that answer is found to be incorrect? Hardly. It means the "chain" was broken, and a link in the chain, instead of acting as a conduit, tried to act as the source.
Now, in our reading, the medium gets down to business. That's because she has just received a "block image" or consolidated impression from her guides, and she must "unpack" it for Steve. Just as in our channeling, today, Candace has received what we call a "thought burst"--all of the following paragraph was contained in that one short burst. You can see it if you look at it with that in mind. She is describing a situation where Matt and I were studying metaphysical books:
It took Steve some seven years to find the historical information which confirmed this one "burst"--though the issue of who taught whom is still an open question. In my earliest story--Steve thinks, probably written when I was 16, which is when I was tutoring Matt over the winter months--we see my character, little Mary Mahony, enlightening the pundits and publishers regarding the translation of German metaphysics. At the same age, or even younger, I was writing metaphysical poetry. Steve was going to quote the former, but I want to quote this poem:
For those of you who might think to look this up, I submitted it anonymously, and the editor claimed it. Not only was a 16-year-old girl defenseless, she was not counted important enough to even feel guilty about stealing from. Ah, but the Law of Karma is not blind, nor stupid, and as they say, "God is not mocked," and "vengeance is His."* Look at this excerpt. Do you note that I am already speaking of earthbound spirits, and spheres in the astral realm, high and low? Where did a young girl, growing up in the country, get such knowledge? From her mother, who got it from her Scottish ancestors; and from books. Books I shared with Matt; books I had to hide.
There are many more historical proofs, but we will just tell you that Steve found them. There is one I want him to share. Yes, he has found it, the one I wanted. In October of 1842--about a year-and-a-half after my passing--Mathew publicly defends a traditional minister's attack on the teachings of Emanuel Swedenborg. Here, he makes it clear that he understands what I taught him--that the events in the Bible are allegories for the inner state and development of man. He would use this idea for an allegory about spirit contact with me, about ten years later--the story which includes the poem about the visitation dream I shared yesterday. The people and events in the Old Testament are symbols for what transpires in the progress (over many lifetimes) of a spiritual seeker, within his own psyche. One can, of course, explain this to a traditionalist until the cows come home, and he or she won't get it. But perhaps other readers, who are ready for the information, may get it. Thus, Mathew is already continuing the work that we had started, and which I had trained him for:
Of course, Mathew's style is more intellectual, and more argumentative. He is a man, after all, and he was my prodégé. He didn't understand everything I tried to teach him. That would come later--in his present lifetime. But he caught quite a bit of it.
We will move on with the reading...
What in the world? And why would a psychic stick her neck out like this? Remember, she knows nothing at all of the historical Abby Poyen. Is she projecting--making up a character as she goes along? What?
Candace may be mixing up different instances of our being persecuted. At the time when we were "both working on it," we were indeed shunned, and Steve has found ample evidence. First, he found that we were putting out our own newspaper, two years after we had eloped. It had both Spiritualist and anti-slavery themes. This was at a time when an abolitionist, Rev. Lovejoy, had recently been murdered in Illinois by a mob. So the story has the wife at home, beside herself with worry, because her husband was late returning from the printing office; only to find that he had been "detained by bores"! (Mathew detested bores, something Steve has found ample evidence of--even in an obituary listing in England!) So we were being shunned, then. But what about this trial? He thinks maybe that was much, much earlier, when I was a mere girl of 14.
Steve found two poems which, as near as he can tell, were stolen and claimed by a teacher, when I took a class from him at this age. So we are tentatively placing these around 1830. It is a long and complicated journey, to explain why these poems were written by myself, at that age, and not by the older man who claimed them. But I will tell you that he had very little shame. Obviously. He stole other poems from me, as well--as near as Steve can tell, several of them were class assignments, but these two definitely were not, so he must have copied over poems from my own personal workbook. He would have submitted them, under our shared initials ("A.P."), two years later. I can't confirm or deny Steve's extrapolations as to how it happened. I have my reasons for that--because the trail may yet lead to something else, and if I give him answers ahead of time, he won't have the need to go down that trail. But I will share one of them with you. At age 14, it is obvious that I have been severely ostracized, over something. I will share what it looks like it may have been, in a minute. I wrote this directly to someone with the initials, "J.M.T." (I have given Steve no sense of who this was.)
What could I have done, at age 14? Well, here is Steve's best guess, and I am not giving him the impression it is wrong. My mother taught me how to read; and I don't mean just books. But I was told absolutely never to use my powers to meddle; nor to ever use them with the local ignorant populace. I was to keep it secret from them. But word gets out in a small town, as you know. If one of my short stories was loosely autobiographical--as they all seem to be (even, more than "loosely")--then two local girls tricked me into giving a reading, by playing on my sympathy. The plot has a wandering vagabond, fallen from better times, who may or may not be psychic, induced against his better judgment to give a reading. One girl has been swept off her feet by a high-class no-good, ignoring her local beau; her sister, the more practical one, wants this vagabond to purposefully give a reading warning her against the interloper, since the gullible sister is an avid fan of all things mysterious, you see. The vagabond does give the reading, and while he has normal ways of knowing all the information--which he freely admits--it is hinted that maybe he is really, actually psychic. Afterwards, he leaves in shame, having used his talents wrongly, as he feels.
Steve thinks the story may also borrow from an event in our young lives, when I was forcibly separated from him, as a girl of 16, and made to suffer the company of a stuck-up aristocrat, whom my father would rather I marry. But, no, or if so, only very loosely. That fellow never interested me. I was all Matt's. I was psychic, and I knew we had spent countless lives together.
It was quite some years before Steve finally discovered an obituary for me, which included the cause of death: "consumption." That's what people of my era called tuberculosis. But here we have the added information of spirit visitations; especially, very vivid ones shortly after I had passed. And Matt's ambivalence, his difficulty in believing. This would plague him all his life. Steve found numerous examples of Mathew experiencing visitation dreams from me. At times in his life he tried to continue our relationship as he is doing now--but he couldn't sustain it. In the poem I shared with you last time, his inner "Poet" knew, intuitively, that it was real; but his inner "Editor" would always question. Do you experience that tug-o-war within yourself? It is natural and normal. It takes lifetimes of study to overcome it. I had done so--but still, I had not learned the lesson that heaven is where love is, regardless of the outward circumstances. I thought heaven was in the sky, with the stars; or in a spiritual sky, with likewise spiritual stars. But heaven was with Matt, you see--"with" being either physical, or non-physical. I, too, had learning to do. So immediately had I let myself go into the arms of death, quite willingly, I realized I had made a drastic mistake. Because I had driven him mad; and he never was without the terrible struggle of grief afterwards. I had done this to my most cherished companion and partner, with whom I was to have had a long life together! Or so I have given Steve to feel. I knew what I had done, in my "spiritual" ignorance--and so I came to him, and stayed with him, but it terrified him.
Let me tell you something personal and private. There is no pain like the pain of seeing the one who loves you, terrified of you.
Matt's expressions of fondness for these visitations dreams (at least, after he got over being afraid of me) was very, very dear. This was unsigned, but Steve can make a strong historical case for it being his writing. It is, definitely, no question, I am telling him. Let me reproduce it in full, because it is so precious to me; and our anniversary is coming up, and I want you to see what I meant to him, after I had passed.
Steve just read it, himself, while proofreading. And he now sees personal references he had missed. Do you see them? I have shared some of them with you. Our souls were "stars"; I used to sing softly to him; I would nestle his head on my lap, so here he is offering for me to nestle my head on his breast. He says his heart will be my star of love. Meanwhile, I will permit Steve to prove, just this once, that this is, indeed, Mathew's poetry. Compare the lines
with these lines from a poem we definitely know Mathew wrote, published roughly two years after I had died, in which Christ's crucifixion is reacted to by Nature, herself (the missing, unpublished portion of the poem taught what I had taught him--namely, that when the inner Christ is crucified by our ignorance, Nature responds):
I hope you can take time to read these poems. With all the modern advancements in gadgetry, mankind has lost the ability to read a poem. How sad. You have lost so much, and you don't even know it.
I will, perhaps, wrap up our exploration of this psychic reading next entry.
Love to each and all,
*Let me say, here, that what is important to a person after he or she passes, is, as you can imagine, his good name, his legacy. What else would he care about? And when someone has stolen, and gained fame thereby, and then that theft is exposed so that his former fame becomes transformed instantly into infamy, this is suffering. I would not purposely inflict it--but in this particular instance, I would not prevent it in the natural course of events, either. George Light was a particular hypocrite--with no remorse about building his career on the work of a mere girl. He will receive the legacy, in Steve's book, that he richly deserves.--A