September 24, 2017


A couple days ago Steve channeled with me, and we shared his love poem to me, written when he was 19 and I was 15. But he found another one, written in August of that same year (1832), when he was 20 and I was 16. Steve is saying, "Are you sure you want to share that?" I have given him the feelings I had, and have, associated with it--but then, they are like gossamer, he says, and disappear as soon as he tries to sit down to the keyboard and express them. And when he thinks about providing the context, he feels me stopping him--I don't want to do that. I was deeply in love with him--I knew he was my soul-mate, and I had known for at least two years. I had known I was to be with him all that time; but I had to wait while my body grew up. And he waited, patiently. As of this poem, he was still waiting, you see. Our romance was of the mind, and of the creativity, and the philosophical, and--to the extent I could penetrate his skepticism--of the spiritual. It was a pure relationship; but he was a young man, after all. (I wouldn't understand sex until we began experimenting with it--which was my attitude at first!--and I was very, very glad he was such a dear, and wasn't simply taking advantage, because it soon overwhelmed my feelings.)

But at the time this poem was written, he was wooing me in an entirely chaste way, of the mind and of the heart. So we had this foundation well-established early-on, you see. We had a full and complete romance before we ever added sex to it.

What else can I say about this poem...I had never loved anyone else. I never did--not even after I passed, even when Mathew lost his way. I waited for him.

I think what I want to say, is that I want the people who follow my journal--or who stumble upon it--to understand why Steve and I are together like this. Once someone in the death-and-dying field wrote to Steve, "I believe it's possible, but I'd rather have a physical woman." No, no, no. It's not like that. Steve and I have loved each other so deeply, so many times, that we would rather be with each other even if it has to be like this. Do you see? When you touch each other's heart at this deep, deep level--when you are in each other's heart--you will put up with any inconvenience. You will even risk the ridicule of the entire world, you see. Because, what does the world know? Poor things. Let them experience this love, if they dare, if they have the fortune to find it. Then they will sing a different tune!!!

This is Mathew's poem to me. Note that I only come up to his chest ;-). Well, we didn't mind that, either. We didn't mind anything. Oh, about the ending...Steve couldn't figure it out, and then it dawned on him, that he was practically on fire with sexual desire for me, and managed to hold himself back, because he had promised. (I put him out of his misery some months hence, but then I caught fire, and oh, dear! But that is another story.) Who had Matt promised? Steve can't quite remember--he thinks maybe I am hinting to him, my mother, privately. Because, you see that we are out walking alone in the evening. And the agreement he had made, on a solemn promise, was that if he would remain honorable, he could take me out to walk under the stars, as I longed to do with him. Because the stars were my friends, and the night, and I was a terrible romantic. So it was allowed, and Mathew took his promises seriously. (What happened later, we won't tell, but you might as well know the gist of it is that I shamelessly seduced him! Well, I could tell he was miserable, and I was the cause of it, and so what else could I do? And I was very curious, besides...)

Now, the last time I acquiesced to showing my portrait at the bottom of the poem, and so I will now claim my right to post Matt's portrait at the end of this can see why I was very much taken with him...


My love and I, one Summer's night,
 Sat underneath a chesnut tree;
Against its massive trunk we leaned,
 And none were there but God and we.
We sang and talked of other days—
 We sang the chivalrous songs of old;
Alternately we told the loves
 Of maidens, and of warriors bold.

Persuasively I told another
 Tale of love, and hope, and fear;
And first her eye with sorrow drooped,
  But soon it glistened with a tear,
That pearly tear caused mine to flow;—
 I felt that she was dear to me,
And gently clasped her hand in mind,
 For none were there but God and we.

Another still I had to tell,
 Of early, fond, devoted love;
I told it in an earnest manner,
 And yet my lips did scarcely move,
I told it—yet I know not how;
 I told it—and she knew my meaning,
For, 'ere I closed, I felt her cheek
 Against my anxious bosom leaning.

I watched her every look and motion,
 Her downcast eye, and blushing face,
And saw her brush a tear away,
 But soon another took its place.
I gently held her to my side,
 And surely felt her beating heart,
As she looked up to me, and showed
 A joy of no akin to art.

No voice was heard—no sound was there,
 But such as came from her and me;
Around, above, 'twas calm and still,
 For none were there but God and we.
Nor can I tell the half I felt;
 Such bliss, before, I never knew;
And yet, I think I'd rather die,
 Than live that hour of bliss anew.

Love to each and all,