Wells of Power

If you didn’t read Monday’s blog, please do.  Anyhoo…

The tarot card reader told me I needed to change my perspective.  She told me I was looking at it all wrong, and that if I would just tap into the well of power that I already knew existed, things would be fine. She was not the first to say this to me. 

I went to Lilydale many years ago, a Spiritualist community in south western New York.  The medium I saw told me I was psychic.  At first, I thought maybe this was a gimmick she used on folks, after all, I’d never had a reading before.  But then she asked me if I just knew things.  I do, all the time.  She told me there were spirits there wanting to speak through me, not just to me, but I couldn’t hear them because I wasn’t quite in tune enough to their frequency.  She told me I was the most psychically in-tune person In the group I was visiting with, and I should consider studying…maybe even there at Lilydale someday.  I assumed, still, this was a ruse of some sort…a way to drum up money for the community.  But at the end of the day, no one else in my party was told they had a gift; just me.

Then, Salem last week.  The reader was on the money about everything, so I’m going to assume she’s right about perspective, too.  I wrote a piece in my Patreon about how the Salem Witch Trials affected me when I was young, and how it was difficult for me to understand why I was so deeply saddened over something that happened hundreds of years before I was born.  And not like how I was over learning about a war, or even learning about the Irish potato famine with which at least my heritage identified.  No, it was the Salem Witch Trials in 3rd grade that made me cry unexplained tears.  A couple of years later, my parents and I took a vacation to New England and went to Salem, and I remember my excitement and joy and how I gobbled up every morsel of information presented to me.  I wanted to see and do everything, but we were only there for a couple of hours.  I do recall a live reenactment of Bridget Bishop’s trial…which leads me into my name.

I was named after St. Brigid of Kildare. I knew no Brigid’s other than myself, though a couple of “T’s” (that’s what I call the “Bridget’s,’) crossed my path.  When small, I loved that my name was similar to one of the “witches,” so when my parents suggested we go to the reenactment I was delighted.  Then, in high school, I read a book one day, on Celtic folklore…just for funsies.  What a rabbit hole that turned out to be!  I discovered that there was not just a masculine god, but a feminine goddess…many of them in fact…but the main one, the goddess of the country of my ancestors?  BRIGID.  With a damn “D!” 

Naturally, I needed all the information on that immediately, so off I went to the library where I learned all the things as a child.  It was right around this time that I learned that St. Brigid of Kildare may have been a real person, but it is far more likely she is someone that the early church in Ireland used to appropriate the goddess form Celtic belief structures to lure folks to Catholicism, which is of course exactly something the Church would do.  So, from that point on, I started the practice of remembering who shares my name when I am feeling powerless: a might powerful goddess. 

Anyway,

The tarot card reader told me I needed to change my perspective, and I have.  I won’t lie, I have felt a complete shift in my perception of the world in the last few days, which has made me question many things. Part of me, the part that is trained to silence myself, says these are all silly thoughts and to pay them no mind.  But the part of me that knows, the way I knew where our car was parked that time it was stolen, or how I knew that there was a spirit talking to me when I was five, or how I knew that my best friend was throwing me a surprise party for my 16th birthday, or how I knew Mark was going to propose….in that way, I know-there is indeed a greater power within, and perhaps it is time to cultivate it. 

The Ghost of a Friend

Hubs and I recently watched “Happy” on Netflix.  It was really good, provided you can handle some seriously cringe-worthy moments.  There’s a lot of kid-in-danger going on, which I absolutely hate, but the end is happy enough and I liked it overall.  Without giving anything really key away, I will tell you that there is a character named Happy, who is a flying blue horse (unicorn, really, though he never really cops to it.)  He is the imaginary friend of a girl who gets kidnapped, and he has to save her.  There are a lot of moments in the series where he is talking to other imaginary friends, cast-offs after their children have grown too old for them.  It made me wonder…what happened to mine?

I had, as a child, an imaginary community.  There were the outliers, imaginary folk who didn’t live with me.  This consisted of D, a boy that I only knew because he had a green shirt with a purple D on it.  He never spoke, just appeared for a game of “kick-the-ball” or to sit and watch tv.  There was Mary, a young mother of eight who was a terrible cook, though I never met the children that she was constantly talking about.  And there was Esther Drake, a retired schoolteacher who lived in an apartment building on the corner of Kenmore and Colvin.  I knew these oddly specific things about them, and it was presented to me once when I was a little older that perhaps they were spirits.  I’d had some psychic events as a child, and even my mother thought this was a possibility.  Why would I imagine a retired schoolteacher?  Why would I know her address?  Why didn’t D talk?  Where are Mary’s children?  Questions I will never have answers for.

My best imaginary friends, however, lived in my house.  Their names were Shushie and Potchie.  Shushie wore a green dress and had a short black bob.  Potchie had overalls with a red shirt and a cowboy hat.  I don’t know when they appeared, but they stayed for a long time.

My mother tells me of one Shushie story.  Her friend Marie needed a ride to the airport, back in the day when you could actually watch your friends plane take off.  Apparently, I told mom that Shushie was going to go with Marie on vacation.  I said my goodbyes and everything.  Then, when we went back to the car and mom shut the door, I started screaming bloody murder because she had slammed Shushie’s arm in the door.  Mom asked if she hadn’t gone on vacation.  She did not.  My mother was trying to maim her.  Mom tells me that I was truly crying and screaming in that moment, as though the events were real.  I don’t know.

I don’t know how old I was when they disappeared, but I know it was before we moved to Kenmore when I was eight, or maybe around the same time.  Maybe they were just ghosts.  Maybe they were mere figments of my overactive imagination.  I always did find it interesting, though, that my imaginary friends were unlike others.  Other kids I knew had imaginary bunnies and snails and frogs: mine were people.  Detailed, seemingly real people.

I wonder if they existed on some plane of reality that I no longer have access to.  I totally believe that children have the ability to interact with things in a way adults cannot.  As for my previously mentioned psychic event:  our car was stolen.  I told my mom “it’s in front of the purple house.”  She drove to the only purple house in the neighborhood.  It was parked out front.  Don’t tell me that was a coincidence!  Those were forces, man!

There have been other times I have had a connection to an outside reality, and times I have been able to read signs to predict a situation, and I’ve always been sort of a hippy-witchy kind, so you can take or leave what I think on the subject.  Sometimes though, I think about my lost imaginary friends, and I hope that they are still out there playing.  I hope they have found some other little girl or boy to love them, whether they’re real or not.  I don’t know where these manifestations go, but I hope it’s nice.  I hope they get all they wish for, just like I would hope for any of my old, dear friends.

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