Read Online The Eagle and the Rose by Rosemary Altea - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosemary Altea
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ready to begin the “circle.”
They both looked very pleased with themselves, and I realized that they had deliberately kept out of the way but had been listening in the kitchen to all that had been said.
My impromptu sitting had, it would appear, benefited all of us, so as we formed a circle and held hands, and as Paul opened our meeting with a protective prayer, a feeling of calm and peace enveloped us all. Until, that is, the man who had just given me such fantastic evidence stood up and without preamble started playacting in front of my very eyes. As I sat in semidarkness I watched the healer man “pretend” to be an Indian chief. It was so ludicrous that I almost laughed out loud. Yet at the same time my mind was telling me that the man standing before me was good. There was no way he could have done what he had ten minutes before if he wasn't real. So why start pretending now?
Part of me wanted to believe him, and part of me, the sensible part, simply couldn't accept Indian chiefs as anything other than, at best, part of an overactive imagination.
After I had met this man the first time, and he had mentioned guides, I had gone away and read up a little on the subject of spirit guides. The one thing that struck me more than anything else was that so many of these guides seemed to be American Indians. So farfetched did this seem to me at the time that I dismissed it all as rubbish.
I sat mulling over all of this, not really listening anymore to what was being said. Why, I thought, do they always have to be American Indians? If mediums do have spirit guides, then why can't they be something more credible, less exotic?
Eventually, the “playacting” over, we closed the circle and the healer man asked me what I had thought of his guide, Red Feather.
Although I felt very uncomfortable, as I found it difficult to criticize this man because of my earlier experience with him, I still felt bound to tell the truth. I told him that it was impossible for me to believe there were Indian chiefs with nothing better to do than “float” around, waiting for someone to guide.
“If ever I have a guide, which I doubt,” I said, “and if I ever get to the stage where I accept that such things do exist, I can tell you one thing, it is certainly not going to be an Indian chief!”
The healer man smiled that infuriating smile—a smile I have since come to know and to understand—and he said, “Well, Rosemary, stranger things have happened, and perhaps one day I will be able to watch while you eat your words.”
Many months passed before I did just that. During that time, each Wednesday evening, our small group gathered to witness my startling progress.
The man who guided my development during this period, the healer man, was responsible for helping me to go carefully and to choose the right path. He was a constant source of information and wisdom, and he helped me at all times to find the strength within me that I needed to stay on that path.
He showed me that the answers to my questions were within me, and although he laughed at me often, over many things, he never ridiculed me. A better friend I could not have wished for than this gentle healer man, and I will be grateful to him always.
Oh, yes, I nearly forgot to tell you—his name is Mick McGuire!
The Eagle
I t was Irene who first made the suggestion. “Give up your job,” she said, “and put an advertisement in the local paper. You could give psychic readings, charge £3.50 for half an hour…. You could do it.”
I was living in the small town of Epworth in the north of England, working in a pub behind the bar, part-time, earning a small but much needed wage. It wouldn't have been too bad if it hadn't been for the unwanted attentions of the lecherous landlord. Working for him became more and more impossible, but I had no choice, or so it seemed—my eleven-year-old needed feeding.
Considering Irene's suggestion, I realized I would need only three sessions
They both looked very pleased with themselves, and I realized that they had deliberately kept out of the way but had been listening in the kitchen to all that had been said.
My impromptu sitting had, it would appear, benefited all of us, so as we formed a circle and held hands, and as Paul opened our meeting with a protective prayer, a feeling of calm and peace enveloped us all. Until, that is, the man who had just given me such fantastic evidence stood up and without preamble started playacting in front of my very eyes. As I sat in semidarkness I watched the healer man “pretend” to be an Indian chief. It was so ludicrous that I almost laughed out loud. Yet at the same time my mind was telling me that the man standing before me was good. There was no way he could have done what he had ten minutes before if he wasn't real. So why start pretending now?
Part of me wanted to believe him, and part of me, the sensible part, simply couldn't accept Indian chiefs as anything other than, at best, part of an overactive imagination.
After I had met this man the first time, and he had mentioned guides, I had gone away and read up a little on the subject of spirit guides. The one thing that struck me more than anything else was that so many of these guides seemed to be American Indians. So farfetched did this seem to me at the time that I dismissed it all as rubbish.
I sat mulling over all of this, not really listening anymore to what was being said. Why, I thought, do they always have to be American Indians? If mediums do have spirit guides, then why can't they be something more credible, less exotic?
Eventually, the “playacting” over, we closed the circle and the healer man asked me what I had thought of his guide, Red Feather.
Although I felt very uncomfortable, as I found it difficult to criticize this man because of my earlier experience with him, I still felt bound to tell the truth. I told him that it was impossible for me to believe there were Indian chiefs with nothing better to do than “float” around, waiting for someone to guide.
“If ever I have a guide, which I doubt,” I said, “and if I ever get to the stage where I accept that such things do exist, I can tell you one thing, it is certainly not going to be an Indian chief!”
The healer man smiled that infuriating smile—a smile I have since come to know and to understand—and he said, “Well, Rosemary, stranger things have happened, and perhaps one day I will be able to watch while you eat your words.”
Many months passed before I did just that. During that time, each Wednesday evening, our small group gathered to witness my startling progress.
The man who guided my development during this period, the healer man, was responsible for helping me to go carefully and to choose the right path. He was a constant source of information and wisdom, and he helped me at all times to find the strength within me that I needed to stay on that path.
He showed me that the answers to my questions were within me, and although he laughed at me often, over many things, he never ridiculed me. A better friend I could not have wished for than this gentle healer man, and I will be grateful to him always.
Oh, yes, I nearly forgot to tell you—his name is Mick McGuire!
The Eagle
I t was Irene who first made the suggestion. “Give up your job,” she said, “and put an advertisement in the local paper. You could give psychic readings, charge £3.50 for half an hour…. You could do it.”
I was living in the small town of Epworth in the north of England, working in a pub behind the bar, part-time, earning a small but much needed wage. It wouldn't have been too bad if it hadn't been for the unwanted attentions of the lecherous landlord. Working for him became more and more impossible, but I had no choice, or so it seemed—my eleven-year-old needed feeding.
Considering Irene's suggestion, I realized I would need only three sessions
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