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Authors: Rosemary Altea
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a week to match what I was earning at the pub. But what if I couldn't do it … what if no one came?
I would hear the voices, now much clearer, urging me to leave, give up the job; but what would I do, how would I cope? I needed the money. I had begun to tell a few people about my experiences, and I had told my sister what our father had said, through Mick McGuire, which she totally accepted.
So I made a pact. “All right,” I said to those in the spirit world I knew were listening. “The first week I get three bookings I'll give up my job and work full-time for the spirit world.” The following week I quit my job and chose my new name … Altea. That was in October 1981.
Bookings came in slowly over the next few months, but there were never fewer than three a week. At first I was terribly nervous, knowing the responsibility of what I was doing and aware of the great need of those in the spirit world to communicate with their loved ones. I worked hard, wanting to do my very best. Even though I seemed to be working in the dark, I was always aware that someone was helping me, although I didn't know who….
Even as I write this chapter I contemplate the low probability of being believed, knowing how ridiculous it all seems. Although one of the main aims in my life is to help people to understand how normal and natural a medium's work is, I do seem to be saying just the opposite. What I am about to write I know will be seen as so ludicrous as to be totally unbelievable. I am also aware of the danger, more so after writing such seeming rubbish, of being thought by some to be a liar, a cheat, and a charlatan.
What I am about to relate lacks credence, I know. Yet it's true.
My first meeting with a spirit guide did not occur in dramatic and unusual circumstances, as I might have expected.
It was just a few weeks after I had begun my psychic development, November 1981, that I woke early one morning to find him standing by the bed, looking down at me. Although I was still half asleep, I knew he was no apparition, no specter in the night. Nor was he a figment of my imagination.
It felt natural for me to acknowledge him, and I smiled a sleepy hello.
He bowed graciously, looking completely at ease, and I knew that subconsciously I had been waiting for this moment to arrive.
I didn't ask his name, and he never gave it, but I nicknamed him my dancing Scotsman.
He wore a bright-colored kilt and a jacket, with a sword belt strapped across his shoulder and a sporran laid over the kilt; on his head he wore a tam-o’-shanter. His shoes were soft and looked similar to those worn by ballet dancers, and his socks were the long woolen type.
And he danced. Every time he was pleased with something, or if he felt that I needed cheering up, which was quite often in those days, he would dance a little jig.
I didn't need to be told that he was a spirit guide, or helper. I knew instinctively that he was, and I felt tremendously reassured just having him around.
I began to expect him to be there when I needed help of any kind, and every morning when I woke up he would be the first person I would see.
It was great to have someone special—a friend, a teacher—and without realizing it, I became quite reliant on the fact that he was always there when I needed him. Basically, I took him for granted.
A silly thing to do.
Having read quite a bit by this time about spirit guides, books like
Forty Years a Medium
written by Estelle Roberts, I knew that all of us have someone in the spirit world who watches us and watches over us. For most people this “guide,” or “guardian angel,” is someone connected to the family, a relative or close friend, often someone we have had a special affinity with prior to his or her death. Occasionally this guide may be family connected but never talked about, so we may have to do some checking to discover his (or her) identity. I had just assumed that I had been allocated my dancing Scotsman, who was
I would hear the voices, now much clearer, urging me to leave, give up the job; but what would I do, how would I cope? I needed the money. I had begun to tell a few people about my experiences, and I had told my sister what our father had said, through Mick McGuire, which she totally accepted.
So I made a pact. “All right,” I said to those in the spirit world I knew were listening. “The first week I get three bookings I'll give up my job and work full-time for the spirit world.” The following week I quit my job and chose my new name … Altea. That was in October 1981.
Bookings came in slowly over the next few months, but there were never fewer than three a week. At first I was terribly nervous, knowing the responsibility of what I was doing and aware of the great need of those in the spirit world to communicate with their loved ones. I worked hard, wanting to do my very best. Even though I seemed to be working in the dark, I was always aware that someone was helping me, although I didn't know who….
Even as I write this chapter I contemplate the low probability of being believed, knowing how ridiculous it all seems. Although one of the main aims in my life is to help people to understand how normal and natural a medium's work is, I do seem to be saying just the opposite. What I am about to write I know will be seen as so ludicrous as to be totally unbelievable. I am also aware of the danger, more so after writing such seeming rubbish, of being thought by some to be a liar, a cheat, and a charlatan.
What I am about to relate lacks credence, I know. Yet it's true.
My first meeting with a spirit guide did not occur in dramatic and unusual circumstances, as I might have expected.
It was just a few weeks after I had begun my psychic development, November 1981, that I woke early one morning to find him standing by the bed, looking down at me. Although I was still half asleep, I knew he was no apparition, no specter in the night. Nor was he a figment of my imagination.
It felt natural for me to acknowledge him, and I smiled a sleepy hello.
He bowed graciously, looking completely at ease, and I knew that subconsciously I had been waiting for this moment to arrive.
I didn't ask his name, and he never gave it, but I nicknamed him my dancing Scotsman.
He wore a bright-colored kilt and a jacket, with a sword belt strapped across his shoulder and a sporran laid over the kilt; on his head he wore a tam-o’-shanter. His shoes were soft and looked similar to those worn by ballet dancers, and his socks were the long woolen type.
And he danced. Every time he was pleased with something, or if he felt that I needed cheering up, which was quite often in those days, he would dance a little jig.
I didn't need to be told that he was a spirit guide, or helper. I knew instinctively that he was, and I felt tremendously reassured just having him around.
I began to expect him to be there when I needed help of any kind, and every morning when I woke up he would be the first person I would see.
It was great to have someone special—a friend, a teacher—and without realizing it, I became quite reliant on the fact that he was always there when I needed him. Basically, I took him for granted.
A silly thing to do.
Having read quite a bit by this time about spirit guides, books like
Forty Years a Medium
written by Estelle Roberts, I knew that all of us have someone in the spirit world who watches us and watches over us. For most people this “guide,” or “guardian angel,” is someone connected to the family, a relative or close friend, often someone we have had a special affinity with prior to his or her death. Occasionally this guide may be family connected but never talked about, so we may have to do some checking to discover his (or her) identity. I had just assumed that I had been allocated my dancing Scotsman, who was
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