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Authors: Rosemary Altea
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possibly some ancient ancestor, rather than an American Indian, and that from now on he would always be around to help with my work and personal life.
I was quite delighted with this choice of guide, as I have always felt a particular affinity with the Scottish people, and indeed with Scotland itself, and I loved to hear him when he spoke to me, his voice soft and lilting. My father, being half Welsh, half Scot, had always seemed to dismiss the Welsh side of the family and was very proud of his Scottish ancestry. I suppose this is where my own feelings stemmed from.
Apart from this, I felt that a Scottish guide was much more acceptable in real terms than some possibly imagined, outlandish-seeming Indian chief with feathers in his hair and perhaps war paint on his face.
So I was content. My psychic development was unusual, I was told by Mick and Paul, in that everything I attempted to do, to learn, came easily. Instinctively I knew how to act and how to react. It was as if, suddenly, someone had switched on a light. I had been plugged in to some incredible unseen energy source, and I knew just how to use it. My actions were totally spontaneous, and as I sat with my clients, making communication with their loved ones in the spirit world, I knew just what to do.
If my dancing Scotsman, always with me, wanted to communicate certain information to me quickly, the most efficient way was to show me certain pictures or symbols. He didn't have to explain these symbols, or signs, to me, I just knew instinctively (there's that word again) what they meant. It was a bit like learning the highway code, using road signs to indicate certain situations, such as a railway crossing, road construction ahead, and so on.
I cannot be specific about the symbols that we used, nor their meanings. I do not imply that these are secret signs, trade secrets, so to speak, but this is a language all of its own, foreign to most people. It is a language I still use, but it has become more complex, less simplistic, and totally unexplainable. And, like the old proverb, every picture tells a story, or, in this case, one picture is worth a thousand words.
My clientele began to grow, I continued with my development group, my clairvoyant and clairaudient abilities became stronger and therefore much clearer, and each Wednesday evening as Paul, Irene, Mick, and I met to continue my psychic development, my progress was, to say the least, startling.
All this time my dancing Scotsman was there, helping, pushing, encouraging, and every morning I would wake to find him smiling down at me and ready to begin another day. I was happy. I drew closer to God, knowing that I was doing His work.
I can't remember exactly when it was that I began to be aware of yet another strong influence about me. It was a distinctly male influence, and at first I thought it was my father. But I soon dismissed this theory, as it didn't “feel” right. It is hard to explain to those who have never had a psychic experience the feeling of a “presence”—a sensing of a “spirit being” around you, sometimes close, almost breathing on you, sometimes from a distance, but real, very real.
It must have been in January 1982, just two or three months after meeting the Scotsman, and at first I put it down to mild curiosity on the part of someone in spirit, come to take a look at me and at what was going on.
It soon became apparent that whoever this was, he was more than just mildly curious. He was around far too often for that. But try as I might, I could not catch even a glimpse of this unknown intruder.
Even Mick was at a loss as to who he was, but smiling that knowing smile, which I had now come to recognize so well, he told me that I would just have to be patient and wait until “he,” whoever “he” was, was ready to make himself known to me. “That is,” he added, grinning wickedly, “if he ever does.”
Then came the shock!
I woke up one morning and automatically turned to
I was quite delighted with this choice of guide, as I have always felt a particular affinity with the Scottish people, and indeed with Scotland itself, and I loved to hear him when he spoke to me, his voice soft and lilting. My father, being half Welsh, half Scot, had always seemed to dismiss the Welsh side of the family and was very proud of his Scottish ancestry. I suppose this is where my own feelings stemmed from.
Apart from this, I felt that a Scottish guide was much more acceptable in real terms than some possibly imagined, outlandish-seeming Indian chief with feathers in his hair and perhaps war paint on his face.
So I was content. My psychic development was unusual, I was told by Mick and Paul, in that everything I attempted to do, to learn, came easily. Instinctively I knew how to act and how to react. It was as if, suddenly, someone had switched on a light. I had been plugged in to some incredible unseen energy source, and I knew just how to use it. My actions were totally spontaneous, and as I sat with my clients, making communication with their loved ones in the spirit world, I knew just what to do.
If my dancing Scotsman, always with me, wanted to communicate certain information to me quickly, the most efficient way was to show me certain pictures or symbols. He didn't have to explain these symbols, or signs, to me, I just knew instinctively (there's that word again) what they meant. It was a bit like learning the highway code, using road signs to indicate certain situations, such as a railway crossing, road construction ahead, and so on.
I cannot be specific about the symbols that we used, nor their meanings. I do not imply that these are secret signs, trade secrets, so to speak, but this is a language all of its own, foreign to most people. It is a language I still use, but it has become more complex, less simplistic, and totally unexplainable. And, like the old proverb, every picture tells a story, or, in this case, one picture is worth a thousand words.
My clientele began to grow, I continued with my development group, my clairvoyant and clairaudient abilities became stronger and therefore much clearer, and each Wednesday evening as Paul, Irene, Mick, and I met to continue my psychic development, my progress was, to say the least, startling.
All this time my dancing Scotsman was there, helping, pushing, encouraging, and every morning I would wake to find him smiling down at me and ready to begin another day. I was happy. I drew closer to God, knowing that I was doing His work.
I can't remember exactly when it was that I began to be aware of yet another strong influence about me. It was a distinctly male influence, and at first I thought it was my father. But I soon dismissed this theory, as it didn't “feel” right. It is hard to explain to those who have never had a psychic experience the feeling of a “presence”—a sensing of a “spirit being” around you, sometimes close, almost breathing on you, sometimes from a distance, but real, very real.
It must have been in January 1982, just two or three months after meeting the Scotsman, and at first I put it down to mild curiosity on the part of someone in spirit, come to take a look at me and at what was going on.
It soon became apparent that whoever this was, he was more than just mildly curious. He was around far too often for that. But try as I might, I could not catch even a glimpse of this unknown intruder.
Even Mick was at a loss as to who he was, but smiling that knowing smile, which I had now come to recognize so well, he told me that I would just have to be patient and wait until “he,” whoever “he” was, was ready to make himself known to me. “That is,” he added, grinning wickedly, “if he ever does.”
Then came the shock!
I woke up one morning and automatically turned to
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