Dairy entry about meeting a ghost
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I just finished watching one of my favorite films, “Ghostbusters,” on TV. It made me realize that we’ve interviewed REAL ghost watchers on Dreamland. This has gotten me thinking about ghosts, just in general. (Subscribers can still listen to the great shows under that link, brimming with excitement, wonder and joy.) And hey, if you're not one yet, we need you! To get started, click here.
When Whitley and I moved into our current apartment, we both noticed an old lady in a wheelchair in the entryway. Then it turned out that such an old lady had been living in the apartment before we got it. She had lived here for years, and died here.
Whitley and I see ghosts all the time. Whitley especially sees them. When friends die, he often knows that it has happened within minutes, because their ghosts show up! Ghosts are not necessarily simply people without bodies, but I think that they could be their essences, which we see either when they stay on Earth, or just as they are leaving.
Persistent ghosts tend to be repetitive, appearing again and again in the same way. To me, this suggests that they are something left behind, probably that has little consciousness. But the ones that have passed through here just after death were conscious and very aware of what they are doing and who they are with.
They move fast, though, racing past at high speed. For example, one of them, who was a mathematician and scientist, identified himself to Whitley by using a calculator while he stood in the middle of the room. Whitley said, “John died.” (He had cancer.) The next day, we got the news.
He once saw a famous skeptic and atheist whom he knew pretty well. The man looked at him and said, “I didn’t understand something.” No, he didn’t! Another one, a scientist, appeared beside our bed early one morning, glared at Whitley and screamed. We had known him a little bit, but we knew the woman who had raised him very well. We actually knew a lot about him. The next day, his death was announced in the papers.
I could go on and on about these apparitions. I love life, but I’m also fascinated with what is to come. Remember, have fun no matter how much is working against you, and have joy!
A note from Whitley Strieber: When Anne wrote this, neither of us had any idea she would pass in a few days. The last line is essential Anne, the last words her mantra: "have joy!
Read the original source: http://www.unknowncountry.com/diary/ghosts-and-ghostbusters#ixzz5iRZ8gdm5
few weeks ago, I felt a ghost crawl into bed with me, and I somehow had the impression this ghost had been an actor. Since we're only friendly with one actor--a female--I assumed that's who it was. But a perusal of the internet and the obituaries revealed that she is, thankfully, very far from dead.
A few days later, I found myself at a funeral. As is the custom these days, people took turns standing up to tell stories about the deceased.
I learned that this person had been very happy, because he had been offered a small role in a movie, and he'd always wanted to be an actor. So I am pretty sure that it was him, as he had died the afternoon before my experience and if you're going to see the dead, the first few hours after they die is among the most likely times.
This leads me to one of my favorite subjects, which is--you guessed it (or maybe didn't)--poetry. Why? Because poems touch us energetically, in the places within us where the richness of life unfolds, as well as the connection to death.
As I stood by our friend's graveside, poems kept running through my mind.
So it's not too surprising that the last time I was in the hospital, Whitley and I found ourselves hungry for poetry, and my bedside table was heaped with anthologies.
I remember another time when this happened. It was in a subway car in New York City, and among the ads along the ceiling for deodorants, razor blades and English lessons, there were some posters with poetry on them. People were standing and reading one of the poems, and some of them were even crying, which, to me, shows just how fundamental the hunger for poetry really is.
The poem that was making them weep was by Langston Hughes. It is called "Mother to Son," and it goes like this:
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
This poem always reminds me of how challenging it is to live life, and yet how beautiful it all is, even the hard parts.