A Christmas Story

(The snow falling on this page isn’t my doing, by the way, it must be some seasonal WordPress thing. I think it’s quite nice.)

This is an article from Christmas 2010. It was on my former website and in an edition of Phenomena Magazine. I also spoke about the incidents at Repcon.

Introduction

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings – nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run –
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man my son!

~ Rudyard Kipling

I’ve had an eventful Christmastide, as wonder full as can be. A week ago things looked bleak. Not because of the ice and snow that lay all about the Isles; though it called for long walks up and down the blizzard-swept mountain where I live, that was more of an adventure, and the views when they subsided, the views!, well, it was worth every step and slide. My car hibernated in its icy cocoon at the bottom for a week.

No, it was something other. My mind was, and had been for a long while, busier with working on manifesting the necessary to drive over 500 miles, to Dorset, on the south coast of England (and back), to spend Christmas with my daughter and grandchildren before they flew back to Australia, after 3 weeks holidaying in England. It would be a long time before I would be able to see them again. As things are, manifesting is only a fleeting concept to someone like me, who is 7s all the way, I inhabit the unmanifest. When I touch down I leave a mark, 7s do that, so feelings, intuition, imagination, sensitivity, care and conscience are the acute signs of my earthly presence, rather than worldly acquisitions and possessions.

This world, in many ways, is a stranger to me, and I am a stranger to it. Not the planet, but the socio-environment. It’s voracious, swallows up even the best of humanity, with its gi’ me, gi’ me! baubles and soul-bruising distractions. Are we really here to sacrifice exquisite integration, deep love, and self-awareness, for greed, lechery, deception, aggrandisment, and fear; or what is right now, for a down-the-track sometime-never Shamballa? Does the end justify the means? Can two wrongs ever make a right?

The answers are all no, but don’t think that I’m a saint either, or that I consider myself such. I have a long way to go, just like the rest of us. I won’t give up on myself though, and I won’t give up on humanity either, and every day brings more clarity. What you can be sure of is that my writing is aimed to inspire readers, including myself, to look both within and without and to become more aware of what is real, and what has true worth, both for individuals and collectively, not least as guardians of this planet and all of its inhabitants. A soul is priceless don’t trade or sell it.

What you support you take on board, you drink it and you carry it – that’s what the word says (sup-port). If you support any injustice or bad behaviour, you darken your aura, you bruise your soul. Please, be discerning with everything that touches your aura, whether it’s what you buy, listen to, or watch, the company you keep, the job that you do; the whole gammut of experiences need to be regularly reviewed. It’s a large part of what your intuition is for, please don’t idle it.

We are all given innumerable glimpses of heaven; some of us grasp the opportunity when it comes; feeling that divine purity so deeply that we intuitively despise what isn’t, regardless of glamour, misplaced allegiances, peer pressure, or difficulties. It takes the greatest courage to do what is right in this world. I do know that.

Choices

The days of the Winter Solstice are a time of beginnings and endings, of integration and realisations, of choices, of justice. It’s a time when we are shown glimpses of both heaven and hell, we pays our money and we makes our choice. During this (even more than usual) mysterious solstice-time I’ve been shown both, and strikingly…

Gifts

Two days before the Saturn bluff a generous friend, who will remain anonymous, sent me enough money for a ‘lifetime subscription’ to Otherworld Journeys. He’s a very private man, a true sovereign being, not a joiner, and he’s not a subscriber to anything, but he’s got a heart bigger than Western Australia, and it’s his way of giving without it seeming like charity. He moves in big business, but in his own way; sublimely ethical he takes on the reptile and demonstrates every day how goodness and integrity can vanquish the darkest demons. He has faith in me, in what I do. He didn’t know it but his gift meant that I could see my family. I am blessed with beautiful friends, in the true meaning of the words, who have been there for me. I am very fortunate and it is their generosity and understanding that has enabled me to keep on doing what I do. Those who know about these things say that I’m brave to mix it with the dark side, but I’m not brave, it’s just that I have a talent to recognise it and the right thing to do is for me to expose it.

Yet, I was feeling uneasy about this forthcoming episode in my life, beginning with my drive to Dorset, something was on the wind, but what? I didn’t know, but my psychic senses were on alert and I’ve learnt from experience that this pressages something significant from the dark side when this occurs.

One thing that happened was that, although I’d determined to finish with psychically investigating missing person cases, I awoke the next morning with vivid visions of the face of a young woman in front of me, a young woman trying hard to gain my attention. With it came scenes that included two dogs that I know, Badger and Lucky, who have recently passed over. Brother and sister. They were chasing each other. They used to do that, all in fun, but this was out of character because Badger attacked Lucky. I’m making no assumptions with this. It was too brief. The face was of a missing woman called Joanna Yeates, whose name means Gatekeeper of the Moon, who disappeared from the historic Knights Templar stronghold of Bristol on the 17th December, about 80 hours prior to the lunar eclipse.

The 17th December was the start of the Roman feast to Saturn (the Darkness), the Saturnalia, and it was 666 days before 13th October 2012, which will be the 705th anniversary of the mass arrest of Templars. It was an 8 day and a 17 to boot. (The 13th October this year was exactly 800 days before the 21st December 2012 and was the date of the Chilean mining disaster. See F8) What I want to make clear for anyone reading this is that it is clear to me that people who commit crimes are driven by a demonic force, they do not necessarily have to know anything about the workings, although some do. There are numerous occult footprints but other than the date counts I haven’t looked at Joanna’s disappearance and I didn’t intend to take my laptop with me to Dorset anyway. (I didn’t). *

First calling card

On Christmas Eve, at 11:11am, or very close to it, on my way to Dorset, I entered a roundabout and as I reached the exit the interior of the car took on a kind of shimmer; my own movements seemed to stutter, and then be stuck on pause, my car stood still, time stood still; then from nowhere a large silver estate car whipped straight across me, missing me by inches. I couldn’t take my eyes off the number plate, the first few digits – P666. It was a Mercedes, I think, but I’m not very good on what cars are what. I was under attack (again) and being looked after (again).

Which God?

Further down the road I was tailgated by a 4-wheel drive – number plate Y*HOO (Saturn), and getting closer to my destination – Dorset (Door Set, and I think it was, I’ll tell you later), a small car bearing the born-again fish shot out in front of me from a side road when I was only about 10 yards away and doing 60. Fortunately the road here wasn’t as icy as most of the roads down that way.

The moment that I had left the motorway my sat-nav had decided to play silly-buggers (though it could have been earlier as it doesn’t talk to me on motorways) and I found myself visiting places I’d never been to before like Stanton Drew, Templecombe and other mysterious places, well out of my way. I’m not good at directions, but it seems to me that I was destined to visit these spots for some reason or other.

Dorset: Christmas 2010

Snow Lady

The beautiful county of Dorset was like the tundra, a sheet of ice and snow, most of the roads were undrivable for my little car, but eventually I made it, after a 9-hour journey, to a little pub on a hill, not far from my destination. As I pulled up I made to phone my daughter and discovered that I had no phone signal. A car drove up beside me; it was my son-in-law and his uncle (F). They guided me through the snow till we came to the isolated cottage where I was to spend Christmas with them. The cottage, homely and bright, full of the cheer of children and warm log fires, charming company and excited chatter, was such a welcome. I felt no tiredness; the hours had vanished like the leaves of the orchard. The children excitedly hastened me outside to see the snow lady that they had built. She is beautiful. They’d built her for Father Christmas and Rudolph. They’d integrated with the season.

Door Set

However I did notice, back at the pub, that F didn’t look himself. I soon heard that he’d caught a virus, a particularly vicious one, but the doctor had assured him that it was a 24-hour job. On Christmas Day, F was a bit better, he rallied himself for Christmas morning but just after dinner he took to his bed again; and then my granddaughter succumbed. We said she could have another Christmas Day tomorrow. At about 5-ish, I think it was, my daughter and her family retired to the annexe for the night so that the little one could go to bed.

Around 6pm, I was sitting in the lounge chatting with my son-in-law’s auntie (M), there was a knock at the door. We both looked at each other. We had heard no car drive up and as I said the cottage is out in the sticks, it was freezing cold and very dark. Not a night for anyone to be abroad. M answered the door. I heard her talking to a man who appeared to be asking directions, and then I heard her invite him in. Through the door walked a slender, elderly man, elegant in a smart, black overcoat and silk scarf. He had white hair and striking about him were his fluffy unreal-looking eyebrows. He stood erect in front of the fire, his hands in his pockets and said that he was trying to get to a certain village.

“That’s about four miles away! And you’re walking?” M said in astonishment.
“Yes”, he said.
“Where have you come from?” I asked him.
“About an hour away”, he replied.
“You’ve been walking on these slippery roads for an hour!”

Casting my eyes over the man it was obvious to me that he hadn’t been walking in deep snow for an hour. He wore what looked like handmade, but every-day brown leather shoes, his trousers weren’t wet at all and they looked to have just come from the trouser-press.

This was all seeming very peculiar. The man took his hand out of his pocket and reached inside his overcoat.

“I have a card just in case you need to know who I am.”

Brandishing his card M politely declined it, without even looking at it, and asked him where he was heading for. The man tried to insist that she take it, but she wouldn’t. I was glad that she didn’t. Did he have their telephone number?

“No”, says he.
“What is their name?” “I’ll give them a ring, get them to come and collect you.”

For a while the man couldn’t think of their surname….
”Robbie…Robbie, I think it is”.

The man said that he lived somewhere else.

“Where do you live then?” I asked him.
“Surrey”.
“Why are you going to (village name)?”
“For a meeting.”

M went to look for the phone book.

“Who are you going to see?” I asked the man.
“My sister…You’re smiling”, the man said to me.
“I am”, says I. “You’re not who you say you are.”

The man gave a rumbled look and tried to stare into my mind; I felt it and refused him. M returned to the room with the telephone directory.

“Robbie? Robbie?…is this them?”

“Uh, yes, yes, I think that’s them”.

M phoned the number and said that we had a gentleman with us who was lost and says he is trying to get to them.

“Well, we can’t come and get him”, the person at the other end said. “We don’t have a four-wheel drive.”
“Well, someone will have to”, replies M, “You can’t expect him to walk four miles in this weather.”

During this the man took from his pocket a tin, opened it to reveal a fat, ancient-looking, ochre-coloured glass syringe and other items. Pointing the syringe at me he said that it could be very ‘difficult’ being a diabetic.

“35!” he exclaimed without doing anything.

Syringe set similar to this but the glass was yellowed, the metal more like brass; the tin was a bit shabby and discoloured; and I only recall the one large syringe.

After a little to-ing and fro-ing the person on the phone agrees to meet our visitor at the pub, the same one that I had stopped outside. F, and my son-in-law, would drive him there.

“Your cottage is so bright, it shines like a beacon. It can be seen for miles,” the man stated.

M went to rouse F who was still in bed trying to sleep off his illness. The man had avoided eye-contact with me since M had returned with the telephone directory, and continued to do so even as he left. I bade him farewell anyway.

When they had gone M commented upon how unconcerned the ‘Robbies’ had appeared:

“They just seemed cold. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that they’d have wanted to make sure he was all right. Wouldn’t you? But they really didn’t want to help him. It was very unlike me to insist like that but F isn’t well and I can’t have him driving miles in these conditions.”
“It’s like one of those folktales”, says I, “When the devil (Set) visits a lonely house at Christmas.”

M is certainly psychic, but whether she acknowledges that I’m not sure. She is quite a strong Christian, and how that would sit with her I don’t know. Something guided her to refuse the card – adamantly…but not so for F, unfortunately…

When F, and my son-in-law returned they were quite bemused by the goings on. They’d driven to the pub, which was closed; the man had got out and said that he would be all right. They were about to drive off when my son-in-law had second thoughts. They asked the man to get back in the car and drove to meet the other car. It’s a single, dark, and lonely road.

Some distance down the road they met a man walking up a hill having abandoned his car at the bottom. This was the man who’d come to collect our visitor. The visitor got out walked towards the man and without any conversation, thanks, or greeting whatsoever walked off with him.

Later, while M, F, and I sat by the fire, F said that while they were in the car the man had commented upon how attractive F’s wife is, “luscious“, and what a striking figure she has. On hearing this M was visibly shaken, going white.

“What do you think he does for a living?” F asked.
“Probably an accountant,” M replied.
“Yes, that’s right, how did you know? Did he tell you?”
“No, he just looked like one. How do you know he’s an accountant?” asked M.
“Well, there was something really odd about him and I just wanted to find out a bit more about him for some reason. I asked him what he did and he told me and I asked him if he had a business card.”

Woops!

If it was who I suspect:
Mistake number 1: Inviting him in. (How could anyone refuse?)
Mistake Number 2: Allowing him to leave something behind.

The card went in the fire.

Inspiration

That night everyone else took ill. I’m still pretty crook as I write this, two days later. The first night and day were the worst. I slept most of Boxing Day but I managed to drive back home yesterday, and that was not without a bit of drama, and almost from the off. I’d said cheerio to everyone at the cottage and drove out onto the road, which although the morning was far milder, was still covered in ice and slush. It was very slippery and my little car struggled through until I got to a hill just before the much-mentioned pub.

Here the car decided to dance a little, pirouetted, but thankfully didn’t break-dance. I’m outside the car, and outside a house, my phone has been lifeless since I got here and I’m wondering what to do. I sense someone…and there retrieving a shovel from the back of his four-wheel drive, is the man who lives at the house.

“I don’t have that trouble,” he says cheerily, and proceeds to scrape away the snow from beneath my car’s wheels.

Calling his two teenage lads he suggests that the three of them push me straight and that I reverse down the hill, take a good run up and see if that’ll get me over. It didn’t work, so undaunted he fetches his car and asks me to attach his toe-rope to mine.

I haven’t got a toeing eye. We lift the bonnet, um and ah a bit, then decide to lash it to something that doesn’t look like it’ll bend or snap. A little bit of skidding and we’re up the top of the hill, by the pub.

“You’ll be right from now, it’s salted,” the man says.

It wasn’t, but so what. He wouldn’t hear of me giving him anything for his kindness. His reward will come in other ways. As I drove along the icy narrow lane towards the main road I came to a left-hand blind bend. Fortunately I negotiated it cautiously for of all things to come hurtling round the bend and skidding towards the hedge was a policeman in a Range Rover. His face was a picture and he just sat there and watched as I just calmly turned the wheel and pointed my car towards home. If the shoe had been on the other foot…but it wasn’t, and who knows what empathies may come.

I’ve met both the deepest darkness and the brightest light over the past few days… And then I met Saturnian ‘justice’ skidding at me from the blind side. I accepted it as a message. For in that moment, if I’m right, it had acknowledged me as a worthy combatant on the path that is the left-hand. I’d experienced and achieved a balance; and that, friends, is the lesson, the true nature, and real gift, of this season of giving – and giving way.

My daughter’s family have fully recovered and they are now on their way. The rain has melted the ice and snow in Sir Benfro and the mountain road is clear.

What is left for me to do on here is to thank everyone who has visited and supported this website since the previous solstice…and to wish you all an amazing coming year; and may your life be as blessed as mine has been, in whatever way it is that brightens your spirit and the road to your reason for being here.

Ps.
I’m still wondering what sort of a meeting happens on Christmas night. No need to answer that one, I’m pretty sure that I know.

© Ellis Taylor
28th December 2010