Words would be nothing without the spaces!

Words add intention and form to whatever is being written, but have you ever considered how difficult it would be to read them without the spaces between the words?

Wordsaddintentionandformtowhateverisbeingwritten,buthaveyoueverconsideredhow difficultitwouldbetoreadthemwithoutthespacesbetweenthewords?

That thought grabbed me this morning as I awoke and pulled me through the rabbit hole. Words and spaces: consciousness and subconsciousness. Just as words take on more depth with the spaces between them, I believe consciousness becomes more real when we have a better understanding of subconsciousness, but that is just the beginning. For as we become more adept with subconsciousness, we also become more adept with consciousness, and even better yet, we tap into Higher Consciousness. That’smystoryandI’mstickingtoit.

That’s story and I’m sticking to it!

YOLO, or not . . .

What if you do not live only one lifetime? How would you live your life if you knew that you would come back again, and again?

As a medium, reincarnationist, and Past Life Regression Therapist, I believe that one life is not enough to do all I am meant to do on this journey to Earth. I believe we are here to experience this world, but that it is not as “solid” as we tend to think. For me, this world feels more like the Holodeck, a fictional virtual reality facility featured in the Star Trek universe.


When I say experience this world, I mean its physicalness, human emotions, and senses, etc. I understand that souls are lined up to come here the way people line up at Universal Studios to experience the adventures promised there.

So, I know you’re going to ask, “Why would anyone choose a horrific experience?” Hey, I was with you on that one – especially considering the life challenges I chose – until I learned more about the principles of reincarnation. But to paraphrase Denise Linn in her book Past Lives, Present Miracles: The Most Empowering Book on Reincarnation You’ll Ever Read . . . in This Lifetime! , you choose to go to a scary movie, ride the scariest rides, and you can choose a scary life too.

Enough of that, the point is we are powerful beings who exercise our free will to experience Earth. Much more powerful than we know, but we will remember, or so I’ve been told. There’s much more, of course, but that’s probably enough for now. I’ll leave you with these words, penned by Benjamin Franklin at a young age.

like the cover of an old book,
its contents torn out,
and stripped of its lettering and gilding lies here, food for worms;
Yet the work itself shall not be lost,
For it will (as he believed) appear once more,
in a new,
and more beautiful edition,
corrected and amended

 Benjamin Franklin

As a writer, I love it!

The Clarences in Our Lives


Although I am not into rituals, there is one that I observe faithfully every Christmas.  I watch my favorite movie, It’s a Wonderful Life. Maybe I relate to the main character, George, who experienced one set back after another as he reached for his goals in life.  He did his best with the hand he was dealt, but a turn of events brought him to the brink and to the side of a bridge where he contemplated jumping off.

The movie pans to an etheric scene where a bumbling character, Clarence, is given an assignment to save George.  Clarence will receive his angel wings if he is successful.

If Charles Dickens’ Christmas Carol is a story about a rich man who discovers how poor he is without meaningful connections with the people in his life, It’s a Wonderful Life is a story about a man who thought he was poor but who discovered how rich he truly was because of all the people his life touched.  I laugh and I cry and, like George, I am reminded that it is, indeed, a wonderful life.

Like George, sometimes, I had to be reminded that I do indeed touch the lives of others.  Sometimes, that reminder is a two-way street – a message given that boomerangs back to me.  Such was the case when I helped my friend, Peter, understand the “chi” of his apartment.  Peter expressed an interest in Feng Shui and asked if I would help him apply the principles of Feng Shui to his apartment.  He made tea while I walked through the space to read the energyWhen I walked into the kitchen, I felt something that did not feel like the energy I read using the Ba Gua.  It was as if I had bumped into something.  Energies talk to me – even energies from objects most people consider to be inanimate, but the energy I sensed so strongly remained silent.

I moved on knowing that if it was meant to be it would eventually speak up.  My analysis throughout the rest of the apartment was effortless.  I did not know Peter well but as I did the reading of his apartment, I sensed a feeling of familiarity that comes from a reunion with someone I knew before, in a previous life.  I did not know Peter’s spiritual beliefs so I did not share this tidbit with him.  As I circled back to the kitchen, I attempted to zero in on the frequency of the energy I felt earlier.  I knew the energy I bumped into was a spirit, but I did not know how Peter would react to ghosts in his home.  The ghost seemed friendly and he seemed eager to say something to Peter.  His energy was warm which indicated to me that he was a higher vibration.  I closed my eyes, took a deep cleansing breath and trusted what was about to happen would be for the best.  Everything went black and I felt like I was floating in deep space.  Then, words came out of my mouth, but my voice was different.

“Remember the movie It’s a Wonderful Life?  Peter, you are like George.  You touch many people’s lives.  Never forget that.”

When I opened my eyes, Peter and I were both teary.  Then, Peter told me about his very close friend who died several years ago.   Both men believed that life goes on and they made a pact.  Peter asked his friend, “Will you be my Clarence?”  We both knew Peter’s Clarence was with us in that moment and that he wanted us both to see how much we touch the lives of those around us.

Peter’s Clarence reaffirmed a message that we all too often forgot, but he also affirmed to us that life goes on even if we do not understand how or what it looks like.

It’s been many years since that first meeting with Peter’s Clarence.  Peter moved on, but we keep in touch.  A reunion with Peter reminded me that there are Clarences all around us and that it is a wonderful life.

Merry Christmas, Peter, and all the Clarences in our lives!

At the end of the day . . .

I hear that phrase a lot lately, especially in the political arena. However, an an interior designer, I discovered a type of glassware that I absolutely love: end-of-the-day ware, also known as friggers. See the definition from the Corning Museum of Glass pocket dictionary.


The English term for an object made by a glassworker on his own time. Most friggers were made from the molten glass that remained in the pot at the end of the day. such glass was considered to be a work- er’s perquisite. American glassworkers referred to frig- gers as “end-of-day” objects. They are also known as whimsies.


I am eclectic designer, so I applied the same concept to my crocheting projects. Crocheting is relaxing to me, sort of meditative, especially as I deal with the stress of being a caregiver for my Mom. She used to do some excellent crochet pieces. I involve her in my projects because even though she cannot crochet these days, talking about it engages parts of her brain that seem to help her in other ways.

I am just a beginning, but I love the Stash Basket pattern designed by Laura Hontz. Of course, I added my own variations to her design. Here’s what I did with all the bits and pieces of yarn leftover at the end of a project.


And at the end of the day, I am happy to transform scraps into whimsical creations. Nothing is wasted!

Now, if politicians could figure out how to apply that idea to the challenges that face them.

Take a mental break from shopping and explore the “other side”

I have known for a very long time that I had a “gift” for designing. I will never forget the day I had a vision of being a designer. I was only eleven but I knew that it is what I wanted to be when I grew up. It was not an easy path. Somehow, I jumped over every hurdle and it has been very rewarding.

Another vision beckons me these days: to be an author. More hurdles to jump, “learning curves.” I offer this little short story, which was an assignment for my writing class. I joined the group in October. In the spirit – pun intended – of Halloween, the first assignment was to write a story about a conversation among three ghosts who are buried next to each other. Since I am working on a story about the conversations I have had with my father’s ghost, this assignment was right up my alley.

This story is fiction; however, it is based on my experiences. My father was Chinese and his ghost told me about many of the things in this story – things I did not know when he was alive. Do not be surprised if you experience goose bumps when you read it!


April 1990
Colma, aka The City of the Dead, south of San Francisco, CA

Sunlight broke through the fog sending rays of light onto the copper lid of the coffin. Jimmy Lei stood there as if frozen. He watched as the family left the cemetery but still he could not move.

“What a waste,” he said as he looked at the elaborately carved granite double headstone and, then, at the well manicured grounds.

‘Well, will you look at that? What are the odds?” Ming Li tipped the pointed end of his fedora to the tombstones on each side of Mr. Lei’s gravesite. He adjusted the handkerchief in his breast pocket so that his initials were prominent.

“I don’t believe it,” W. G. Fong replied.

Jimmy said, “Who are you and what . . .” he stopped before he could finish. The man on his right died on April 5; so did the man on his left. “Wait just a minute. I died on April 5th, Ching Ming, the day I should honor my ancestors. The last time I saw my parents was in 1931. I was a new father and widower in less than two weeks. I had to leave my newborn son to return to America.” He looked around and saw the remnants of the Ching Ming rituals, evidence that others did indeed honor their ancestors.

“What are the odds that three people buried next to each other would die on the same day? Well, I’ll tell you. You have a better chance of winning the lottery,” Ming, who loved to gamble, said.

Mr. Fong recognized his family’s floral arrangement, the wreath with red ribbons inscribed with details about the deceased. His family, known for its beautiful calligraphy as well as its floral work, merged the Western tradition of placing flowers at a funeral with the Chinese tradition of an announcement scroll. “He must be Buddhist. See there. The words on the banner ask permission to enter into heaven and I heard a woman mumbling a Buddhist prayer as her fingers counted the beads on her mala.”

“What are you talking about?” Jimmy said.

Ming said to W.G. “He still doesn’t quite get it.”

“Don’t be so hard on him. You were the same, Ming.”

“Don’t remind me. It’s as if it were yesterday instead of fifty years ago.”

“At least, you were used to this country. I wanted to go back home to die or at least to be buried. I had no one here. In China, I had family who would honor me. I never dreamt that Huang Er, my brother’s second son, would come to the States and make good with the money I left him. I was a second son also. I knew he would be neglected in favor of the number one son. I knew Huang Er had talent but I see now that he also had ambition. He turned my little florist shop into a chain of fancy shops. When he dug up my body from the old Chinese cemetery, and had it moved here, I felt like a king. I guess it paid off to leave him my small fortune.”

“Old Uncle, you’re too old-fashioned.” Ming said. He patted the shoulder of W.G.’s mandarin jacket causing W.G.’s wispy white hair to fly up like a spider’s web disturbed by an intruder.

“Yes, but it is still an honorable thing to pay respects to your ancestors, whether you are a Buddhist like him; a rice bowl Christian, like me; or an Atheist, like you. Shou Shen, brother, Shou Shen.”

“Shou Shen – Filial Piety. You’re talking to an orphan, W.G., but I lived my life right. I did not need a parent or customs or a church to tell me right from wrong.”

“How can you be so sure you were abandoned? China was in chaos between the Japanese invasion and the fighting between Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalists and Mao’s Communists. Can’t you find it in your heart to forgive them, Ming?”

“So, you did learn a thing or two from the Christian priests.”

“Yes, but, then, why am I still here? It’s now seventy years. Why didn’t I go to the pearly gates?”

“W.G., I think it’s something more than a coincidence – this April 5th thing. Hey, Jimmy, what’s your story? Why are you here and not in the Buddhist heaven?” Ming said pulling at his eyebrow hair that persisted on sticking out.

Jimmy looked forlorn. He tugged at the well-worn buttonhole of his favorite cardigan. “I made the preparations: the roasted pig, the whole fish and chicken, the paper money and petitions to the guards of heaven to burn in the altar, the family blankets, and a band to ward off evil spirits. I did it all. You tell me. Why am I still here?” He knew these last minute compliances to rituals could not make up for years of neglect. He knew that he had not sent money back to China, squandering it instead on gambling, drinking and women. He shut out those words – Shou Shen – because he knew he had not paid the proper respects to his ancestors. He knew now that the ticket into heaven was not words on a piece of paper, nor dutiful submission to a long list of rituals. He knew that he would have to pay dearly for his deeds in his next life.

“I was wrong,” he admitted to his new neighbors, “but I have another chance to get it right.” His broad nostrils flared, making them look even broader and his eyes even smaller. He tugged at the buttonhole like a child caressing his “blankie.”

“What are you talking about?” Ming asked.

“We are all still here – because we are stuck until we realize our karma. W. G., you would call it “sins.” I thought I got away with my deeds. I have to accept what I did wrong and make it right. I know that now. You think it’s too late but I do not think I’d be here talking with you now if it were too late.”

“If there’s a way to leave this place, I want to hear about it. Maybe, it’s time for me to look at my life. I thought I did the right things but now I’m not so sure. It was the ultimate gamble,” Ming confessed.

W.G. held his head down as he tried to hide the tears that ran down his sunken cheeks. “I went to the mission so I could eat. We were so poor. I’d do almost anything to get some food for my family. I ate the rice in the rice bowl and I hid pieces of vegetables and meat in my clothes to take home to my family. I worked in the kitchen just so I could steal the scraps of food left on plates.

“I listened and pretended to pray. I tried to learn the English language. Of course, they taught it to us by reading the Bible. I wanted to learn the language so I could be a “Gold Mountain” man. After I came to America to find my gold, I discovered the truth. Gold was not everywhere as the traders told us. I worked hard and sent money home to China. I guess I learned enough about sinning to feel bad because I just could not believe in their Jesus. I was not a good Christian man but I did love my family.”

Something in them changed as they shared their stories. They developed an inexplicable bond with one another.
April 5, 1991
Colma, CA

“Look, our families are coming,” W.G. said. My nephew is an old man now but he looks young. He has a good family and a good heart.

“As many years as we’ve been here, our families never came at the same time,” he said to W.G.


Jimmy Lei’s family passed the first tombstone. Jenny said, “Hey, guys, he died the same day as Goompa.” Lily set the basket on the ground and, then, sorted out the incense, papers, and Jimmy’s favorite foods while the neighbors swept the grave sites and added fresh flowers.

“Hey, this guy over here, Mr. Wai Gauy Fong, died on April 5 also – but in 1920 – and Mr. Ming Li over there died in 1940. I bet they would have great stories to tell if we could talk with them. This is weird. I have a feeling this is not a coincidence.”


“Let them figure it out, either in this life time or the next. If we can, they will also,” Jimmy said to his new friends. “Are you ready to go now?”

“Where are we going?” W.G. and Ming said in unison.

“I’m not sure but I think we need to cross that arched bridge. It wasn’t there before but I feel we need to go over it. Remember, the Buddha said the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

As if on queue, they took that step together.