​Dear Santa,
     I wonder, since there is probably no Santa Claus for dogs, if it is okay for me to write to my person’s Santa Claus? She told me you deliver toys, goodies and even grants some wishes for all the good boys and girls, all over the world, on Christmas Eve. Oh, Santa . . . there’s even a tree that seems to be growing in my new home and I noticed lots of gifts wrapped in beautiful, shiny paper. They all have bows stuck on the tags that tell who sent them—many from “Santa” so I guess it’s okay. That tree fascinates me with oodles of red, green and gold balls on its branches. There are lights too that must be pieces from a summer rainbow and twinkle like the stars on a frigid winter night. I admit I got curious and tried to taste one of the bows. I guess that was wrong for I was then scolded – even learning my first command—"NO, BAD PUPPY!” Ah, still think the balls should be played with. Next time, I will just make sure no one is watching, because my person told me that bad boys and girls – and bad little puppies, too – get only a lump of coal from Santa in their stockings. I’m confused about that for coal would not taste very good and surely be painful for walking if it is in a sock. But, my person must have forgotten to tell you, because she hung a stocking with my name on it and on Christmas morning it was filled with toys and treats, fit for a good little puppy, anyway.

     Okay, Santa, I will confess . . . I let the cat drink the milk left out for you and I ate the cookies. However, I am sure there were plenty more in the kitchen and surely you knew where to look and help yourself.
I have another reason for writing you, Santa. For a little while I was worried that I would not have a warm, loving home or even a cage with a nice soft blanket for snuggling into rather than being left outside or in some cold barn, shivering and hungry—like my mother and the other dogs from the place where I was whelped. I am the luckiest puppy ever for I got found by a kind person who bought me and brought me home, tucked inside her coat, which made it possible for me to write my letter to Santa.

     If you can, Santa, will you check on my mother? Will you tell her that I was chosen and have a new home where I am sure to be loved a lot. I am nice and warm with good, nutritious puppy food. Oh, and check on my brother and sister that were left behind in the dark box. We were all huddle inside it, taken away barely weaned from our mother and only eye-ball-sized holes that let air and only dim light. We heard the car motor, felt the vibration as it took us away . . . far from the cold barn kennel where our mother and father remain. My sister and I were first to be taken out of the box and found ourselves in a pet store full of people of all ages, shapes and sizes. I wonder what happened to my other two brothers and a sister, who might still be in the box, for all I know. I was frightened at being taken from my warm mother’s side and dropped in a cage in a place that gave no comfort that it would all be alright. I suppose it was a pet store and the lady seemed kind, but I was in a pen where people stared or wanted to pick me up and examine every inch of me or spoke critically about me. No one seemed to want me, that is, until a few days later when things changed as I was picked up and held by a person that cuddled me, nicely and I sensed somehow that it would be okay. Oh, I was worried that I might never find a place to feel safe or loved, but it must have been you, Santa, that sent this person into the store on that fateful day. I just knew she would not be leaving me behind. For that reason, I am sure that you orchestrated our meeting and she would fall for my cuteness once I turned it on and wriggled happily in her arms—yes, Santa, it did work, perfectly and quickly. She was the first person that made me feel wanted! For that reason, I am sure you sent her to find me, so you wouldn’t have to put me in your sleigh and deliver me to her house on Christmas Eve. Indeed, before I knew it, I was tucked in her coat and leaving the store to be taken to this new home, chosen happily and loved right from the start—and barely any need to have turned on my cuteness to get her attention.

     I can remember my mother telling her puppies, that all we need to be happy was a person who we could trust with our unconditional love; thus, expect that it will be returned, in kind. I cannot be sure if you sent my person into the store that day, but I am grateful forever that you did. I am now happily exploring every inch of my new home—including, things that my person tries to insist are only for Christmas and NOT for a puppy.  Oh well, what can a lucky little Christmas-puppy say or do about that rule?

     Oh, Santa . . . how my mother whimpered and shivered that icy morning. She was terribly thin, her coat coarse and thinning. I think she was sick, even though she provided her puppies with plenty of rich milk—at the cost of her health. As we were taken from her, her breathing sounded ragged, so will you please check on her for me? I fear she might not survive another winter, especially if she is forced to have another litter of puppies right away, as she did with us. She is getting older and cried as we were taken away. The last thing she told us was to make her proud by finding a home where we might return the person’s love with our favor of loyalty, protection and eagerness to please.
Oh, Santa, too many animals are left to die by the neglect of uncaring, unfeeling persons. Can you inspire them with the gift of caring that they will stop the mistreatment of innocent animals—domestic and wild, alike. Can you inspire their hearts to change from hateful and filled with ignorance of what they cause by their deliberate or unintentional cruelty? I think Christmas must be the best time for doing such things as reaching the hearts of those who want to care for the animals who cannot change their fateful situations on their own. I heard people at the pet store say, I came from a place that might be a puppy mill and anyone that purchased me should be ashamed for supporting it. But, is that fair? I wonder, Santa, for is it my fault that my mother was owned by such a place with that stigma? Do I not deserve to be loved and live a long, happy life as any other puppy? Either way, I don’t know. I feel lucky to have avoided being another victim of such a fate as my mother. I think my mother was without fault for out whelping nor are we any the less for it. Nevertheless, I am grateful that you did orchestrate my person coming into the store and finding me or it might have been a very different outcome for me than becoming my person’s Christmas gift-puppy.

     I have a question, Santa. If you cannot tell me why persons are cruel to animals, then could you do something else? How about collecting all the homeless and hungry puppies (and dogs or cats) and delivering them as Christmas gifts to homes that WANT them and will love and care for them well? We dogs are a forgiving lot; if persons will just give us the chance, a warm bed, nutritious food, clean water and a few squeaky toys or balls to chase. Yes, Santa, that and their true capacity to love us is all we need to be happy Christmas-Puppies.

     And so, Santa, I shall leave the carrots and apples for the Reindeer; the elves can have the cookies and, before you go off for a long-winter’s nap, I ask just one thing more—instill persons with the same sort of generosity and mindfulness as you show to all and let it be applied to my fellow puppies, regardless of where from which they are whelped. I am grateful for the toys and treats you left me, but I would not mind if you were to take it all and give it to other dogs that have nothing to keep them warm, well-fed or happy. I would gladly give my warm blankets to other dogs that are shivering and starving in the cold. It must be such negative attitudes that breed the darkness and ill-treatment of animals, but if Rudolph will shine his red nose into the fogginess of ignorance to the situation, perhaps things would more quickly change for the better, raising awareness into the light of compassion and generosity like a flare to enlighten all toward fixing the problems for animals that cannot do it for themselves.

     Yes, Santa, I know that my request might seem complex; but I think the solution is simple: comprehending how the heart is more than an organ pumping blood, but the seat of truth and unconditional love and a beginning for the elimination of disrespect and judgement of all kinds. Like all dogs, I intend to become a teacher of my person and can barely wait to tell you all about my year of growing up when you come back next year.

Blessings to You, SANTA, for all that you inspire and bring to the world
& A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Love from a Christmas Puppy.
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My Disclaimer:  I did not intend to sound like I am condoning the purchase of puppy mill dogs or buying from pet stores, which knowingly obtain their puppies from such sources. This letter was inspired by both the advertisements of the SPCA (an organization I support and respect) over the Holidays and to give voice for my own Christmas puppy, Skye, who wished to have his story told as it was learned post-purchase and sans any desire to return him.

​This month’s blog, ideal for Halloween/Samhain is taken from Chapter 2 of my yet-unfinished first novel -- “I’ve Walked These Sands Before” – and begins where the heroin, Karen is still in mourning of a traumatic marriage and recent divorce. Her long-time friend and professional Tarot reader, Nate, visits and discovers that she was given a coupon (by her work-friend) for a Tarot Reading by an unknown psychic. Rather than fall back on Nate as her former and only reader, she worries he will be upset, but when asked he drives her to the appointment--Karen nervous and somewhat skeptical; Nate nursing a slightly-bruised ego. That is where this story begins with Karen approaching an innocent-looking house, but when she enters she finds “Fate” essentially salivating for her to enter; but, fate offers no promises beyond changes and hints of an occult realm of possibilities and probabilities awaiting her to trust and chose to begin a Spiritual journey into the unknowable . . . but, that all unfolds in the following chapters. For now, enjoy Karen’s ill-fated exploit inside the “lair of Valetta Birdcraft” . . .
 
Note: Each chapter begins with a quotation from “Awakening Osiris” to inspire and
enhance the theme as the reader travels alongside Karen on her Spiritual Quest.
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“As if I‘d slept a thousand years underwater I wake to a new season. I am the blue lotus rising.
I am the cup of dreams and memory opening—I, the thousand-petaled flower.”
Quotation from Awakening Osiris, by Normandi Ellis

​. . . After a silent twenty-minute drive and Nate constantly clenching and unclenching his jaw, the car pulled along the curb and stopped. Karen held the coupon, crumpled during Nate’s debate over driving her or not, and smoothed it enough to read the address and recheck for the correct house number. She had ignored Nate’s silence for she knew well it was better to allow him to deal with being miffed and by the time they arrived, he would be over it and more interested in critiquing the place and less focused on egoistic ideals—that was the way of him, which she knew well. She was glad when he shut off the motor and began looking around the area. It was clear he was checking for a comfortable place to wait, as well as that she would be safe walking alone to the pleasantly innocent-looking little house. Whatever did he expect we’d find, she thought, glancing across at the searching Nate and smiling, inwardly. In that moment, Nate obviously spotted the donut shop directly across the street and seeing the delight brighten his face, it was clear he would find that cup of coffee and donut to keep him occupied for the next hour. This gave him reason to break the silence, acting as if nothing was out of the ordinary and even added an encouraging comment as Karen reached for the door handle. But, her mind was already ahead of her and she needed to hurry to follow them up the path toward this stranger’s little house. She sucked in a deep breath with every step, hoping to bolster courage, but it was harder to do with every footfall.
“Why be so nervous, after all, this isn’t my first time at the circus. It’s probably a trait of tarot readers to be a little crazy, so this one shouldn’t be any weirder than Nate,” Karen said, mumbling as she walked and mused over how brave she needed to be. Managing a deep breath between footfalls, she thought it was enough to allow her to turn and run if she found anything to give a good enough reason—there seemed nothing, however, at least out here. “What is my problem? So far nothing unusual . . . the house looks pretty, normal gray siding and crimson shutters . . . well, it’s a normalcy that should bolster my courage. There’s no “Beware of Devil Dog” sign in sight and no flying monkeys on the roof.”
Karen shook her head, realizing how silly she was being. Yet, that knowledge did nothing to quell the butterflies in her stomach. She glanced back at the safety of the car, but decided she was more than far enough to make fleeing a ridiculous choice and then resumed her approach of the gray house. When she noticed the little house was much like one in any suburban neighborhood, she began to relax a bit. “Oh, there’s really nothing out of the ordinary . . . doesn’t look like it’s haunted or worse . . . no, the lawn and shrubbery are all trimmed nicely and lots of obviously well-tended flower beds around or were during the summer months as they are now like everywhere else . . . frost-killed and DEAD! Oh, no, that’s not an encouraging idea, but . . . well here I am; no turning back now . . .” Karen was aware of the sound of her shoes scuffling on the concrete walk and now the change as they changed to dull thuds as she mounted the wooden steps up onto the porch.
Karen stopped, uncertain and glancing off the porch to the side of the house where clusters of dry leaves were fluttering in the breeze from the few branches refusing to release them. There was a line of taller plant stalks below, still sporting brown seed heads that were emptied of their spawn, but determinedly pretending viability. Karen tried to image how pretty they must have been in mid-summer with flower children whose leaf hands would have been touching the next plant; playing a clever game of ring-around-the-rosy with the regal spikey iris whenever a warm breeze caressed them. Then she noticed the wrought iron posts – two of them, bolted on either side of an ornate iron sign – that were apparently intended to be inserted into the yard in front of the house. No obvious reason for them to be here, but Karen shivered to think this might be the omen she had expected, all along. Damn, but maybe I will be sorry I did this, after all, she thought as she read the lavender lettering--Valetta Birdcraft, Psychic Medium.
Karen closed her eyes and took a deep breath then, deciding there was no point proving Nate right by turning back now, she pressed the doorbell. Instead of the expected “ding-dong” it emitted a breathless feminine voice.
“Oh, welcome, dear. Come in, make yourself at home, running a bit behind today, be with you in a sec.”
“Hah, said the spider to the fly,” Karen muttered, imaging that the voice belonged to a grandmother spider, wearing a white ruffled dust cap, flowered cotton dress and cooking-stained apron. She would most certainly cackle wickedly, like the wicked step-mother-witch, as she put the last touches on an enormous web surrounding her bait—still-warm-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. Smirking and shuddering at the image, Karen obeyed by turning the doorknob and pulling open the bright crimson painted door. She had barely stepped inside when seemingly invisible hands shoved the door shut behind her, bumping her to move her out of its wake. Shaken, but sure it was merely her own imagination run amok, she took a deep breath to calm her nerves and glanced around the room. Well, safe enough, no web to ensnare victims or . . . no, I don’t smell baking cookies, either, she mused with a nervous smile upon realizing the visual was apparently mistaken—again.
Once her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside, Karen noted she was standing in a parlor that seemed much larger than she would have supposed from the outside. It was oddly over-stated and as cluttered with all eras and styles of mismatching furnishings.
“This décor would be perfect to feature on a “what-not-to-do” page in any interior design magazine,” Karen whispered, swallowing the snicker lest the owner hear and be angry or insulted at a critique from an obviously dowdy client, who was clearly no expert on that subject.
Since there was no sign of Valetta, at all, Karen let curiosity take her on a little tour of the room—there was just too much to peruse for her to simply sit and wait, patiently or impatiently. Directly in front across from the door where she stood, there was what she presumed to be a round card table, covered with an elegantly embroidered antique cloth with the longest piano fringe she had ever seen. It must be at least twelve inches and made of shiny black silk threads and its area looked to be velvet roses in the darkest shades that almost disappeared into its black background. On either side of the table were two teak or ebony wood, high-backed chairs, which stood so invitingly askew. But, Karen chose to ignore temptation to take up their offer and indulged her curiosity further by strolling on into the room.
The entire wall on the right side of it were covered by floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases, entirely filled with a variety of greatly-aged leather-bound books, books of a modern glossy paper-back style, as well as the canvas-hard bound books, and books that could only be called tomes as they presented the impression of being filled with ancient authenticity. Karen almost purred, thinking how she would love to spend hours or days leafing through and reading from these shelves. Rather than let her fingers begin itching with the idea, she turned to look to the other side of the room, discovering a teak-wood sideboard, a lighter walnut armoire and a delicately carved wood trimmed fainting couch in an out-of-time lime green fabric—all posed side-by-side as old friends awaiting their permanent placement. Everywhere she looked, there were displaced brightly colored throw pillows that reminded her of multi-colored bloated toads using the somber furniture as they might lily pads. On every window, hung ivory lace sheers intended to filter the sunlight from outside. Instead, the room was darker than it should be for the apparent battle waged between the lace and the drapes of heavy maroon velvet that bordered each window, equally denying light’s entry.
The wallpaper was just as dated as the rest—the Victorian style of gold gilt paper covered with an intricate patter of flowers, leaves and vines of dark red velvet flocking. Karen frowned, as a fuzzy memory flickered as if to escape the subconscious—but, vanished before she could remember where she had seen this type of wallpaper before. Just then, she heard Elvis Presley crooning from another room at the other end of this one. While the accompaniment of guitar and other musicians was definite, his sexy voice cracked, popped and mingled into white noise, typical of an old vinyl LP recording. Karen smiled, to think such an antique player could still work, let alone be working order. While the song was familiar, it was just as out-of-place and time as everything in this place. She was beginning to think she had walked into a museum or expansive antique shop, at least. The advent of the unusual music set her nerves on edge again.
“Something is just wrong here . . . all too bizarre, like a hoarder’s nightmare or rather the same time machine as in the dryer and I’ve discovered where all those lost socks end up . . . or time machine clogged when stuff got stuck and dropped out of all eras,” Karen murmured to herself, but jumped guiltily when she heard a voice behind her.
“Or perhaps all that and more . . . what if it’s just a place so wonderfully insane and yet mysteriously joyful at the same time. Just a crazy sort of time warp and I live right in the middle of it all?”
Karen whirled to face the direction from which the voice had come. Pushing her hear behind her ears, she said, “Oh, I’m really sorry. I was just looking around.” She had meant to continue, expressing how everything occurred to her as symbolic of her own life; even for the irony of both having a similar level of absurdity—but, shame for snooping became as a cloud through which words became lost. Scrutiny had indeed, halted abruptly, but it was the sudden raucous scratch as someone dragged the phonograph needle across the grooved vinyl record that shattered the silence—and Karen’s nerves. Apparently, the same hand had just swiped aside the strands of a tacky purple plastic bead curtain to allow Valetta to make her version of a grand entrance.
Karen was startled, realizing she had been so busy perusing the room, she had nearly forgotten the reason she was in it. She turned but misjudged where she had stood in the room and discovered her path was now blocked by a highly-polished, ebony Wurlitzer grand piano. Having passed it without noticing something so large and stable before, it occurred to her that it was the perfect metaphor for her current life situation—filled with misjudgments, utterly unmovable and mostly out of tune.
“Probably should get someone to tune it . . . hasn’t played a note since my Henry passed. He was the musician, I never learned,” Valetta said, startling Karen.
How had she flown from the beaded curtain and magically appeared beside me without making a sound, Karen thought, too fearful of the answer to ask. However, Karen allowed Valetta to gently take her hand and lead her back to the reading table and, when one of the high-backed chairs was pulled out for her, she sidled into it with an uncertain smile.
“Oh, I know you are wondering about my unusual name, so I will just tell you,” Valetta said as she moved around the table and settled onto the other chair then scooched it until it was squared with the table before continuing. “Valetta is from my Spanish heritage . . . named after my very psychic grandmother, but the rest of the family is a mongrel mixture. Oh, I never care much about such details. I am a psychic medium, been all my life, knew it by the age of seven or so I was told, but don’t worry, I don’t mind your looking around . . . the house loves attention, friends or strangers, does not matter, it’s an attention monger,” Valetta said with a kindly smile.
“Um, I was curious . . . the books were wonderful,” Karen said, but Valette continued her banter as if she had not heard.
“Oh, I’m sure you found my house extraordinary . . . even a little weird, as weird as I am most people say, but I don’t get offended even when they call me a crazy, old crone or spooky witch or worse.” Valetta’s face and tone darkened; seemingly spitting poison off the words. In the next breath, she shrugged, raised her eyebrows and winked at Karen, displaying the same happy personality as she continued her banter; barely missing a beat of it. “Okay, enough of me . . . shall we settle down and get to your reading, after all you didn’t come to check out my furniture but to hear what my cards and guides have to say . . . right?”
Karen merely nodded, too stunned by the changeable character across from her. It seemed clear that Valetta must have been chattering like this to put her at ease; apparently, it worked since the reading was about to begin now. Indeed, Karen took the cleansing breath and felt as relaxed as she had been in months—then smiled to indicate her readiness to trust Valetta. Karen guessed the psychic about 70 with a rather scrawny frame, which gave the impression of a little girl playing dress-up and the clothes hung in ragtag fashion. Still that experience of years was so evident by deep-set wrinkles on a kindly-grandmother face with such a beautiful, cheerful attitude toward life shining in her blue-gray eyes. Valetta rolled her silver hair into a loose bun at the nap of her neck and crowned it with a wide-brimmed black felt hat from which sprouted at least a dozen spikey feathers from a mysterious bird species, all black, sleek and iridescent.
“Like my hat?” Valetta dropped her head, so Karen could get a better look and then reached across to the large blue pocket she had hand-stitched onto her black cotton blouse. After fishing in it for a moment, she emitted a cry of discovery. “AHAH!” Then, with the flourish of a Vegas magician, produced a purple satin drawstring bag, which Karen presumed contained her Tarot cards. However, Valetta laid it aside and reached for a larger green velvet pouch that lay on the other side of the table. Karen watched in silent awe as Valetta extracted a white taper, a long match and a candle holder then assembled them, finishing as she lit the candle – that is – after taking special notice of her incongruous clothing and ostentatious hat. While it might seem peculiar to some, Karen had years of designing belly dance costumes, so taking care with the ensemble stuck a chord in her heart—mulishly still angry at the recent loss of her intricately beaded creations that many jealous dancers called avant-garde behind her back and knowing that always had given her a secret thrill. While Valetta prepared the space, Karen let her thoughts drift away to costumes unfinished and dances un-danced. Old hurt rumbled within as a distant storm—fury both threatening and promising. She was instantly reminded herself that those emotions must be curbed, controlled and driven away—at least, until she felt strong enough for that battle. She felt jolted from reverie and glanced over at Valette. Could she have noticed? Apparently not, for she’s just sitting with her eyes closed . . . wonder why, but so relieved . . . Karen’s thoughts were racing. She shifted in her chair, uncertain of what was expected of her and when. This had made her more aware that her emotional storms might break free sooner than she could be ready. Oh, what if . . . one day soon, they run amok in some unknowable and unbelievably awful way—just please, not today and not in front of a stranger. I wonder . . . um, do I need to tell Valetta anything?
“No, nothing, please. Just sit calmly, relax your mind, listen and breathe normally,” Valetta replied, without opening her eyes.
Oh, God, somehow, she knows, but how can she know what I’m thinking? Karen worried, feeling more vulnerable than ever or she wanted to ever feel again. Anxiety turning to a mild form of panic roiled unbidden in her gut while the fog of uncertainty tried to cloud her mind. She sat almost angry at the delay that allowed these emotions to try running rampant—again.
“Oh, yes, my dear one, YOU, too, are a gifted psychic. Do you remember?” Valetta had opened her eyes now and had begun shuffling the Tarot Cards.
“What? Me? No, I’m a mess,” Karen stammered, rebelliously pulling back, but the chair seemed unwilling to move—probably just caught on the carpet.
Valetta ignored the protest and handed Karen the cards, had her shuffle a moment and then choose eleven cards, which were then placed, face-up in a layout atop the table, Valetta took a deep contemplating breath and then, in a tone utterly deeper than her former tea party type banter. “I see things have been difficult for you these past few years, have they not? Yes, your aura is filled with a great deal of chaotic energy. Oh, yes, change is a difficult and painful process for you, but your sorrow will heal soon. You have left a relationship . . . by the way, one that is finished, totally. Are you ready for that?”
“Not really, oh . . . maybe, but . . . I . . . well, everything is so jumbled up. Sometimes I just cannot think straight or . . . that’s most of the time, of late.”
“Chaos, abuse, anger, sickness . . . it’s all energy and results the same. Even the beautiful lotus requires that its seed be planted and allowed to wallow in the sludge of the river bottom before it reaches for the sun. You are that lotus. Never forget that.”
Valetta continued, accurately describing Karen’s life situation; Karen listened, staring from the cards, to Valetta’s face and back to the table covering where she traced its flowers with her right pointing finger. She had secreted her fisted left hand in her lap. There it tightened in a defensive way whenever something spoken was hurtful or memories caused heart-felt pain. But, when the reading fell silent above, that fist softened, dropping the pain and blood drawn by the reading to the floor. Valetta quietly smiled and gave words of reassurance that Karen would understand she needed time to contemplate her reading; putting a realistic perspective on both her past and the present. Karen felt a bit uncomfortable and wondered if this waiting and watching the changes in her face was part of Valetta’s usual practice or was there something else she was waiting to see? Then . . . Karen found out . . .
The room slowly faded away with a low frequency hum. An image formed in Karen’s mind. A large copper-colored cobra crawled over her foot. She yanked away, snake bitten, poison infusing her whole being. Above and out of her visual range, something dark and ominous fluttered. She blinked through the haze at Valetta’s face, but that too changed becoming something large and bird-like. It was drawing the venom out, sucking it as a vulture, then kissing the wounds. Sharp talons gripped her shoulders painfully, carrying her up from the chair and far above the strange parlor. Soon this visual metaphor shifted the senses rather than landscape and she realized feeling forgiven and with a new willingness to be forgiving. This was the most pleasantly peaceful feeling ever and dare she desperately choose to just rest there.
“Are you ready to come back?”
That voice, Karen knew she should recognize it, but not quite . . . still it was intruding into this lovely brain space . . . No, not ready. Who dares intrude? The vulture flew off, leaving Karen there, sobbing ever so violently, but without tears. Then, the images shattered as had her grandmother’s antique mirror. The shards went trickling noiselessly to the ground or floor and vanished upon impact. Anger raged black by their loss. Karen reluctantly gave her hand to the faceless intruder and then followed her back to reality.
“Um, I think my mind wandered,” Karen said aloud, blushing with surprised shock at what she had just witnessed or done . . . and being caught doing it.
“Yes, indeed. I am very pleased at how easily you connected with Spirit and entered their world or the astral plane. It’s important now that you learn to control it.”
“Um . . . I’m willing to try, but isn’t that all just imagination?” Karen asked.
“You know better than that!” Valetta gave her that motherly look which both reprimanded and approved. “Just keep trying, that’s all we expect. So, when you return to Egypt . . .”
“Egypt? No way, not possible. My divorce left me strapped. I can’t go across town on what I make now,” Karen said, shaking her head.
“As I was saying,” Valetta held up her hand, “Egypt has much for you. Ah when . . . I see you going in mid-November. Yes. As for the money, don’t worry you shall have a settlement very soon. Use that.”
Outside the wind whooshed against the window panes, determined to find an entry. “Storm’s brewing, glad I shut the windows. So, as I was saying, spiritual teachers appear in many forms. It’s up to us to recognize them . . . birds, animals, people, dreams, a symbolic happenstance anywhere, anytime. Even a passing stranger can be a tool . . . a catalyst, if you will, to make things happen, both good and sometimes bad. Read lots, of course, but learn to trust your intuitive self. Now, Egypt . . .”
“You’re so sure, but I’m . . .”
“Never mind, protesting wastes energy, just listen,” Valetta shook her head in exasperation. “I am merely the messenger; the spirits are the ones who drive the train or car. However, we or they are watching now to see the direction and choices you will make after today’s reading and this awakening to possibilities . . . although, only your free will can open the way. This moment is like a crossroads of life, so what will you do next? We of the spirit realm cannot interfere, but eagerly shall celebrate each choice as it comes to fruition; occasionally giving guidance along the way when appropriate . . . mostly using psychics and readers like me and your friend, Nate, of course.”
“But, how. . .” Karen exclaimed, askance.
 “No matter, your prayer is already answered and one day you’ll understand the answer.”
“I really don’t understand,” Karen said, scratching her head.
“You will . . . but, only when you are ready, and the time is right, but speaking of time, I’m sorry that ours is nearly over and I’ve not told you what you came to hear.”
“But I didn’t . . .”
“Okay, then . . . what you need to hear,” Valetta corrected with a smile. “There are four things for you to remember when you are in Egypt. First, you will meet the goddess. Second, touch the stones and they will speak to you, telepathically or with mind images and dreams, which are the way of internal communication or how your psychic ability shall awaken. So, remember this . . . sense and feel, even the slightest energy can prove to be a key to navigating the ancient mysteries. There is a third, a key . . .you shall find a temple, but it is not a temple and will be found either by accident or the word of a villager; not a tour guide or one on the itinerary. The fourth is a warning—beware a yellow car.”
“Do I avoid it as something to be dangerous or get me into something illegal?”
“That will be your decision. After all, it could take you somewhere amazing.”
“But how will I know?”
“Alas, my dear, I cannot advise either way for it is a matter of spiritual testing,” Valetta said, straightened her body with a reaching stretch. “Funny things predictions. They might happen exactly as spoken or be altered by our influences, choices or the intervention by others. Either way, outcomes may differ, by the minute or hour. You see? That is what makes a psychic’s life un-predictable, wouldn’t you agree?”
Karen’s mind reeled. She had no exposure to psychics or mediums, other than Nate, but had read of spiritual gurus with a variety of claimed abilities and who made such wonderous promises—but, Valetta had left her speechless and a head full of crazily racing disconnected thoughts. Valetta seemed a harmless old eccentric more likely to be seen pushing a shopping cart or gossiping over a teapot—instead, she had an incredible insight and had just displayed extraordinary psychic gifts. Karen had no words to describe what she had just experienced and wondered how she would ever share it with Nate—that is, if he was curious enough to ask and not let his ego get in the way and try to point out that Valetta was befitting the description of an old-time village witch and nothing more. No, Valetta had proven to be a gentle soul who was equally at home chatting with the spirit realm as discussing the weather. Quite the surprise for Karen who was leaving the session with a renewed confidence that her life was about to change for the better, as well as owning five cryptic messages that would surely prove valid and significant soon.
Valetta gave Karen a moment to gather her wits then stood up and moved to pull Karen into a warm hug before shooing her toward the door. “Go on now, you have flying to do. I’d lend you my feathers, but yours will be golden; not black. Alas, I suppose wings are wings, and have no reason to worry if they carry a lowly scavenger or the lofty winged-predator. They are such fragile things, too easily broken and just as easily healed. They can soar on the earthly winds or rise on solar winds and reach the stars.”
A perplexed Karen was then outside without remembering the transition, except for hearing the click of the door latching as punctuation concluding Valetta’s final expression. Karen was still dazed as she headed across the street and into the donut shop. She quickly spotted Nate, tucked in a booth about half way along the front windows and likely where he could keep watch for when she left Valetta’s. She caught his attention as his cup was midway to his lips, but when he caught sight of her walking toward him, he plunked it down. He jumped up and grasp her hands, pulling her forward into a strong hug. She chuckled at how frantic he seemed and needed to push away after a moment, so she could slide into opposite side of the booth and then talk.
“Oh my God, I was worried that Ms. Birdcraft fed you to her pets or shoved you in her oven,” Nate said, jokingly yet his face registering concern.
“Why? It wasn’t all that long,” Karen said while feigning innocence.
“Uh-huh. Over the hour.”
“Oh, sorry, I guess we lost track of time.”
At that moment, the brusque waitress appeared, as if from nowhere, and distracted their banter with her noisy gum chewing and the steaming pot of coffee she carried. She plopped a stoneware mug in front of Karen and when Karen nodded, she filled it with the dark fragrant liquid, dropped a few packets of sugar and then splashed a warm-up into Nate’s cup before shuffling away.
“Well?” Nate pressed, “Spill or I’ll shake it out of you!”
“Gosh, I’m not sure where to begin, there was so much,” Karen shook two packets of sugar into her cup, deliberately fussing and sipping until he looked ready to burst before summarizing the reading. To concentrate, she focused her gaze on the snowy grains of sugar spilled beside her cup rather than be distracted by the changing expressions on his face. She moved the granules around as if trying to corral tiny cattle, looking up to emphasize her surprise. At first, Nate was too intent on her story to register that she had said that she would be going to Egypt on the trip out of Ella’s center, the one he had been begging her to join. She gave him a moment, grinning shyly and watched the shocked excitement wash across his expression followed by a girlish squeal. “You heard me right, Valetta was sure I’d have the money . . . she said so, but I can’t imagine Gregg will stop dragging his feet anytime soon. So, I’ll need the brochures, after all.”
“Then, let’s go get them,” Nate said, excitedly stuffing a dollar under his empty cup. She leaned against his shoulder as they left the café, happy to have a friend who did not demand anything from her and who accepted her exactly as she was with no regard to how she might change over time.
 “Of all the gin joints, you walk into mine . . . So, babe, you and me at the Kasbah?” Nate droned in his best Humphrey Bogart voice, tipped an imaginary hat and opened her car door.
“Wrong country, screwed up quotation and horrible Bogie,” she laughed, slapping his arm as she slid into the car seat.
“So, I’m geographically challenged, but my Bogart isn’t that bad,” he sniffed, pretending to be insulted. “It’s just . . . well, I don’t know what Valetta told you, but I would like to kiss her for it. I mean Egypt with you . . . my dream come true!”
“Or nightmare,” Karen laughed.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN and have a MAGICAL SAMHAIN EVE!
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