NDEs_Stories

The Journey…

The story of Gloria O'Neil-Savage

Coming home to Cleveland, Ohio was not what I thought I would be doing, not to
live at least. Not after being fortunate enough to sing for a living and with some of
the best in the business; singing to standing ovations and thrilled at “feeling” and
making others “feel”, The Count Basie Band, O’Jays, even Jon Paris and the
Saturday Night Live horn section two nights in a row (I was asked back for the
second night) at Chicago Blues in New York City. I was living in Portland, Oregon
which is definitely God’s country; you cannot miss it even if you are sleeping
soundly. Portland, Oregon is home to the Mt. Hood Jazz festival and everything
progressive, beautiful, wonderful and right.

None of that matters when your oldest sister is dying of cancer back home in
Cleveland, Ohio. I returned home to Cleveland to spend time with her, she eventually
did pass from this world after that cancer had eaten just about every cell of her
being. Looking back now, she demonstrated a poetic dignity, beauty and grace. I am
so blessed to have had such an awe-some human in my life at all, and she was/is my
gorgeous sister Barbara.

No musical contract or group can give you perspective like someone you love being
eaten by the hideous disease of cancer.

In the meantime, my dad took ill with Emphysema. I won’t be leaving any time soon.

This is my attempt to tell the story of what transpired between now and then.

Better go back to design and furniture, something I know just to hold me over while
I am here.

“You can’t just start singing like that!” Said my boss, a lovely well-kept woman who
owned the furniture/design shop I worked in at the time. This may seem simple
enough a request, but not for me. You see, I do not have cognitive awareness that I
am singing. How can I stop doing something I do not even know I am doing?
Another piece of discomfort was the price factor; a customer could become very
uncomfortable working on a better price and someone else who is just nice would
have to pay more, I would inform the “nice” person they could get a better price
rather than give the problem customer a better price, but that meant I was taking
money from the store owner which was also uncomfortable.

Anyway that night in 1989 after I was “singing” in the store; I was sitting with my
handsome Marlborough man/husband I am crazy about. The irritating traffic is
whooshing by our house which is very close to the street. We live way out in the
country east of Chardon and yet I have to put up with all the loud traffic and trucks!

Now I have several things creating a new dilemma for me. You see, I had managed
several furniture design showrooms in the past. I could easily get rehired at any of
them. Only, that won’t stop my random singing. Living in the country (last job was
1hour and a half away), and those jobs requiring 60 hour minimum weeks becomes
another consideration.

I want to please my husband, be the perfect “Disney wife” take care of and make
him the happiest man on the planet!

I would like to have a child, and that clock is tick, tock ticking away in me.

I am also having some physical health problems flaring up and that will require time
off of work too.

How can I do a good job for anyone else knowing this?

Make lemonade out of lemons. Listen to the irritation and the answer will come.

More loud traffic goes by.

The light finally goes on inside of me.

I will build my own shop. A simple barn/A-frame will do.

I go outside to see where and how when I literally “see” the barn standing in all of
its etheric beauty.

I open the door (no, there really isn’t a door) and walk in and see my writing desk in
one corner, cherry bookcase behind it, tapestry and damask couches and brocade
chairs, maple and oak end tables, Victorian carved oak bed grouping and hammered-
iron headboards.

I simply note my growing inventory list. I will need a good excavator to prepare the
field that is approximately 200 feet east of my home, which sits on 27 acres.

I drive down to the local corner store to get a reference. “Dick Bosse” is my reply
from the friendly store owner in response to my query. Dick comes walking into the
store after the words are barely out of the store owner’s mouth.

While Dick and I go outside to work out the logistics, Dick says we will need Barry’
s trucking to deliver the layers of rock we will need.

Barry himself comes driving up in a shiny red truck. Dick and Barry wave to each
other and Dick introduces me “this young lady here is Mrs. Savage and she is
considering building a store/barn on her property down the street here”.

Who is building the barn for her?

I reply “I haven’t found that person yet, any suggestions?”

They both reply, “how ‘bout Brower?”

Guess who comes driving up?

Yup, Brower.

Who am I to question any of this?

Several months later, the store is standing. The work, well there was plenty. I just
thanked God I could do it. Whatever it was, I was glad my angels were helping me
through it all. I had blisters. Sleepless nights. Anyone who has ever built anything
knows you go through many, many obstacles even with the best laid plans. I cut
wood and trim. I laid stones and rocks by hand in the parking lot. I hung insulation,
dry wall, and wall paper.

I built landscaping boxes, and dug posts for my signs. I fought with my (ex)
husband about the fact he wasn’t helping me. Worse, he would make it hard for me
and anyone trying to help me, should we care to wake the sleeping bear. (This
relationship and my waking up to it comes later in the story.)

Anyway, I was grateful to be able to do any of it, and that God was helping me the
whole time, how else could I have done all those things I never did before. (I must
admit and give thanks to my sisters Bev and Janet, my brothers Bob and David, and
my friend Lorraine who also came out on several occasions and gave me a hand
too.)

Anyway, I know that gratitude in times of difficulty and strain is a miracle worker.

It is a great tool and gift for us at any time, but when you are thankful in difficult
times, it moves mountains.

The store opened following my daily prayers and meditations in the morning. People
came with different stories of how they were drawn to the store. They told me
more often than not; the song I was playing (whatever it was at the time) meant
something very special to them and how it was “weird” that I should be playing it at
that time. I knew better. I know the power of the Holy Spirit. That which is infused
in the all.

We would end up working together on their house, selecting furniture, colours,
arrangement, etc. What happened in the journey was so far past my knowing world.
In the process of designing homes, one must listen to women’s stories: their pain,
their big love, their deep world. How stretched their beings had become in every
direction to be; good girls, good wives, good mothers, good teachers, good friends,
good-no- great lovers, and remain nice and certainly not become “bitches” and of
course the other dilemma-whores, the can’t win for loosing scenario. Too good in
the bedroom and some men can’t wrap their brain around that. Not their “good girl
wife”~ the Madonna complex. Now many of these wounded women were on
different forms of psycho tropics and felt bad about that too. They didn’t know
why they were so depressed and how dare they be- with everything so good. So in
the process of listening to women’s stories, a blooming took place, the river
widened in my being and I began the process of birthing what women needed to
make themselves whole. What I did not expect was that I would be birthed anew
too and start my own process in the discovery of the Divine Feminine. Yes, this little
Catholic girl would become shattered and have to put herself back together again. I
would learn to infuse vibrations of sound into the home in a return to my musical
being and background. But the stories….

“If one woman told her story ~

The whole earth would crack wide open” - Rainier Marie Wilke.

I started asking what other forms of natural therapy they had tried while
concurrently they were asking me what forms I had tried. My response was; yoga,
aromatherapy, meditation, Reiki, etc. They would reply with a dazed look in their
faces and more often than not, say something like; “Ra- what did you say?”

They also started picking up the books (mine) that I was using for display purposes
and asking if they could borrow them. Hmmmm. Not what I had planned, but ok we
can do this. Sure you can borrow the book. Soon I didn’t have any books left, they
were all being borrowed. What are those things on and around your desk? They
would ask. (My affirmations, crystals, rocks, etc.) I prayed and meditated on it all
and asked for guidance.

I wondered why? Why were so many women depressed and asking me how I dared
to live my life. Surely I was not the only person whose attention this was getting,
was I? I Looked up into the “Heavens” and pleaded for answers. Truly this would
be frightening for the universe asking me to notice something that other trained
professionals should be taking note of and working on. Not me. I am too wild and
un-tethered. I just put colours and fabrics together and hold peoples hands during
the process. Guide them through the weaving of their desires and their family’s. Oh
yes, and the home that most certainly had visions of its own to be listened to. My
heart just swelled in this sea of pain these women were in and well, at least if I could
make their home “feel” better for them, maybe that would help.

Things were growing more and more restless inside of me when one Sunday I
decided to attend a new church I had designed a meeting room for.

The Sermon was “Did you ever notice how God never picks the obvious person to
do His work?”

Come on! My body was buzzing. This buzzing started at an early age and though I
won’t share all of the experiences now, I will share some just to give you a flavor of
my life.

Many of the psychic experiences I had growing up were “painful” to put it mildly.
This is not a complaint because I know now why; they were forever etched in my
being that way so I would have a much harder time dismissing them. I am grateful
for the rich tapestry that is the weaving of my life!

We will begin with High School and the story of Diane. I started having really
distressing feelings about her dying somehow knowing she would die from drugs
while in her car. So I went into the principal’s office and tried to convince him of
the need to have classes on drugs before it happened to save her. His response was
“who are these kids taking drugs?” Oh yah, let me just give you a list of the names
of kids in pain around me so you can inflict more pain in their life and I can be a
snitch in High school! The only thing he would agree to was a “my little class”
sometime after school. Right, you can barely keep these kids in school during school
hours but they will come after school to hear why they shouldn’t take drugs? I
wanted an accredited class during school, never mind.

So drugs did take Diane’s life. I do know that she is in a wonderful place now from
my own experience with death. That story will come later.

It didn’t help to psychically “know” my parents house was robbed either. The police
wanted to know how I could know. I should just tell them so they could solve the
case, since I had to be in on it or how else would I know?

Was I on drugs? Several days after it happened I was standing at my school locker;
talking to my friend whose locker was next to mine and a friend of hers came
walking up to say hello to her and said hello to me too. My whole body started
screaming inside. I went to my study hall and all I could hear screaming somewhere
inside my body was “She robbed your house!” It just got louder and louder inside
me and wouldn’t leave me alone. I went to the class she was in and called her
outside to the hall. I tersely said; “you robbed my house!” She looked at me in this
strange way and denied it. The next thing I knew I was shaking this much larger girl
than me and banging her into the lockers. The whole class came running out
exclaiming fight! We were taken down to the offices. I was reprimanded and told
that the police were handling it and I was given detentions.

One week later my family found out that she was one of the thieves.

Going back to when I was a small child I remember wondering why no one ever
talked about the “Big” people watching us/me growing up either. What did I have to
do to get grownups to discuss them instead of acting like they weren’t even there? I
just kept entertaining them, dancing, singing, acting, laughing and talking for them.
Maybe since I had such a hard time being “good”, no-one could talk about it with
me yet, this secret of the large beings. Somehow I felt as if at some point, we were
all going to just acknowledge all this and the whole “invisible/visible” world we were
all in. That just hadn’t happened. Sometime during the process of going to school
and growing up the invisible people became just that, invisible.

Now in high school I was getting really depressed feeling how “bad’ I was. Not
getting all straight A’s anymore which were so easy for me. Why was I so “bad” in
such a “good” family?

I actually got myself sick and welcomed it and the days started to drift in and out as
I lay in bed and waited for death to please take me. After about two weeks of this, a
friend of mine came to see what was going on. She about fell on the floor a gasp
when she saw me. My skin had started to turn yellow and my eyes were
yellow/green too, my joints were red, painful and swollen. She demanded that I tell
my mother how sick I was. (I had been hiding under the covers; my parents owned
a store and worked long hours so it was easy to stay unnoticed). All the better for
my plan to lay there and die.

But my friend Denise Z was adamant. So I told my mother how sick I was and
maybe I should call the doctor. Now I also had to tell my mother maybe I was
pregnant or “something”. God help me I am such a problem. The doctor in the
emergency room gave me three shots of adrenalin within an hour an a half. (I was
having trouble staying awake at this point). Finally I just said, “Yes I think I feel
better now.” This way my mother wouldn’t have to wait anymore and I just wanted
to go home and sleep anyway.

When we got home, my mother said she wanted to draw a bath for me that would
make me feel better. Ok, I said. When she came in to see me in the bath, she
dropped her jaw too and exclaimed: “Oh my God did that doctor take a look at
you?” “I think so” I said.

“Jesus Christ I’m calling right now and taking you back to the hospital!”

Back we went, but I remember nothing until the scream coming out of me and a
doctor’s hand pushing on my stomach.

They did tests, scans, but I was sleeping through it all. I was gone. I fell asleep soon
after waking up to my own scream.

That’s when it happened for the first time.

I woke up in a different place; a coliseum, Romanesque, and very large. It was the
murmurs of all the people in shrouds around me that made me come to, including
my own. I don’t know what language I was speaking; it seemed similar to the Latin
I took, but not that either. Everyone spoke it though. The murmur was almost
deafening. I was praying though and I know what I was saying, it was just in a
different tongue. I was going over my life/lives. In the center of this vast sea of
people was light and light beings. A large chair (like stone?) held “the One-ness of
light” and on either side was another slightly smaller Chair with two other beings of
light. Around them in a circle were more glowing-adoring beings.

All this I did not see with my naked eyes. No, I saw it more like I used to see the
“Big People” as a child. You just did not look up and see. I could not. Until all of a
sudden it was as if it were my turn or something and the central figure connected to
me and filled me and every cell of my body with this wondrous feeling I can not
explain. It was as if my body was singing with love in every cell, filled with this
glorious light from the Being in the center of the coliseum.

After some time, I awoke in another world, a garden. It was here that Jesus walked
beside me. We talked and walked without our usual talking and walking and
everything around us was lit up on the inside. I then remember being on a street
with Him and seeing this long line of people entering a large building. I wondered
what they were all going to do there and noticed that I knew the people. This
thought brought us “sort of float walking” over closer and into the building. As we
entered the line turned into people I knew better and better, relatives and finally
brothers and sisters. My nephew whom I adored at the time was asking my sister
(his mother) Barb to explain something to him. She just shook her head and had no
answer. What! I thought my oldest sister had all the answers. What could possibly
have her so sullen and silent. Then I saw my mother, in even worse shape.

That brought my eyes towards a long coffin farther down the room. My body now
felt another shift of knowing as I float- walked near the ceiling over to see who was
inside. Yep, you guessed it, me. I quickly said I must return because they cannot
handle this.

I woke inside the hospital room with my mother holding my arm, head down on it. I
said: “Mom you don’t have to worry I was just with Jesus and I am going to be
ok.” She shook her head with big tears in her eyes and said “Oh for God’s sake,
even now you are trying to make me feel better.” I noticed Happy Days was on TV
and fell back asleep.

A Jaguar was chasing me through the jungle and I was barefoot. I was sweating and
sweating, panting while I ran for my life. I don’t know how long it was before I
became conscious in the Intensive Care room. I knew there were tubes coming out
my nose/mouth/arms/stomach and things were beeping everywhere. My parents and
sister were at the foot of the bed with the doctor. A priest and two nuns came and
gave me my last rights. The doctor was telling my parents they would have to make
funeral arrangements. No one lives after the poison from the ruptured appendix is in
the system for two weeks. Once again I was screaming inside my body, but could
not make it come out of my mouth. “I am here I wanted to scream out loud!”
Nothing. I tried in vain to move anything, my eyes, my fingers, toes-anything but
could not. Out of body, I tried to shake my mom and say I am here, but she felt
nothing.

Finally, I got my eyes to open! I just pushed and pushed and pushed and willed them
open. I was back!

The ordeal that followed and all the poison/bile coming out of every orifice we
normally have and ones they made caused me to start vomiting. My stomach open
and pouring out this green stuff too as I wretched was painfully comforting. I could
“feel” again.

How I want to “serve” this Loving, wondrous Being who Loves me so much. It is
quite something Knowing heaven exists, but I experienced it and somehow I am still
in this body. No plane, train, or rocket took me to some place in the sky.

For now I return to the first store I opened on the East side of Cleveland.

So God doesn’t pick the obvious person heh? That is an understatement if ever there
was one.

OK God, I will do whatever you want me to, just show me, teach me, give me the
teachers and I will have classes in the store if people will just sign up.

Teachers came into my life. I started “dreaming” homes before I even went to them.
Colours and energy moved around in that “other vision center in my head”. My
clients signed up for the classes alright. My clients/friends started glowing with that
light themselves.

By the time my friend Trish asked my to join her on a women’s retreat called
“Sacred Space” on Kelly’s Island, things were really taking an interesting course.
But that trip with Trish, where I thought I was helping her, turned out to be the real
shift.

On the ferry over to the island, Trish and I started to go up the narrow staircase to
the second floor. It was then that a dream I had with my sister Barb flashed into my
head. This is how I wrote the story in a Newsletter in 2001:

When I first looked upon the shores of Kelly‘s Island, it was in a dream. My sister
Barbara, who passed from this world in 1990, was guiding me on a journey that
would forever change my life. In this dream, shades of Indigo, Royal Purple, Parrish
Blues and Emerald beckoned to me from beneath a Honey Golden mist. This
futuristic scene rose from the water like the emerald City from Oz.

When I actually went there in 1993, waves of energy rocked my being. Stepping on
her grounds, she captured my soul, and we easily merged. I had come to Kelly’s
Island for a Sacred Space women’s retreat with my friend, Trish.

Normally, my days were spent helping other people heal themselves and their home,
through my “Interior Design” shop. Every other spare minute was spent working on
my own home, which I was rebuilding from a fire, and my marriage, which by then
had hopelessly disintegrated. It was time to get a little rest, and hopefully some
healing myself.

One “coincidence” and Déjà vu after another had my whole being soon feeling as if
10,000 volts were running through it. I was directly plugged into the source.
Meeting so many, wonderful “glowing” people, I wish I had the space to tell you
about each and every one of them. What I’m about to tell you now, though, is when
it really gets good…..

It was at an Art Therapy workshop, that I chose to attend, where I first met her.
The instructor read us a beautiful myth and we were all painting and creating from
the heart. I couldn’t seem to paint a certain colour I had seen in my vision. Not
satisfied with my work, the instructor called us back to circle. Each of us looked at
each other’s work, describing what we saw and shared our feelings. One silver-
haired woman seemed to zone right in on everyone’s work, her wise analysis having
visible effects on those her azure eyes dissected. Some were moved to tears,
including my friend, Trish, who had gone before me. I did not escape her deep
insights either. Then, she raised her own painting. There before me were the exact
colours and scene from my own vision, which I had tried so hard to create. A voice
within me said, “Buy the painting”. I tried to dismiss the voice, not wanting to seem
out of place. After all, no one else was buying or selling these paintings. The voice
persisted and only grew louder, “Buy the painting”. I was swimming with emotion;
this voice had guided me through many decisions by now, and was never wrong.
This woman, whoever she was, was very intriguing – but surely they would all
think I was crazy. The words practically leapt from my mouth, “I’ll buy the painting
how much do you want?” Soon we were driving to a house on the lake she called
“Himmelblau”. This wise woman would become a great friend, teacher and mentor.
Her name was Dagmar Celeste.

Two years later, after almost eight years of marriage, I was going through a
divorce. Broken, barely surviving the sea of pain and feelings of failure that
enveloped me, the barn at Himmelblau became my sanctuary. In this simple and
natural environment, I would heal and be re-born. Some of my first
adjustments/lessons: Raccoons make quite a ruckus at night. They lived above me.
Mice will generally keep to the area you ask them to. You can not get rid of spiders
in a barn. Of course, they were all there to teach me animal medicine, but I also
learned to be careful what you ask for.

One day, while crying, praying for spiritual guidance and the strength to tread these
uncharted waters of battling someone I loved and cared for so much, and a life I
had worked so hard at, someone knocked on the door. It was Indian Bob; he said
“Spirit had sent him”. I responded “I’m not really in a good place”. He thanked me
for being honest and handed me a stone called a “Wotei”. He told me to wear it for
protection and strength. I told him about the stones, rocks, and feathers I had been
collecting since my first visit. I shared some of the visions and stories they had
given me. He shared some Native American teachings. I looked around for
something to give him, but all I had were cigarettes. I offered him one, he thanked
me. It was then I learned that tobacco was the Native American gift of thanks. Once
again my inner voice had guided me correctly. This was the first of many lessons.
Bob said, “Tomorrow I will take you to meet the spirit of Clam Digger woman,
keeper of the stones. We will visit her burial mound; you are a member of her tribe.
Tonight we are having a sweat lodge, you should come.” to be continued..... G.S.

During the course of all this, my own interests were continuing to grow as was my
educational pursuits. One of those expansions was Aromatherapy. Linda Green,
another woman I met at the Sacred Space retreat at Kelly’s had invited me to come
to a Jeannie Rose intensive weekend. At first I declined because it was rather
expensive and I really didn’t fell I had the time. However, one of the women that
was going to attend and had already paid the tuition couldn’t make it. She told Linda
she wanted me to attend in her place. Again the universe makes up my mind for me.
With just a few nominal expenses involved I couldn’t decline this generous offer.

To say that it changed my life is an understatement. I thought I knew about “oils”.
What I learned the first day was how much I didn’t know. Jeannie was spellbinding
as she passionately described first one then another oil holding them “jewel like” in
vials up to the light. As she enumerated endless therapeutic applications for each,
she would have us waft the scent and describe them ourselves.

At one point, I was truly angry at what I felt was a theft of information, stolen from
wise-women long ago. The chorus of women streaming through my life now
parading before my eyes: as the benefits and healing properties awoke visions of
assistance to each and everyone, I at some point was included too. Handing a vial of
what was introduced to me as “Spikenard” the oil Mary Magdalene used in the
anointing of Jesus, Jeannie had selected that particular oil for me to work with for
several hours of experience and writing. She also told me I would need to keep
working with that oil. Nardostachys Jatamansi, common name Spikenard and
nicknamed “False Valerian Root” or Nard oil would become a dear friend of mine
that I would pass along to many women and “I would do this in memory of her.” It
was among many things for wounds that would not heal, mental, spiritual, physical
and emotional. She was also known as the Grand Balancer. I did not like this oil at
all upon my first experience. I would come to love this oil above all others.

The day after my spikenard encounter, my head reeling with all the information on
so many levels downloading into my being; a woman named Linda Honeycutt-
LaGrande came up to me and just started laughing. She said “You enjoying all this
information Miss Gloria?” I replied that indeed I was, “but how was all this applying
to me and why was it all happening to me?” After all, I was only supposed to be an
Interior Designer. She just laughed again and lifted her hand, finger pointing at her
being as she guided it from top to bottom and stated “Well I guess you really are
doing Interior Design now aren’t you honey?”

My buddy was buzzing so hard inside I could barely remain standing. Aromatherapy
was a deep and profound value that I continue to share to this day.

Over and over I started turning in all the pain, mine and all the other women’s into
the soil of my being. How can I make a positive growth with this pain? So I began
to till the soil of pain. That was what we all were doing. Turning it in and surviving.
We were standing, loving, sharing and walking forward in the midst of it all and
trying to look sexy and pretty to boot. (This of course also requires not eating.) I
knew that if we were to recover and survive, we would have to create out of our
pain. So creating we were. We were turning the soil and gestating our seeds of
despair and hope for a brighter future. I incorporated one healing tool after another
into my business model that did not exist. It all really came down to one thing
though.

The problem was we had no root to a feminine sacred model that was whole and
reachable. Oh yes, we have the Virgin Mother and I was taught but has since been
revised, the whore Mary Magdalene.

Just a patriarchy and a long line of blame and shame starting with that disobedient
Eve the temptress and her debauchery with Adam tricking him into eating the apple
too. So much for listening to snakes! We were banned from the Garden with the
Cherubim and flaming sword guarding the gates. We must go back to where it all
began and pick up the tools stolen from us long ago. We are medicine women but
the campaign to discredit women and disempowering us and the tools we used from
nature only got us labeled as “witches”. We must go back to the tools of our
ancestry, the Arc of the Ancients….

Flash to 1997, living in Lakewood writing an Aromatherapy article for the Cleveland
Bar Journal (OK I am cramming at the last minute with books and notes everywhere
because the article is due the next day…) when the phone rings. On the other end a
voice is telling me that Raj told her she should call me about working together.
Rajendra Khanna is one of the loveliest humans I have ever had the pleasure and
good fortune of meeting. Born in India, he is humble, brilliant and sincere and among
many things taught me how to meditate around 1984 I believe. He has never had
anyone call me.

“What is your name?” I ask her to repeat. “Vanessa”she replies and I want to know
if you are interested in selling Aromatherapy products?” The buzzing begins. OK,
you have my attention. I asked for her birth information and drew up a chart. I can
see her through the phone and describe her to herself. She starts laughing and tells
me I am “dead on” even to the clothes she is wearing. I ask her~ “When can you
come over?” Ten minutes later Vanessa is at my door. The connection is
unmistakable. The charge in the air was so palpable we could have run the entire
city on the energy.

I shared my vision of the new store I wanted to open with healing rooms, interior
design /Feng Shui, books, music, aromatherapy oils and blends and the wellness
classes I would like to have there too. About seven hours later Vanessa left. I could
not stop thinking about her though. It would be so much better to share this
adventure with someone.

Two months later we began our work together and started teaching and selling
aromatherapy products and the “Total-Sensory-Healing Class that was born in that
barn on Kelly’s Island.

We finally opened our first shop (my second) on Rocky River Drive near Kamm’s
Corner together in 2002. We co-founded Cleveland Polarity with my friend, MaryJo
Ruggieri whom I met while living on Kelly’s Island. We had one healing room and all
the above mentioned Total-Sensory-Living and Wellness.

Again the same response from people as my first shop, “I just had to come in here
but I didn’t know why, I love this place….”

The stores name: ArcAncient Aromatherapy & Interiors came to me after days of
trying to come up with just the right moniker. The word Arc, in Barbara Walker’s
“Women’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets” briefly stated read: “A female vessel
bearing fruit or seeds to give birth to a new world out of the destruction and chaos
of the old.” Thus you have: Ark of the Covenant, Joan de Arc, Arc of the rainbow,
etc. OK, arc works for me, and since everything we were doing was not new but
practiced thousands of years ago it just sang in my body.

So ArcAncient, Aromatherapy & Interiors was born. The two A’s could be written
as: “As above so below” and they also looked like two MM’s when written a certain
way and since Mary Magdalene was our Patron Saint of Aromatherapy & healing it
all seemed to fit just right.

That store didn’t quite fit all of our needs, and let’s just say landlord difficulty made
it impossible so the new store at 1391 Sloane Ave in Lakewood was the next
venture. The difficulty of managing the new business and other personal
considerations finally took Vanessa to her own quest. I am grateful to her for
partnering with me and helping to give birth to something I am so passionate about.
Possessed might be a better term, but I just cannot help myself from wanting to
share the vision birthed back in 1989 from listening to Women’s Stories.

Now there are two treatment rooms, a psychologist and soon a nutritionist will join
us too.

The Café serves up specials for the day, with the best Cappuccino’s and chocolate
(every girl needs a little now and then) in town.

Our all natural line of bedding is the only choice for environment-body friendly
sleeping.

Oh, and we have Jazz & Blues concerts at the shop from time to time for special
events. We would like to make that happen more often too.

We have free mini-treatments and hors devours and a little wine.

This is my version of fun.

Gloria O’Neil-Savage’s Story

ArcAncient Aromatherapy & Interiors

1391 Sloane Ave.

Lakewood, Ohio 44107

216-458-1444

MA PLUS BELLE EXPÉRIENCE
VÉCUE…

Que je voudrais partager avec toi...

Ça m’est arrivé il y a plus de 15 ans, chez moi. J’étais seule dans
ma chambre, il était environ 10h 30 du soir. Je me suis mise au lit,
et je me suis endormie normalement, et rapidement.
. . . . . Puis. . . . Je me suis retrouvée en train de voler dans l’
espace. C’était la nuit, et je volais librement très haut, dans le ciel.
Au-dessus, je voyais le firmament obscur rempli d’étoiles, et au-
dessous, je voyais la terre et la forme des continents. J’ai soudain
pris conscience que je n’avais plus de corps, mais ceci ne m’a pas
inquiétée, car j’étais bien vivante et même si il faisait nuit, ma vision
était parfaite, et je voyais bien la terre au dessous ; Je suis
descendue un peu, et je pouvais alors voir des villes dans la nuit, et
toutes leurs lumières. En fait, je pouvais voir partout,
simultanément, ma vue était illimitée, et j’observais, tout : les
avenues, des ponts, des rivières, des voies ferrées, les montagnes,
etc. Je ne sais pas exactement quels endroits je survolais…, peut-
être des villes des États-unis…
Je me suis alors souvenu que normalement, j’ai une véritable
phobie incontrôlable pour les hauteurs, le vide, et l’obscurité…
Pourtant, j’étais dans un bonheur total, indescriptible, et si intense,
que c’était presque… insoutenable… C’était, à la fois, une plénitude
absolue, une joie sans frein, une sécurité jamais connue, le
sentiment absolu d’ être «entière», et en «pleine union avec moi-
même», sans entraves ni limites, sachant que je n’avais plus besoin
de rien… ni personne….!
Et puis…Il y avait cette sublime certitude de me savoir à la fois
aimée et saturée d’amour pur, mais sans avoir la moindre idée de
par «qui» j’étais aimée, ni envers «qui» je ressentais tant d’amour.
État de conscience d’une rare essence, qui englobait tout mon
être. Je n’ai jamais rien senti de pareil ici-bas, et il n’existe aucun
équivalent avec lequel je puisse le comparer.
Alors que je me déplaçais à grande vitesse et sans difficulté dans l’
espace, j’ai commencé à «percevoir» la présence d’un couple qui
volait ensemble, pas loin de moi. Quand je dis «un couple», je veux
dire que «je savais» qu’il s’agissait d’un homme et une femme,
mais je ne voyais que très vaguement leurs visages, car ils n’avaient
pas de corps, eux non plus… Je percevais leur présence. Ils
apparaissaient… puis disparaissaient… et ainsi de suite. Ils
émanaient un amour impartial, intense et parfait, autant l’un pour l’
autre qu’envers moi. Je ne sais pas qui ils étaient ….mais «j’ai
compris» qu’ils étaient là pour moi, pour m’aider et m’
accompagner dans cette incroyable, insolite, et inexplicable
expérience.
Puis, je me suis rendu compte que mes pensées avaient un énorme
pouvoir… Il me suffisait de penser à un lieu pour m’y transporter
immédiatement…! J’ai pensé à l’Extrême Orient, le Japon…, ce
pays avait un certain intérêt pour moi, depuis toujours…
Je me suis retrouvée à l’instant, très haut, au dessus d’un ensemble
d’îles montagneuses de couleur foncée, de formes allongées, en
ligne, au milieu de l’océan, il faisait sombre, il n’y avait presque pas
d’étoiles dans le ciel. J’ai commencé à descendre tout doucement,
et j’ai aperçu une ville, qui m’a semblé grande, car vue de plus près,
elle était remplie de milliers de petites lumières, partout. J’ai observé
ce lieu pendant un instant. Puis, n’y trouvant aucun intérêt
particulier, je m’en suis éloignée, par le simple fait de le décider
mentalement.
Puis, j’ai pensé à la France… et instantanément, je me suis trouvée
au dessus d’une autre ville. J’ai ensuite décidé par la pensée de me
rapprocher de la terre, au point de voir les lumières d’une petite ville
côtière. J’ai fixé mon attention sur un point déterminé et j’ai
continué à me rapprocher d’un quartier vers lequel je me sentais
intuitivement attirée. Puis, j’ai reconnu mon quartier, ma rue, et
celle qui avait été ma maison et son jardin… mais pas comme c’est
maintenant, si non que, comme s’était avant.., il y a 40 ans, quand
j’y habitais. Comme si rien n’avait changé….

Là…. Mon enfance m’est revenue à l’esprit. Des flashs de mon
enfance…, tristes…, pénibles…., des situations oû je m’étais sentie
mal aimée, seule, voire rejetée, par des personnes très proches de
moi; souvenirs ensevelis dans mon sub-conscient et qui m’avaient
perturbé tout au long de mon adolescence et ma vie d’adulte.
Puis…
J’ai «entendu» ces affirmations implacables, dont j’ignore la
provenance et qui sont parvenues à mon esprit, en toute clarté :
«RIEN, mais RIEN… De ce qui t’arrive sur terre n’a d’importance,
ni le pouvoir de te faire souffrir. Aucune souffrance vécue sur terre
n’a d’importance…. Toute épreuve…. si dure soit-elle… est futile,
passagère, et ne peut, en réalité, ni t’atteindre ni te blesser… »

Puis, je me suis réveillée….dans mon lit…. Avec la forte sensation
de revenir d’un endroit oû le temps n’existe pas… Je m’étais
endormie à 10h30 du soir, or, cette expérience a duré 15 ou 20
minutes tout au plus… Pourtant, à mon réveil, il faisait jour, j’ai
regardé l’heure, il était 6 heures du matin.
Mon impression au réveil…. ?
J’étais triste… déçue, de me retrouver de nouveau ici-bas dans ce
monde qui me semblait lugubre, vide, et banal.

. . . . . . Ceci n’est que le témoignage véridique d’une expérience
réelle, «out of body» que j’ai eu la chance de vivre. Une sorte de
voyage astral….(?)

Je l’ai gardé pour moi très longtemps, car chaque fois oû j’ai osé en
parler, je n’ai vu qu’indifférence, doutes, ou complète
incrédulité….

A présent, j’ai compris que peu importe que l’on me croit ou
non…., ça ne changera rien au fait que je l’ai bel et bien vécue.

Jacqueline Meuret.

Angels Exist In A Political Flaw

I am a Blob Induced Light Source Artist from The Root
Of War (legalized cockfighting) and Presidential Medal
Of Freedom candidate with my Art as creativity of The
Medal.
I grew up on a legalized cockfighting farm in Schriever,
Louisiana. I knew it was wrong. I was taught at school
that the root of war is when humans mimic and think
like animals. This happens on a legalized cockfighting
farm. Legalized cockfighting is inhumane and uncivil.
My human and civil rights were violated. The law says
a gamecock is not an animal but is a fowl. It was a
twisted and sad childhood. As a child, I believed if I
spoke up about the political flaw of legalized
cockfighting it would cause a nuclear war.
When I was 13 years of age my younger brother and I
were racing on motorbikes. I saw him get hit by a car
and he died instantly. Everything was in slow motion
and there was no sound. I saw his body go up into the
sky and a black shadow seperated from his body. At
that moment I felt myself split and a part of me lifted
with this black shadow. While I was up there I saw a
bunch of black blobs going fast in all directions. I then
saw a light and my brothers shadow went into this light.
Then I saw a transparent blob come out of the light and
it "hit" me. I started to feel myself slowly sink back
down into my body. After this happened I believed if I
talked about it the world would end. It was the same
end of the world fear I had with legalized cockfighting
at home. Growing up I felt something pressing on me
like a weight. I did not realize at the time that it was
from this blob. I did not tell anyone.
When I was in college I was studying art. One night I
was reading the Book of Revelations from The Bible
about fire from the sky. Instantly I felt this weight or
pressure rise from my feet up my body into a spot in
my brain. It felt like steam hitting the inside of my skull.
It felt good. It was a release of pressure. I thought to
myself maybe this blob was trying to tell me something.
It was. It was telling me to use this spot in my brain as
a light source for my paintings and drawings. My
paintings and drawings had no depth and were flat until
I used this spot in my brain as a light source. They
came alive instantly. It was a gift from GOD and had a
message. This blob was an angel. Its message to me is
to make cockfighting illegal for humanity.

DAD'S STORY

On July 22nd I was in route to Washington, DC
for a business trip. It was all so very ordinary,
until we landed in Denver for a plane change. As I
collected my belongings from the overhead bin,an
announcement
was made for Mr. Lloyd Glenn to see the United
Customer
Service Representative immediately. I thought nothing!
of it until I reached the door to leave the plane and
I heard a gentleman asking every male if he were Mr.
Glenn.At this point I knew something was wrong and my
heart sunk. When I got off the plane a solemn-faced
young man came toward me and said,"Mr. Glenn, there is
an emergency at your home. I do not know what the
emergency is, or who is involved, but I will take
you to the phone so can call the hospital." My heart
was now pounding, but the will to be calm took over.
Woodenly,I followed this stranger to the distant
telephone where I called the number he gave me! for
the Mission Hospital. My call was put through to the
trauma center where I learned that my three-year-old
son had been trapped underneath the automatic garage
door for several minutes, and that when my wife had
found him he was dead. CPR had been performed by a
neighbor, who is a doctor, and the paramedics had
continued the treatment as Brian was transported to
the
hospital.By the time of my call, Brian was revived and
they believed he would live, but they did not know how
much damage had been done to his brain, nor to his
heart. They explained that the door had completely
closed on his little sternum right over his heart. He
had been severely crushed. After speaking with the
medical staff, my wife sounded worried ! but not
hysterical, and I took comfort in her calmness.
The return flight seemed to last forever, but finally
I arrived at the hospital six hours after the garage
door had come down. When I walked into the intensive
care unit, nothing could have prepared me to see my
little son laying so still on a great big bed with
tubes and monitors everywhere.He was on a respirator.
I glanced at my wife who stood and tried to give me a
reassuring smile. It all seemed like a terrible dream.
I was filled-in with the details and given a guarded
prognosis. Brian was going to live, and the
preliminary tests indicated that his heart was OK, two
miracles
in and of themselves. But only time would tell if
his
brain received any damage. Throughout the seemingly
endless hours, my wife was calm. She felt that Brian
would eventually be all right. I hung on to her words
and faith like a lifeline. All that night and the next
day Brian remained unconscious. It seemed like forever
since I had left for my business trip the day before.
Finally at two o'clock that afternoon, our son
regained
consciousness and sat up uttering the most beautiful
words I have ever heard spoken. He said, "Daddy hold
me" and he reached for me with his little arms.
By the next day he was pronounced as having no
neurological or physical deficits, and the story of
his miraculous survival spread throughout the
hospital. You cannot imagine, we took Brian home, we
felt a unique reverence for the life and love of our
Heavenly Father that comes to those who brush death
so closely. In the days that followed there was! a
special
spirit about our home.Our two older children were much
closer to their little brother. My wife and I were
much closer to each other, and all of us were very
close as a whole family. Life took on a less stressful
pace.Perspective seemed to be more focused, and
balance much easier to gain and maintain. We felt
deeply blessed. Our gratitude was truly profound.
The story is not over (smile)!
Almost a month later to the day of the accident, Brian
awoke from his afternoon nap and said, "Sit down Mo!
Mommy. I have something to tell you."
At this time in his life, Brian usually spoke in small
phrases,so to say a large sentence surprised my wife.
She sat down with him on his bed, and he began his
sacred and remarkable story. "Do you remember when I
got stuck under the garage door? Well, it was so
heavy and it hurt really bad. I called to you, but you
couldn't hear me I started to cry, but then it hurt
too bad. And then the 'birdies' came." "The birdies?"
my wife asked puzzled. "Yes," he replied. "The birdies
made a whooshing sound and flew into the garage.
They took care of me." "They did?" "Yes," he said.
"One of the birdies came and got you. She came to
tell you
"I got stuck under the door." A sweet reverent
feeling filled the room.The spirit was so strong and
yet lighter than air. My wife realized that a
three-year-old had no concept of death and spirit!, so
he was referring to the beings who came to him from
beyond as "birdies" because they were up in the air
like birds that fly. "What did the birdies look
like?"
she asked. Brian answered, "They were so beautiful.
They were dressed in white, all white. Some of them
had green and white. But some of them had on just
white." "Did they say anything?" "Yes," he answered.
"They told me the baby would be all right."
"The baby?" my wife asked confused.
Brian answered. "The b aby laying on the garage
floor." He went on, "You came out and opened the
garage door and ran to the baby. You told the baby to
stay and not leave."
My wife nearly collapsed upon hearing this, for
she had indeed gone and knelt beside Brian's body and
seeing his crushed chest whispered, "Don't leave us
Brian, please stay if you can." As she listened to
Brian telling her the words she had spoken, she
realized that the spirit had left his body and was
looking down from above on this little lifeless form.
"Then what happened?" she asked. "We went on a trip,"
he said, "far, far away." He grew agitated trying
to say the things he didn't seem to have the words
for. My wife tried to calm and comfort him, and let
him know it would be okay. He struggled with wanting
to tell something that obviously was very important to

him, but finding the words was difficult.
"We flew so fast up in the air. They're so pretty
Mommy," he added. "And there are lots and lots of
birdies." My wife was stunned. Into her mind the
sweet comforting spirit enveloped her more soundly,
but with an urgency she had never before known. Brian
went on to tell her that the "birdies"had told him
that he had to come back and tell everyone about the
"birdies." He said they brought him back to the house
and that a big fire truck, and an ambulance were
there. A man was bringing the baby out on a white
bed and he
tried to tell the man that the baby would be okay, The
story went on for an hour. He taught us that
"birdies" were always with us, but we don't see
them because we look with our eyes and we don't
hear them because we listen with our ears. But they
are always there, you can only see them in here (he
put his hand over his heart). They whisper the
things to help us to do what is right because they
love us so much. Brian continued, stating, "I
have a plan, Mommy. You have a plan. Daddy has a
plan. Everyone has a plan. We must all live our plan
and keep our promises. The birdies help us to do
that cause they love us so much." In the weeks that
followed, he often came to us and told all, or
part of it, again and again. Always the story remained
the same. The details were never changed or out of
order. A few times he added further bits of
information and clarified the message he had already
delivered. It never ceased to amaze us how he could
tell such detail and speak beyond his ability
when he talked about his birdies. Everywhere he
went, he told strangers about the "birdies."
Surprisingly, no one ever looked at him strangely
when he did
this. Rather, they always got a softened look
on their face and smiled. Needless to say, we have not
been the same ever since that day,and I pray we never
will be. You have just been sent an Angel to watch
over you. Some people come into our lives and quickly
go...Some people become friends and stay a
while...leaving beautiful footprints on our hearts
... and we are never quite the same because we have
made a good friend!! Yesterday is history. Tomorrow a
mystery. Today is a gift. That's why it's called the
present! Live and savor every moment...

From the Los Angeles Times
One Mother's War

By Jeff Nachtigal
Special to the Times
Published January 30, 2005

TRACY, Calif. -- On the day her son Patrick McCaffrey died on a
blacktop farm road in northern Iraq, Nadia McCaffrey's war began.

Her first act was to invite the press to the Sacramento Airport when her
34-year-old son's flag draped-coffin was brought home at the end of
June 2004.

"Patrick was not a private person. All his life he loved people," Nadia
McCaffrey explained. "Why should I hide him when he comes home? He
would not have wanted that."

At a time when the Pentagon was attempting to keep photographs of the
returning coffins out of the American press, the Sacramento Airport
scene attracted international attention.

From the first interviews with newspaper obituary writers, Nadia was
outspoken about her own opposition to the war as well as her son's
growing reservations at the time he was killed.

"Patrick was overwhelmed by the hatred there for Americans and
Europeans," Nadia told a reporter for The Times. "He was so ashamed
by the prisoner abuse scandal. He even sent me an e-mail to tell me that
not all the soldiers were like that. He said we had no business in Iraq and
should not be there. Even so, he wanted to be a good soldier."

Since her son's June death in an ambush outside the big American
military base at Balad, Nadia McCaffrey has appeared at dozens of peace
rallies, anti-war vigils and ceremonies for other soldiers killed in action.
Along with a handful of other parents whose sons and daughters have
died in Iraq, McCaffrey dedicated herself to the anti-war movement.

In late December, she went to the Middle East, traveling to Jordan with a
humanitarian aid delegation sponsored by the San Francisco organization,
Global Exchange.

The group distributed $600,000 in humanitarian aid for victims of
American military actions in Fallouja. But plans to travel inside Iraq,
where Nadia hoped to visit the site of her son's death, were scrapped
because of security concerns, not just for the Americans but also for the
Iraqis who had volunteered to take them inside.

In Jordan, Nadia met with five Iraqi mothers who had lost children in the
fighting.

"My dream," she said, "was to be able to find at least one Iraqi mother,
who like me suffered a loss, and be able to have an exchange without
hatred or anger about the way we feel. Talk about what to do to start
working for peace. And do it mother to mother, with no governments."

Before leaving Jordan, Nadia had already decided to return in 2005 to set
up a non-profit safe house for women and children. And she still wants
to see the farm road where her son fell.

Born in France just after World War II to a Serbian father and French
mother, Nadia has long been a pacifist.

"I grew up in the aftermath of war," she told an audience at a Unitarian
church in Davis in December. "I remember Dien Bien Phu (the 1954
French colonial defeat in the Indochina War). Then we had Algeria."

At the Davis church, homemade cookies were spread out on card tables
and a youth chorale sang carols. Yellow helium balloons drew attention
to a donation box for the upcoming Middle East trip, and to a signboard
displaying a picture of Patrick in dress uniform, his face a study in
seriousness.

"The basic meaning of the mission is peace," McCaffrey told the small
audience in a speech that was part plaintive mother's grief and sharply
worded call to action. "It's a first step, and I hope that other people will
follow."

Patrick, she said, loved children and worried most about the Iraqi
orphans who were starved for food and love. Then she held up a picture
of a little Iraqi girl holding a sunflower as big as her head. She said that
the girl had given Patrick the flower the day before he was killed.

"I am going to Iraq because someone has to do this," she said, her dark
eyes flashing.

Now 59, she is an impressive figure who speaks with a slight French
accent.

A man in the audience stood slowly and asked: What about your safety?

"I am not afraid," Nadia said in a strong, clear voice. "I am not afraid of
dying."

Despite her long-held opposition to war, when Patrick came home after
signing with the National Guard just a month past 9/11, explaining that
he had to "do something," she accepted her son's decision. But as
Patrick increasingly expressed his doubts about the American mission
and what it was accomplishing, her concern grew, then erupted into
full-blown anger when the news of his death arrived.

So she channels her anger and grief by connecting with people and
helping them deal with the sorrow of loss.

In many ways Nadia is uniquely qualified for this role.

Building on her own history of near-death experience, Nadia has worked
for years as a hospice caregiver, comforting the dying. Ten years ago
she set up a non-profit organization called Angelstaff
(http://www.angelstaff.org/) to provide caregiver assistance and
emotional support for people who were dying. She communicates by
e-mail with an international network of people who are involved in
hospice care. Now this group calls and e-mails to give her emotional
support.

Don Murdoch thinks people naturally gravitate to Nadia because she is
so focused and has no "phoniness or agendas." "People are drawn to her,
her ring of truth. She believes what she's doing," said Murdoch, who
met Nadia seven years ago when he began doing hospice care.

Nadia's first brush with death came when she was seven years old in
provincial France when she was bitten by a poisonous snake. She says
that in the ten days she lay partially conscious she had a vision of a
woman that introduced herself as "Je suis ta petite maman du ciel," or "I
am your little heavenly mother." The vision asked Nadia to share her
message of love with the world.

Her most recent near-death experience came in August, two months
after her son's death. Suddenly stricken by fever, she was rushed to the
emergency room. Doctors told her both lungs had collapsed.

After this attack, Nadia said she asked herself why she was still alive
while her son was dead.

"When I thought of this, and Patrick, I would have taken his place with
joy, but that's not the way the plan was," Nadia said. "I think there are
no coincidences, no accidents; things happen because we are meant to
do certain things. It's totally up to us to fulfill what we have been left to
do."
Copyright © 2005, The Los Angeles Times

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