I'm not at all psychic. In fact, the apocalyptic last stand of Satan could erupt right over my head and I don't think I'd lose a minute of sleep over noticing the breeze coming off of it. I'm probably blocking or whatever it is that the mediums call it when someone is doggedly resistant to experiencing the paranormal, but for whatever reason, the voices in my head have always sounded exactly like my own internal dialogue, and the only creep-ed out feelings I get are due to some creepy someone or other who's all too alive and all too much a part of this realm that we all have to wake up to and deal with on a daily basis.

      That said, it's not as if I haven't been the recipient of some impressive After-Death Communication [ADC], because I have. It's just that I'm one to put those who've taken the effort to reach back to me through their paces when they've done so. That being the case, and in my ongoing effort to try and explain just how real and mun-dane the "supernatural" actually is, I thought that I might take a break from the technical stuff this blog generally deals with and share one of my own ADC experiences.

      I think that it's safe to say that everyone knows somebody who's got a personal ghost story. I, myself, probably saw a ghost of a teenage girl walking toward me as I was riding my bike back out of the Mines Falls trails in Nashua NH one afternoon, but like most people with a ghost story, I only have my memory of what I saw and how it vanished on me, leaving nothing behind as proof that I ever saw anything at all. And since this blog is focused on direct communication efforts between our two human-populated realms, random manifestations aren’t of any real interest. No, what I want to tell you about is how my mom reached back recently with some very tangible evidence and helped me gain a little badly needed perspective during a really tough moment.

      Anyone who knew me as a kid knows that I really sucked at being a kid. I guess I've been much better suited to being an adult, but we all have to go through being a kid before we get to be an adult. As a skinny little kid with broken teeth, a spectacular stutter, shock-white blonde hair and black glasses, I might've caused those blue-haired hearts to go all a-flutter as I played "Love Is Blue" with my little cello in their parlors for donations to the school music program [true story, by the way], but as far as the project kids I grew up with were concerned, I couldn't have been more "exotic" if I'd been crated in from another galaxy and dumped on them