AS I WAS WALKING BY THE STAIR / I saw a man who wasn’t there / He wasn’t there again today / Gee, how I wish he’d go away! *
I AM THREE YEARS OLD. My great aunt is driving, and her niece, my mother, is in the front passenger seat of the old, rusty car. It’s winter in Rockford. My sister, two, is in the back seat with me. It seems there are acres of room between us.
The car rounds a curve. The right-rear passenger door opens. My sister falls onto the road. She has protection from her thick snowsuit—and something unseen.
I see what my young brain interprets as a “gypsy” lady standing there, watching, from the grassy field. She is adorned with headscarf, a robe, deeply rich with muted hues, calmly and compassionately observing. There is a sacred or spiritual feeling about her. She appears as my sister falls out of the car—or because she does so.
“All is well”; the lady seems to reassure me. There is something invisible from her that reaches out and touches me. Her peaceful, compassionate state of being enters my space. I ask about her, but neither my frantic mother, or aunt did see her in their dash to rescue my sister.
Not There, Yet There
This is my first memory of seeing or feeling the energy of someone seen yet unseen. A few years later I am asking my mother about spirits. She laughs, and then lilts, “As I was walking by the stair / I saw a man who wasn’t there / He wasn’t there again today / gee how I wish he’d go away.”
She is busy, but I want to know more. There, in those seemingly nonsensical lyrics, I learn that someone else sees, knows something about the unseen. It is confirmation to me that the subtle is just as real, maybe more so, than what we can see.
I learn later about clear seeing, or clairvoyance, from a childhood friend’s mother. Later still, I discover everything is a choice to express love or not to express love. You can choose to love what you do see and what you don’t. Or not—and there’s no judgement of the latter (gratefully).
I find myself deciding to cease hiding, holding back the clear seeing. I’m discovering a new feeling of liberty. It’s freeing, expressing what’s within the reach of intuition—and a capacity for seeing, hearing, feeling, knowing what is real and true beyond form alone. It is when I am focusing on caring that I find myself channeling or expressing intuition.
The first time this unfolds intentionally is after working closely for years with a psychologist and medical intuitive. As I feel, see, perceive—and express—more insights flow. It is as if before this someone locks the gate to the knowledge trail (me). Now I love this kind of expressing, which I do by free will donation. (See **”To Schedule” below)
Intuition, the world of realizing a subtle magic behind all form, is no stranger in childhood. It often takes a back seat during the growth years. This is natural, as ego-forming adjustments to a personal identity and collective society occupy the left hemisphere of the brain.
Your intuition indicates something can succeed (as happened with a Journal I started). Perhaps you know something will occur, a call or message from someone, or you have a feeling to avoid a thing or place. When you focus on this knowing, adventures occur that you might miss relying upon intellect alone.
Intuition can reveal insights about your body-mind, beyond the limits of cognitive or diagnostic analysis alone. Intuition engages the brain, mind, and heart to cohere and reveal things beyond the physical senses. There is a heart-centered warmth when consciousness not tethered to physical bodies gives evidence of awareness of you.
Intuitive wisdom, kindness, and appreciation enchant life. Words that flow from this expansive mood can brighten personal reality for another. It’s part of creating a new world. ∆
For more, see “Intuitive Hits: Heart Insights” a series of case stories.
* From “Antagonish,” by Hughes Mearns, who was inspired by reports of a ghost roaming the stairs of a house in Antagonish, Nova Scotia, Canada. The poem was made into a song in 1939 titled, “The Little Man Who Wasn’t There,” by Harold Adamson and was recorded by the Glenn Miller Orchestra. Mother certainly heard the song many times. Here is the original poem:
Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. / He wasn’t there again today, I wish, I wish he’d go away… / When I came home last night at three, / The man was waiting there for me / But when I looked around the hall, / I couldn’t see him there at all! / Go away, go away, don’t you come back anymore! / Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door… / Last night I saw upon the stair, / A little man who wasn’t there, / He wasn’t there again today / Oh, how I wish he’d go away…
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