Making Contact

Jean and I had no doubt that consciousness is eternal. It was one of the many convictions that we shared. We both had been married before we met (and subsequently divorced) so we were a bit wary about getting into a new relationship. Nonetheless, we discovered so much of ourselves reflected in each other that we needn’t have worried. We were both artists and both shared musical backgrounds. Jean was much the better musician. She attended Western New Mexico University on a music scholarship and played in the university’s jazz band. We both had played trumpet, but I was totally out-classed when she picked up her horn. She could wail.

Partly because of our shared philosophical and spiritual views, Jean and I were drawn to the study of quantum mechanics. This subject brought the role of consciousness and its relation to reality to the forefront. So when she passed less than two years ago, I didn’t hesitate to try to contact her. I formulated a kind of password that would be extremely unlikely to appear in my daily life. Years before we met, Jean had played the female lead in the musical Kismet. Nowadays, hardly anyone knows that such a musical exists or that it was a Broadway hit. I asked her to give me a sign that she was present and heard me by bringing to my attention any kind of reference to Kismet. That same evening, I was watching an interview with actor Kelsey Grammer on TV. The interviewer was asking Kelsey about his part in a recent film in which he played Herod. Near the end of the interview, the interviewer asked Kelsey how he believed he had gotten the part. Kelsey paused for a moment in thought and then said, “It must have been Kismet.”

Not long after that, Jean hacked into my smart phone. I had just returned from grocery shopping and had put the phone, which was turned off, into a back pocket while I gathered up the groceries. On an impulse, I said aloud, “Jean, I love you so much.” Almost immediately, a faint voice in my back pocket said, “I’m not sure what I heard.” Startled, or maybe stunned, I pulled out the phone and looked at it. It was now turned on and showed a text message version of the sentence I had just heard. I would have had to complete four steps in order to prepare the phone to receive any calls at all. The phone had not signaled me in any way. There was just the voicemail coming faintly from my back pocket. The message was typical of the kind of wry humor Jean favored. Naturally, I repeated what I had said. There’s no telling what she might have done if I hadn’t.

Obviously, Jean and I are continuing our relationship or, as she liked to say, “working for the cause”. I know that she is continually guiding me and sharing in my experiences. When I contact her now through a medium (one she picked out for me at an Academy for Spiritual and Consciousness Studies conference in Scottsdale, Arizona, she is able to bring me up to date about her activities. From my end (just a figure of speech), without the medium’s help, my connection with Jean is patchy at best. Often I can feel her presence or she will arrange a striking synchronicity for me, but clear conversation isn’t possible.

I know that when I write anything, she is my collaborator. She proved that in helping me write Disobliging Reality. She has told me specifically that I should have fun and adventures so that when I cross over, I will be able to share them with her on the Other Side. I always try my best for “the cause”.

A Book Too Far

Disobliging Reality is a book I never intended to write, and even now am not entirely convinced that I did. My wife, Jean, passed on or crossed over or whatever the gentler phrase is supposed to be on Christmas Day 2014. We had been together for 44 years and married for 40. Our relationship was the kind that even we could never have imagined. We were and are still “soul mates”. We loved each other simply for who we are (verb tenses get a little scrambled when speaking of those who are no longer entitled to the present tense, but who nonetheless continue to be “here” in spirit). We shared what is commonly considered “unconditional” love. We loved just being together because we found each other so completely fascinating.

Then a kind of separation occurred. I am certain that it is only the temporary semblance of a separation, but the grief accompanying it is as close to a crushing reality as you can get in a made-up world. I don’t claim any special sympathy for undergoing an experience that the vast majority of us must endure. I will simply state that in my experience grief is a form of temporary insanity. All the normal landmarks vanish, all directions are equally meaningless, and life itself mocks its own seeming necessity. Eat, dress, do laundry, pay bills? What could any of it be for? What purpose could any of it serve? There was nothing left to sustain except an ongoing misery. Why do that?

Two months after Jean’s passing, a friend suggested that I begin writing something–anything so long as it gave me something to do and kept my mind occupied with some sort of diversion. So every day I sat at the computer and typed whatever came to mind. What came to mind was (I thought) a chaotic jumble of ideas and thoughts about reality and what it was about. Jean and I had spent years studying quantum mechanics theory and even had begun attending Matrix Energetics seminars around the West and Southwest. Matrix is described as a “transformational consciousness technology”, which is based upon quantum mechanics. We took to it right away and applied what we learned to our everyday lives. It was a kind of transcendent silliness that made everything light, wonderful, and dependent upon our state of consciousness. If we were soulmates before, we were identical twins now. We had a blast.

Weeks passed. I don’t know how many. I was insane. I typed feverishly every day and later, when I read what I had written, I couldn’t always recognize what I had said. There were ideas and concepts that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Some of them surprised me with what seemed to be insights and intuitions that I considered beyond the scope of my thinking. I was on the verge of being creeped out. Besides, everything I had written was coherent, well-developed, and had the structure of a well-considered composition. True, I had been an English professor for a time, but when I tried to recall the actual process of writing this latest composition, I couldn’t identify a single step. It was blurry and tangled in my memory. I really couldn’t lay claim to have consciously managed anything at all. Still, I had what seemed to be, not only a short book, but a book that actually said something that had understandable meaning. All I could link to the writing of it was crushing, unending grief.  The only explanation that I could bring to mind was that Jean had had something to do with it. My study of quantum mechanics hinted that something like that was entirely possible. I began to put, not two and two, but particle and wave together.