Divine Intervention: Part 2
Intervention of the Divine kind, happens when you least expect it. When hope is lost, karma steps in. Guardian angels exist in all forms. But not all of them have white fluffy wings and golden auras.
Continued from Part 1:
During the course of the night, I awoke in the dark to hear someone moving around. I noticed my clothes and jewelry boxes had been rearranged inside my bags. Who was watching me?
On arriving home, the first thing I did was empty my bags to check if anything was missing. An awful thing to assume, but I just had a feeling. My intuition has never let me down.
My dance costumes were ruffled and stuffed into one bag, obviously having been pulled out and crammed back in, while the specific jewelry boxes I take with me on dancing/promotional jobs were rearranged and lids mismatched. I use particular boxes that are not obviously jewelry containers, rather looking more like makeup boxes, for obvious reasons. My stomach began to churn as I prayed I would find my belongings still intact.
My worst fear was losing the pearl and sapphire necklace my grandparents gave me for my eighteenth birthday. It was precious to me and I only wore it on special occasions, normally with an antique lace blouse I bought in a vintage store that was also a treasured item.
I wore them both the night before, because we were performing with an iconic Aussie band and I wanted to present well and look elegant. Being the ‘80’s, it was the time of the Romantics era. That is, visions of layered haircuts, lace tops with shoe-string fronts, baggy pants, Adam Ant, Spandau Ballet, Ultravox etc. (look them up, you’ll get the picture). So my antique lace blouse, my pearl and sapphire necklace fit the moment perfectly. Plus, it made me feel good.
So, as I searched and searched, turning my bags inside out; looking once, twice, ten times in my jewelry boxes, looking for the thrice knotted velvet pouch, within a tied velvet box that held my treasured grandparents’ necklace, which was always hidden away, I had come to the shocking realization that it wasn’t there.
It was gone.
The pouch was nowhere to be found. I searched every pocket, bag cavity, shoe – it was gone!
I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt physically sick and upset. I put my trust in these people. I was doing their daughter a favor. Yet somehow, they found a way to destroy my faith. It happens often. And being a Cancerian, that’s what we like to do. Make others feel good. Respect, support and build up everyone else. Why would anyone do this to me?
I was in tears. I was racking my brain reliving the moment I took them off the night before; where I put them, and if I accidentally left them on a table, in the bathroom.
I know I didn’t. They’re too precious to me. I wouldn’t be that irresponsible.
Now what do I do? I was in panic mode.
The first thing was to contact Summer to check that it wasn’t anywhere at her place. But all I could think of was the ‘entity’ that was hovering around the lounge as I slept. Going through my things. Now I knew I wasn’t imaging it.
How dare they? How disrespectful. Who was it and why? I was a guest at her place. Once again, thinking I was helping someone. How much of a fool do I need to be to keep trusting people.
I had to check quickly in case ‘they’ tried to sell it and I would never see it again. I was trying not to break down as I dialed Summer’s number.
Her mother answered (a land line – no mobiles back then), and I thanked her again for her previous night’s hospitality and impatiently asked for Summer.
She wasn’t home. She’d gone out. Out? So soon after a big night? We were all young and energy to burn, but it still seemed a bit odd.
So, I asked her mother if she had noticed anything of mine that may have been left on or around the lounge where I slept. Perhaps in the cracks of the lounge cushions, or under the lounge and would she mind checking for me. I explained what was missing and needed to know if it was there or not. I explained it was a special eighteenth birthday gift from my grandparents and I would be devastated if it went missing. Relaying to her that I was pretty upset. And letting her know that it was something I took great care of, and always kept securely. Telling her it was in my bag the previous night. That I was sure of. And now, it wasn’t.
I didn’t want to infer her son may have gone through my bags while I was sleeping – but someone did.
I’m sure Summer’s mother thought I was being presumptuous, implying that one of her children may have stolen (the correct term) such a valuable item, but then again, she didn’t exactly convince me otherwise.
Little did I know what was to unfold over the coming months.
I finally contacted Summer who swore she knew nothing about it, and nonchalantly laughed it off. I wasn’t laughing.
I insisted the necklace was in my bag, at the head of the lounge, where my head was laying, and that I heard someone going through my bag during the night. I wasn’t dreaming. She knew I had it with me, as she commented whilst getting ready for bed how lovely it looked with the antique lace blouse.
I never gave up questioning Summer. And that she should continue to search her place ‘just in case’ she found it. Question her brother, question anyone that was there that night. But she continued to discard the event, even though she could see how desperate I was to get it back. She kept dismissing it as just one of those things and maybe it would turn up. You’re kidding right? I was disturbed by her lack of empathy. Having lost my mother at five months, and my grandmother taking over the role of ‘mum’ to a five-month-old – this eighteenth birthday gift was precious to me. It was a gift of love from my grandparents. Their hearts were infused in this necklace. They weren’t rich people. They were hardworking, loving grandparents who took on the responsibility of a baby and a four year old boy, as a gift of love to look after us in my mother’s absence. What greater gift could a human being give. My father worked two jobs to see us through. So this gift on my eighteenth birthday, was something I knew they put their hearts into buying for me. It was an heirloom of their hearts that I would, should have, carried through my life to pass on.
That would never happen.
Even worse, how on earth was I going to tell my grandmother. She would be heartbroken.
Devastatingly, I never found it. It just vanished off the face of the earth and I never found out who took it, why, and where it went.
Things like this have happened continually throughout my life. As if a silent, invisible force vaporizes anything in my life that holds a piece of my heart. It still happens. I could and will make a list of these inexplicable events – its too bizarre for it not to have some supernatural force and reasoning behind it. Its as if something or someone is always breaking off a little piece of my heart, till one day - it will all be gone, and so too any footprints I walked in this lifetime.
To this day my heart breaks each time I think about my necklace. Someone took it. Why? I have no idea. Though I’m pretty sure a young boy wouldn’t want to wear such a thing, especially back in 80s Australia. Unheard of.
Why would anyone want to disregard and destroy someone’s heart, knowing how much this birthday gift meant to me. A milestone in my life. A piece of my grandparent’s heart was in that necklace.
It still brings tears to my eyes.
Fast forward a few months:
Being a beach-loving Aussie chick, I managed to find myself a small two-bedroom unit on Prince Street, Cronulla, a beach haven of the southern suburbs of Sydney. My little piece of heaven. Directly opposite the beach. My spirit place. A Cancerian thing. I love nothing more than being by the ocean, the beach, the smell of the salt water. Watching storms build and explode on the horizon on the ocean’s edge was magic. Waking up to the sound of waves crashing on the beach below. The smell of the pouring rain after a scorching hot summer Sydney day was like roses on Valentine’s Day to me. Special.
My unit block was very old. Originally built somewhere in the 1940s. On the northern end of Cronulla Beach, it was set high on a grading hill that oozed down to the sand and the ocean. The ambience of the 1940’s permeated the building. It had an air about it. Long lost memories of the people who lived within its walls over previous decades was still present. It had that old-fashioned 1940’s character. The windows had wooden frames with latches to lock at the mid-point. No security locks or fancy systems to keep this place intruder free. It was like stepping back in time and that’s what I liked about it the most.
I was on the second floor. The stairwell of green and maroon tiled steps, with its wrought iron bannister, led to an old-fashioned wooden door that opened into the loungeroom. Built back in the 1940’s it wasn’t a big place. Not like today’s cement monstrosities. It had character and ambience. Homely. A breathing time capsule.
To the right of the loungeroom was the kitchen. Very small, but did the job. Then a small dining area attached to the kitchen, with the bathroom situated on the other side of the adjoining wall. It’s pink ceramic sink and matching bath, with the green mosaic tiles on the floor still haunt me today. I loved it. Though I soon came to realize that the bathroom wasn’t the only thing that would be haunting me.
In a place this old, it didn’t surprise me that beach lovers, fishermen and sailors wives of decades past may still be staring out the same wooden framed window watching the waves crashing beyond. Often times I sensed someone sharing my space. Lingering in my room beside the window, sharing the view with me as I stared out over the ocean. Pondering life, pondering my own journey and where I would be years into the future.
Never could I have imagined how life would unfold.
Now and then I would catch glimpses of a softly flowing mist through the unit as the sunset swathed rose gold rays onto the walls. I often felt a presence lingering in front of the fireplace in the loungeroom, where my huge picture of a ship’s bow cutting its way through the ocean, chaperoned by dolphins dancing and flying in its wake hung above the old wooden mantelpiece. Maybe they were fascinated with the picture. I was. It was a beautiful gift from a DJ friend. I would gaze upon it for hours.
The presence didn’t bother me. I was used to such company. It just made me love the place even more. It never felt scary, rather somehow familiar and I was happy to share this space with the souls who also once called it home.
Keeping contact with Summer, with an intense but silent mission to locate my necklace, grasping to hope that it would magically reappear, she asked if she could rent my spare room, so we could share the experience of her newfound ‘celebrity’ career. No doubt living on the beach was an added incentive for her.
Thinking long and hard about the prospect, but still having a method to my madness, I agreed to let her move in for a few months. I enjoyed my own company, and didn’t want the magic spell of my soul’s serenity to be broken.
But there were rules to which she had to adhere to. Rent paid on time. Respect for one another’s space. Sharing food bills, cleaning etc. All the furniture, appliances, T.V. etc. in the unit were mine, so there was nothing she needed to add, other than her own furniture, bedding etc. for her own room. Wardrobe, dressing tables, bed, linen and the like. All I asked was that she be respectful of my things and each other and all would be well.
She decided that she wanted the larger bedroom. The bedroom that stepped down into the enclosed glassed veranda, with the huge bay window overlooking the breathtaking ocean views that blazed with glorious sunlight as it rose over the horizon each morning. It was the better room. More like two rooms with the veranda attached.
Hesitantly, I agreed, and hoped this wouldn’t be the start of a one-sided, egotistical relationship. Again, I always try to see the best in people and so gave up the room that should have been mine, to her. And it was only for a few months, so I relented and surrendered the main bedroom. I transferred into the smaller and darker room with only the one window that looked out to the ocean. But it was cozy and I was thankful to at least have a lovely historical place to call home. The beach was an added bonus.
So, Summer moved in.
It was a day to remember. Almost like watching a movie spectacle. There were suitcases and bags everywhere. Large plastic bags that held clothes of all kinds. Not to mention the shoe collection, makeup cases, hair sprays, gels, shampoos, conditioners and every hair tool known to man. I gathered that her new found life in the ‘fast lane’ was having an impact on her bank balance, masquerading as a ‘must have’ contract.
It took her all day to repeat the return trips from her mother’s place to Cronulla. On the final run I stood at her bedroom door, aghast at the visual before me. World War III had bypassed the Middle East and landed in the middle of Summer’s bedroom. There was so much ‘junk’ I couldn’t see the floor anymore.
Greg, her now boyfriend from the pub and one of his mates, was helping her move in. The bed, wardrobes, dressing table and the like. I was silently hoping that Greg wouldn’t become a permanent fixture in the unit, as it was my place, and Summer was the only co-renter, not Greg, as much as he was a nice guy.
As the sun finally set on Summer’s moving spectacular, peace finally settled. She and Greg decided to spend her last night at her mum’s place and would be back the next day to set up her room, unpack and tidy up, ready to start her new venture.
After she and Greg left, I stood in amazement in the bedroom doorway, at the explosion of paraphernalia in the room. Way too much stuff for one young woman to have. It would take her a week to sift through it all.
I noticed a plastic bag filled with scarves and accessories on her dressing table, of which one looked uncannily like my green neck scarf I had been looking for the week prior. Again, it was noticeable. I love colors and unusual pieces and it seemed odd she would have the same scarf in her bag of goodies. It took me ages to find my scarf, specifically because it was emerald green (again, there’s that Wings of Malachite green – it was active within me over thirty years ago). It wasn’t a color you could easily find back then. Buying the bulk of my clothes from my favorite dress designer, Katy Pye, who had a store in the Strand Arcade in the city and who’s pieces were mainly one-offs. So I knew I wouldn’t see myself walking around, and that pieces I bought, were well made, special, unusual and distinctive. I never, and still don’t like being like everybody else. I like to be different. So when I saw a similar green scarf in Summer’s possession, it raised a red flag. I thought I would keep it in my memory bank for now and ask her about it when she was present. I’m not one to impede on anyone’s personal space, for any reason.
The only reason I would need to pass through Summer’s room was to access the balcony/veranda, which was for both us, not her alone. It was the perfect place to sit with a glass of chilled Rose’ and watch the sunset over the water. My bamboo lounging furniture was on the veranda, available for her use as well, and lazy summer afternoons on the balcony wasn’t a custom I was about to forsake.
That night, being my last night alone in the unit, I was savoring the silence of my own company one last time, when I felt a presence around me. Nothing major, or scary, just a feeling of restlessness. Not me, the presence. I would catch myself chasing a shadow out of the corner of my eye through the loungeroom into Summer’s room. As if they were anxious of Summer impending occupation.
As I sat and watched TV, I wondered whether I had made the right decision in letting Summer share my world so closely.
Being a very independent and happy to be in my own company kind of gal, I knew I would have to make some changes myself. But I wasn’t intending on living in or out of Summer’s pocket, I had my own life to lead and passions to follow, and so did she. I still had my beautiful grandmother to consider and look after, even though we weren’t sharing ‘home’ any longer. We still shared our hearts – which made losing the necklace even more heartbreaking.
Summer and I just happened to share a similar lifestyle now. In one way, it would make the adjustment in living with someone easier, but in another, we were two very different personalities. I liked my quiet time after dancing, modelling and promotional work. Summer was forever switched on. So that was a condition to acclimatize to.
So, the sun set on another twenty-four hours in Cronulla. But dark clouds slowly swirling on the horizon over the water brought another emotional layer to the day. I went to bed early, knowing Summer would blow in like a southerly buster the next morning, so I took the opportunity to relish the silence and the rain on the roof.
In the early hours of the morning, I awoke from my slumber, staring into the darkness of my bedroom, wondering why I had woken up. It was dark and still. I could hear the crashing of the waves outside, so relieved that things were as they should be. But somehow, something wasn’t. I felt a presence around me, beside me, in my room, floating within the atmosphere.
At the base of my bed, my dressing table stood against the back wall, looking back at me. As I gazed into the darkness, attempting to focus on the gold handle of the dressing table drawer that had caught the glance of the street light outside, I realized that there was a figure standing to the left of the table, behind the closed bedroom door at the end of my bed, also looking back at me.
As my eyes focused in the darkness at this silent figure in the night, I could distinguish that the outline was that of a female.
She appeared to be around twenty-something and wore a long white lace trimmed night gown. Circa 1940’s. She had long dark wavy hair. She had a Kate Bush, Wuthering Heights quality about her. Curious I thought this at the time, as she would soon reveal her reason for revealing herself to me. But only now, so many years later, it has dawned on me that she and I were connected in more ways than one, and that perhaps she may, in divine timing, come to balance a parallel wrongdoing in both our lives that now makes sense to me.
Although previously aware that I had company in the unit, it still rattled me as I focused on her manifestation.
She was calm with a peaceful serene look on her face. Her head tilted to one side as she stood quietly within the darkness, staring back at me.
As with many apparitions and ‘visitors’ through my life, telepathy is the language we use.
I asked what her name was. She answered so quietly, ‘Catherine’. Again, images of Kate Bush and Wuthering Heights came to mind. Curious her name just happened to be Catherine. Standing before me draped in a vintage white cotton and lace night dress, bare feet and wayward long black locks, I could have been dreaming. But I wasn’t.
I felt completely at ease in her company, and she in mine. Time was of no relevance. It was the ambience of the moment that was important.
I asked her what she wanted, and was this house once her home. Was I doing anything to upset her? Though I felt nothing but tranquility and peace between us.
She told me that it was her home, once. She had loved this place, like I did. But she had been ill-treated by her lover, and found her fate by his hands and was now trapped within these walls, unable to free her soul from the pain and torture of his actions. When love leaves you blindfolded to the truth, and love is taken advantage of to the very core of your being, the heart never really heals. It only destroys your soul and leaves you in purgatory for all time. This is what he did to her. So she was forever scorned, left to roam in the nothingness of time. Waiting to be released from the pain she endured at the hands of a man she loved, that she now despised.
Curiously, as I look back now, but didn’t make the connection back then, that the same fate transpired in my own life - but I managed to escape because of a guardian angel. I can see now Catherine was trying to protect me, and bring karma to both our lives.
She had a message.
Obviously having observed Summer moving into ‘our’ home, it was clear that Catherine was not comfortable with her presence. Did she know something I didn’t?
She had a definite message to impart. And that was:
“Males will not be welcome into my home. No males must stay here. Not in my room, not in my bed. You must tell her (Summer) he must not stay”.
I presumed that the other room, with the veranda attached, was her room in her previous life, and perhaps, that may have been where she lost her life. Perhaps, perhaps not. Just her reference to that room made me think that was the case.
After happily living in unison with Catherine for months, though not really knowing who the entity I shared my unit with was until this night, she was obviously comfortable in the fact that I was living alone, with no males staying over – just visiting and then leaving. She felt safe in my presence. We were looking after each other from different realms. And that was O.K. with me. Having been through a traumatic incident myself at the hands of an enraged male, where I didn’t think I would make it out alive, perhaps Catherine knew of this and somehow thought me a kindred spirit. Though it was she who was the apparition and it was obvious Catherine was anxious about Summer’s presence, more so, her boyfriend, Greg.
Having relayed to me her sad demise, I sensed an urgency in Catherine that I should not take lightly. And that relaying a message such as this to someone like Summer, was going to be challenging. Firstly, because of her lack of belief in anything paranormal, let alone relaying a message from a ghost that lived in the haven she was about to move into, and then to be told she wasn’t allowed to have her boyfriend stay over, was a stretch.
I had no idea how I was going to pass such a message on without Summer laughing hysterically in my face. I was used to such things of the paranormal kind – Summer dismissed anything that wasn’t solid mass or signed in lipstick. 💚🪶
Please join me for Part 3 of Divine Intervention … “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned” - well, you’re about to find out.💚Intervention of the Divine kind, happens when hope is lost and karma steps in. Guardian angels exist in all forms. But not all of them have white fluffy wings and golden auras. Sometimes they look like Kate Bush with a score to settle.
Thank you for being here. Love D.🕸️🪶
Thank you for sharing more of your journey, Dani. There’s such warmth and depth in the way you describe your connection with the spirit world. It’s a gift to be able to read your experiences and feel that sense of meaning come through.
Hello there beautiful you.... the suspense continues....and oddly..i remember this story....as though i dreamed it.......a while back when we were first getting to know each other.........and how i recognize my life in yours ....vanishing things and people.....hauntings..... xo xo xo