As my heart stirred with David’s words and the unexpected intensity and direction of our conversation, my first thought was “Maybe we should stop this session and continue it later at home. That would be a better place, and there’s all kinds of things there that he touched, that he imbued with his love. What could there be here?” The office now surrounding me suddenly seemed a very foreign land, operating in a language irreconcilably different from that of my heart. I momentarily panicked as I glanced around, opening one desk drawer after another, desperately seeking out an object that might open the door for communion. “I’m not sure I have anything here,” I said. “Oh, yes you do,” responded David. “Look there to your left.” Suddenly, a sense of serenity and calm fell upon me as I remembered. “Of course,” I thought to myself, a smile crossing my face as I reached down to open the bottom drawer on my desk’s left side. “He’s right. I’ve got just the perfect thing right here.”

In the excitement of my discovery, I didn’t even stop to think “How did he know that?” I seemed to be caught up at the moment in some strange and greater flow, and his suggestion felt completely natural. Reaching into the drawer, I pulled out and began to unzip a small, cheap plastic plaid-green toiletries bag that had belonged to Scott, and been used by him years before to carry his prescription drugs, etc. on his travels. For some reason unknown to me, perhaps a sentimental attachment, Scott had never thrown the battered bag away after he acquired nicer, more useful ones. It had somehow made its way to the art deco studio we bought together in Miami Beach as an art studio and guest apartment, and I had found it there a month or two after his death. On that day, I had been delighted to find that the unassuming bag contained a treasure far more valuable to me than any gold.

In the days following Scott’s death, stripped of my life’s meaning, I eagerly sought out signs that he had been here, evidences of our existence together. His absence seemed more palpable, somehow more horrifyingly real, than my memories of the time we had been given to share. In response to a condolence letter I’d received from one of his students, I wrote back telling her honestly that I had lifted up the chairs in the home, pushed the sofa out of place, looking for signs of him. Though my desperate search yielded me only loose change, a couple of the blue plastic caps that had topped his infusion syringes, and one or two loose pills, at least these objects reminded me of what had once been. These items may have been insubstantial, but they were still evidence. Nothing I could ever find would conceivably quench my longing for him, but I nevertheless had to try.

One of those difficult days I had retreated from the office to a South Beach studio nearby that had once been our great dream but now most often sat empty, exhausted and weak of heart, to take a nap. As I awakened from my restless sleep, it occurred to me that I had not yet searched that place for signs of him. Groggily wandering into the bathroom, over to the closet, pulling open drawers here and there, I earnestly continued with my quest. Taking my time, I reached out to touch and pick up a book from the place he had set it down, pondered a mysterious bunch of keys, was saddened by the running shoes now gathering dust in the closet. I paused to consider the shirts he had left hanging on the rack, no longer of any use to him. Though I pulled them toward me and buried my face in the fabric, hoping to capture his scent, all I could smell was dust.

It was then that I noticed the glossy green bag, sitting immediately to my left among the shadows of a closet shelf. “Ahh,” I said smiling, grabbing the treasure and returning to the sofa for a leisurely cataloging of its contents. For a while I simply sat holding it in my hands, realizing that the anticipation of that moment, the vast world of possibilities opened up by its mysteries, were far more precious than anything I was likely to find within the bag. Finally, slowly pulling open its zipper, I found within an empty pill bottle, an ancient toothbrush, a few other small items, and a piece of folded cream-colored paper. My attention was immediately drawn to the paper, moisture-stained and worn smooth, and I pulled it out of the bag.

As I unfolded the paper, its deep creases suggesting many openings and closings, I realized that I held within my hands a treasure. Here, in a blue ink faded almost to invisibility, were the directions I had given Scott over the phone to find my home for our first date. This piece of faded, creased paper took me right back to the first days, a time made joyful and new in the sharing of magic. When we first met Scott lived in Fort Lauderdale, some thirty miles north of my Miami home, and taught at Piper High School in West Broward County. From the very first night we both recognized that an extraordinary connection had been made between us, and an easy conversation of the heart begun. After that meeting, not a day passed without some form of sharing between us.

For the next few days, until the following weekend, we talked over the phone. We finally made plans for our first “date” (though we were both quite sensibly horrified by the pressure and weight of that word, and spoke more in terms of “getting together for a dinner”).  Scott would bring down his beach stuff and a change of clothes, and plan on staying for dinner. I was then living at home with my parents, and had given him these directions to come and find me there on that gloriously sunny Saturday morning. Now, as I sat on the sofa in the studio examining the unfolded page, studying Scott’s handwriting, I could think only “Wow.” I had sought artifacts, evidences of the love we had shared, and this was indeed a special one. How had this exceedingly fragile artifact even survived through the years? Scott must have treasured it himself, I realized. As I turned it in my hands, seeing that he had written on the back “You make me so very happy,” my imagination was given free rein.

What hopes and fears had burned within him as he penned these words six years before, and what were his thoughts as he carefully folded up the directions for safekeeping at the end of that conversation? Had he paused for a moment afterward, just savoring, a huge, sweet smile on his face? Had he been aware, even as he wrote down my words over the phone, that he was embarking upon a great journey? Knowing him as I do now, understanding the depth of his longing for love, I have no doubt that he had. Something deep within him, far deeper than all knowledge, had known joy and sung in celebration. In those days, I imagined, a strange peace had befallen him, leaving him breathless and full of wonder, quieting his doubts and fears. On a level of the soul, he had been asked to take up yet again an ancient dance. What could he say, how could he respond, but with a resounding “Yes!?”

Sitting there on the sofa that day, feeling richly blessed, I knew that I held in my hands a treasured piece of Scott’s heart, an important fragment of his story. On a deep level, I recognized that my finding it was no accident. For reasons I would never know, Scott had brought this bag here and left it for me to find. The symbolism was clear, and the promise of its message unmistakable. Here was a true spiritual gift. “Don’t be afraid,” the paper quietly whispered to me. “Just as you were there for me, reaching out to show me the way during that phase of our relationship, I will now be there for you. Our journey together has entered a new phase, and I will lead you exactly where you need to go. Trust me, my love, and I will show you the way home.”

And now there was this man in Alamogordo, New Mexico, still on the line.

I heard you and felt you my love you are just something else you are not content to remain in the physical plane you give me no rest I’m not complaining you are always here with me and I see hear and feel you. I am in your heart, no I am the heart of you. This is the beauty of it.

Scott, November 1996

Channeled Writing

With David on the other end of the line, I pulled the folded paper out of the green bag. “O.K.,” I told him, “I’ve got something.” “Are you holding it in your left hand?” “Yes,” I answered. “Good,” he said. “It’s cream colored, isn’t it?” “It sure is,” I replied. “Now, please don’t tell me what it is yet,” he requested before continuing on with his vision. “He’s smiling, but there’s a sadness there also. He’s saying ‘there’s something I wanted to do, but I didn’t. There’s something I didn’t do or say. I should have told you, I’m sorry. I meant to tell you…’” What could he be getting at? Had he really carried over some unresolved issues with him to the other side? If so what could they possibly be, and was there anything I could do to bring him some peace? Dee had also seen him smiling, but not picked up on the sadness. “There’s a whole lot he can do for you,” she’d briskly answered when I asked if there was anything I could do for him. “He says you can’t even polish my soul,” she’d reported chuckling, appreciating his humor.

David’s next words stunned me, interrupting my mental reverie. “He’s saying ‘I love you too much.‘” “Oh, my, God,” I thought to myself, a chill of confirmation running through me, “we’ve really got Scott on the line.” I recalled that day on the beach years before, that moment of eternity in which Scott had confided in Daviea “You know, sometimes I’m afraid I love Paul too much.” It suddenly seemed that the barriers keeping the “other side” firmly in place had begun to crumble, and the chill racing through me swelled into an unaccountable energy. I felt as if I were awakening within a dream, only to find myself still moving within it. “He’s standing next to a red car,” David continued. “He’s standing next to it, pointing to it. What is he trying to tell me? Does that make any sense to you?”

“I’m really not sure,” I answered, trying to remember if he’d ever driven a red car. “Do you think that he might be just referring to the fact that the object I’m holding is the directions I gave him to reach me in his car?” “Maybe, but I don’t think so,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “He’s gesturing with his right hand, trying to tell us something. Now the car’s changing color. It’s kind of burgundy, a sports car. And now it’s changing again to silver grayish, a foreign sportscar. What is he trying to tell me?” I got the sense David was asking the question rhetorically, immersed in his vision, so I offered no interpretations. Besides, I had no idea. I was just sitting back, experiencing the bizarre ride as it unfolded.

“Were the two of you supposed to go on a trip? One that never took place because…” “Yeah,” I cut in as he paused. “We’d scheduled a trip to Mississippi just before he died. He was really looking forward to it. We were going to fly into New Orleans on March 9 and then drive into Mississippi to meet up with some of his dear friends. But he died on the first.” “O.K., he’s saying ‘there’s an agreement of cars,” David continued. “That’s strange,” I thought, immediately realizing that I was being handed some kind of piece of the puzzle through this strange metaphor. Ideas began racing through my mind. He’d had three cars during the years of our relationship, but they weren’t those colors. I thought back to my dreams of communication. “If phones signify communication,” I thought, “cars must certainly symbolize traveling together, being on a journey together.”

“Oh, wait a minute,” David said, pausing. “I think I have an idea about what he’s getting at. You might be right about the reference to those directions, but there’s more to it. This ‘agreement’ he’s referring to definitely involves a journey the two of you are making together. One that is very much still continuing.” Even as I thought “That’s what I was just thinking,” David went on. “But there’s still more to it than that. He’s trying to get something across through these colors. Let’s see, first red, then burgundy, then silver.” After a moment of silence, he laughed and said “O.K., I got it. The colors themselves are part of the message here. He’s showing me a spiritual journey, really a quantum leap in the growth of the soul.”

“Really?,” I replied, full of curiosity, “how do you figure?” “Well, Paul, let me put it to you like this. Bear in mind, in receiving these messages from Scott, we’re translating messages from the other realm. He’s now in a different place, a better place. He’s back home in the spirit, where there are no hard edges or corners to blind a soul’s vision. Only forms of pure energy, with an expanding awareness of God’s love at the center.” As David paused briefly, I simply allowed the power and beauty of his words to wash over me. “Really,” he went on, “we can’t even imagine what it’s like. Or rather, it is not ours to remember right now. There’ll be time enough for that.”

“But the point is,” he went on, “he’s very much in the light now, and is reaching back through to us. And he’s trying to do that in a way we’ll understand despite our current limitations. Otherwise, what’s the point?” Deep in thought, I asked “So where exactly do the colors come in?” “Excellent question,” he responded, “because like I said, I feel like they’re a big part of his message. Remember that colors are nothing but light vibrating at different frequencies, different forms of energy, and we’re receiving this ‘transmission’ from a place of pure power. Each color signifies a certain frequency of energy, and whether I’m picking up on them as pure or kind of blended together, they each convey a message of their own. Really even better than a message in words, more pure in a way, if you just know how to interpret it.”

“And I guess Scott knows that work with frequencies of energy on the level of spirit, and especially color, is what I do. See,” he began to explain, “each color corresponds to one of the seven chakras in the spirit body.” Somewhere along the path of my long and winding spiritual journey, I’d learned that chakras represented energy centers of the spiritual/ mental/ physical body, each associated with different parts of the physical body and with its own spiritual function. At best, however, the concept was vague to me. “Red is the color of the first chakra, associated with the base of the spine, signifying the beginning of personal and spiritual growth.” David continued. “It’s the first step, having to do with self-awakening and the realization of the power within. It makes sense that that would be the foundation, the first level of the agreement.”

“The interesting thing here, though,” he went on, “is the leap in the next step right up to burgundy, or indigo, the combination of red and blue. That’s associated with the sixth energy chakra, next to the highest level.” He briefly paused, apparently pondering the idea, then continued. “You have to understand, there’s been a huge leap here. This energy level corresponds to the higher levels of spiritual awakening, the tapping into the higher power. As the ‘third eye,’ the eye of the spirit, begins to open wide, the growth of the soul is accelerated. And then finally, he’s showing me the silver, one of the very highest levels. The highest chakra is pure white, signifying wholeness and unity with God. Either silver or gold signify levels of energy that you or I would call ‘Heaven.’”

“Boy,” he said, “that’s some agreement you guys have.” Momentarily stunned by the intensity of the message and its strange beauty, I was quiet as David’s visions continued to unfold. My breath had been taken away, but he apparently had no time to linger. “Yeah, he’s showing me again that that trip didn’t materialize. I see a duality, first him, then you, on the right side, then the left side. It was on that trip that he was going to convey something to you.” What might that message have been, planned during that homecoming he had so looked forward to sharing with me? Might it have had something to do with our sixth anniversary, or the party we’d planned in its celebration? Could he be referring to the spiritual communion we’d savored the night of our visit to Leake Street? Or, as now flashed through my mind, might it somehow involve Jeff’s vision of that place during the journey he’d undertaken on my behalf that summer night in Seattle?

Though I could not be sure, these richly poetic glimpses of imagery from the other side set my imagination soaring as usual. Life suddenly seemed highly surreal, and I thought to myself “Can I really be having this experience in my law office?” Yet again, I supposed, Scott was proving a point. Yes, he seemed to be saying, even here!

You will find doors swinging wide open for you, it will make your head spin

Scott, November 1996

Channeled Writing

I was at work that day, trying to catch up on a few matters lost in the shuffle of the holidays. Following an impulse, I grabbed Mike’s letter from my in-box, closed my office door, and dialed New Mexico. After introducing myself, I asked David “How do you work?” Apparently put off by the question, he fired back in a short tone of voice “What do you mean, ‘How do I work?’” Realizing that we weren’t getting off to a great start, I explained “I just meant, how do you like to proceed? Do I need an appointment, how much do you charge, all that kind of stuff.” “Oh,” said David, in a gentler tone. “Don’t worry about that. I don’t charge for my services, and I’m ready to talk to you now.” I had made the call only to initiate contact, but apparently a full reading was about to go forward. “If I’d known that,” I thought to myself, “I don’t think I would’ve called from here.” My hectic law office, phones ringing and clients waiting, would have been the last place I’d expect the spirit to break through.

Yet here I was, about to take a wild ride. “I am not a psychic,” David explained in a soft Southern drawl. “I work with frequencies and different levels of energy, and am open to receiving information that way that might not be apparent to others. When you boil it all down, matter and spirit just come down to different levels of energy, vibrating together at the same time but in different ways. Each form of energy carries its own message, if you know how to listen for it.” After a brief pause, he continued. “For example, I’ve tuned into the sound of your voice. I get the sense that you have dark brown hair and that you’re a little on the short side, about 5 foot 9.” “Well, you’re half right,” I told him. “My hair is brown, but I’m closer to six.”

His next words immediately rung true with me. “I see that there’s a lot going on in three separate areas of your life. A whole lot of activity.” Struck by his words, I found myself thinking “Maybe this guy’s for real.” He had hit on a primary truth of my life, and a central focus of my creative mental energy: my efforts to keep in balance the three separate worlds of my artwork, my law practice, and the growing number of tasks relating to the book. “In one of those areas,” he continued, “I see a lot of papers, it’s like there’s typewriting on them.” “Yeah, that would be my book,” I told him. “I’ve written a book about HIV and the law.”

David spoke on, giving voice to a flood of images. “I see two women and one man,” he said. “The man is in the background. No, one of the women is in the background. The other is standing with him in the front lines.” Since he had just mentioned the book my first thought was of my agent and two publicists, but nothing clearly came to mind. “Why am I getting this dual gender image?,” he asked. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Could that have to do with my being gay?” “That could be it,” he replied. “I see you doing a lot of travel in June in the North, Southeast part of the country. There’s a situation in your family, in your personal life. Have you had a miscommunication with your brother?”

“Not really a miscommunication,” I responded thoughtfully, “but my younger brother and I had kind of drifted apart. Over Christmas, we were very much reconnecting.” Even as I spoke the words, I was thinking “Might he be talking about Scott?” I recalled Dee’s first words in our first conversation, “I sense a lot of strain in the relationship.” “Yes,” David continued, “I see that there had been a breaking of communications, a growing apart, but I see each of you holding out wires to the other, reconnecting. This will continue to happen very strongly in the second or third week of February.”

“Whose birthday is March 2nd or 3rd? Someone very close to you.” “I don’t know,” I said, dismayed, “I’m not very good with birthdays. But March 1 was the day my lover Scott died, his ‘deathday,’ which I suppose could be seen as a birthday of sorts.” “In the realm of personal love,” he continued, “I see you in a transition period. I see three relationships, one of two, one three and a half, and the third five years.” My God, I thought to myself, that’s exactly how long I was involved with Rob, Jeff, and Scott in turn. “The last one I see has ended. That person has made his transition, but he’s still very much attached to the Earth plane.” He paused, then continued. “There’s something very important about that birthday. I’m feeling a lot of intensity here. There is a very strong interconnection between your higher selves.”

“I see him coming in and out, like he’s coming in and out of a window,” he said, “or like toast popping up and down.” David’s words triggered my memory of a recent conversation with Dee, when I had briefly spoken with her to set up an appointment in Pittsburgh at the beginning of the coming month. “I see him coming and going,” she had mentioned casually. “But he’s so there with you. You really shouldn’t even feel lonely, he’s so much with you.” Now he continued. “I see in the present like shrouds of white and gray, people coming in and out of your life. You need to get on with your life, he’s saying. He wants you to move on.” I smiled as I heard yet again the familiar words, realizing by now that as important the message, it was still much easier said than done.

“There’s a very strong attachment from his side,” David said in a serious tone. “He is unresolved. There is something important left undone, something left unsaid.” After a brief pause, he asked “Can you get in hand something he touched?”

“We’re going to need to bring him through.”