1. Growing Up Psychic

(‘What a wonderful imagination!’)

In the Beginning

People begged me to write this memoir. I asked what particular things they wanted to know. One suggested I tell what it was like to perceive myself as being just like everyone else, an ordinary person living an everyday life, and then to awaken very suddenly to other dimensions and new, unexpected abilities. 

I think that must be her own experience (she is a gifted channel). 

It is not mine. I have had ‘other-dimensional’ experiences from earliest childhood. At first I didn’t realise that not everyone shared the same awareness. I assumed that what was open to me was open to all.  

However, when I was still quite young – before I was old enough to go to school – I started to realise that the people around me didn’t experience everything I did. So then, no, I didn’t feel I was just like everyone else. Apparently, no-one else was like me! 

In those days, my dad sometimes pretended to be.

There were other children who used to visit and play with me. They often accompanied me to dinner with the family. I always asked my parents if that would be OK, and introduced them. Mum would give permission, but mostly ignored them after that. Dad spoke to them in a friendly, rather jocular way and asked them questions. But he didn’t know who was sitting in which chair until I told him! I also had to tell him their answers to his questions. It became obvious that he couldn’t actually see or hear them.

Perhaps he thought he was joining in a game of let’s-pretend – that I was making stuff up for fun. It was a bit frustrating for both of us.

After I had that realisation, my visitors still came to the dinner table sometimes, but I didn’t let on to anyone else that they were there. It was clear that I was the only one truly aware of their presence. I thought this was odd, but I didn’t question it a great deal. I was very young; things were just what they were. There were lots of things in my life that I didn’t understand, and adult explanations – if they were given – didn’t always help. Many of my questions were met with, ‘You’ll understand when you’re older.’ So I accepted, if reluctantly, that the world was frequently mysterious but would make sense later.

Sometimes my parents asked after my ‘imaginary friends.’ I answered their questions truthfully. I told them about other things too, like the very tiny little people I sometimes encountered among the garden plants, whom I assumed were fairies (although they didn’t look much like the fairies in my picture books). 

‘What a wonderful imagination you have, darling!’ my parents would say, beaming with pride. 

That’s a lot better than, ‘Wash your mouth out with soap, you dirty little liar!’ which, I learned much later in life, some parents say to children who report such experiences. But I still got the message that they thought it wasn’t true. It was easier to pretend it wasn’t, than to keep trying to argue.

I wasn’t, and am not, the only person in the world like me – but it was many years before I knew that. Meanwhile, I learned to keep quiet about those particular friends who came to be with me when I played, ostensibly alone, in our big back garden. 

The Playmates

There were several children, boys as well as girls. Of the boys, I particularly remember Andy, because he had such long, skinny legs and was quite awkward trying to manage them – for instance when he went from standing to sitting on the ground with the rest of us. He was a nice boy, though, kind to us all, even though he seemed to be a little older. 

But my closest friends in the group, and the ones who came to play most often, were Maudie and Sylvie. 

I loved Maudie in particular. She was a sturdy little thing, and her clothes were thicker and more practical than Sylvie’s. She had a round little face under what I now know as a mob cap, a strong voice and very definite opinions. Above all, she was fun. She laughed a lot, made jokes, and enjoyed rolling about on the lawn. She was good-hearted too, a motherly little soul really. I keep saying ‘little’ and she was – even younger than Sylvie and me – yet, in terms of commonsense and inner strength, she was like the oldest.

She and Sylvie seemed to be best friends with each other, but they were happy to include me, making room for me easily. 

Sylvie had a slimmer, more delicate build and a more serious demeanour. She was fair-haired and fair-skinned (like me). Sometimes we had conversations without Maudie. We both loved Maudie unreservedly. She was that kind of girl; you just did. Looking back now, I think that she herself was so loving, we naturally responded. Yet Sylvie and I sometimes had conversations with each other that were different from the way we talked with Maudie. We could get quite deep.

Yes, we were only little kids, but kids don’t experience themselves as kids. (Think for a minute. Hasn’t that core self in your head always been the same age – or ageless?) We had our deep thoughts and ponderings, which we were able to share. So in some ways Sylvie and I were closer. But mostly we were a threesome, a happy threesome. I don’t remember any serious squabbles or huffs.