In The Hallway of Paradise

I have read about amazing stories about people who are by any standard normal. A woman, for example, gets in her car in an empty parking lot, but she forgets there’s something in the trunk she needs. So she gets out of the driver’s seat, and unwittingly leaves the car in reverse, and forgets to pull the emergency brake. There she is, lifting the door to the trunk and the car begins to roll backwards, and is about to flatten her, but a mysterious male appears and pushes the car, and thereby she escapes being crushed to death. And once she regains her composure, she looks for the man in the empty parking lot, but he has vanished into thin air. It could be a fable, or a scene from a horror story or flick. But who knows? Maybe it happened.

Although I approach stories like this with a healthy dose of skepticism, I would never attempt to judge their authenticity, since I have immense respect for belief systems. We all have them. Furthermore, visionaries of all stripes and colors claim our species has yet to tap the surface of those dormant parts of the brain, access doors to greater consciousness  Sad, isn’t it, that we use a fraction of that organ.

Imagine what we could accomplish if we could activate those features…

Maybe we would be far more capable than producing wars for the purposes of sport, and corporate profiteering, destroying the environment through forced ignorance, killing our neighbours, casting shame on the poor, and seeing the rich as the predators they actually are, gloating in their insatiable appetites for more and more, because nothing is ever enough for them.

However, they are perfectly at ease providing the employees of their empires with wages that only increase their struggle to survive, squeezing as much as they can from them, treating them as merchandise, and the taste of abusive environments, nothing more than animals — not only so their profits can increase — but to satiate their appetite for cruelty, which is as great as their appetite for money. Animals in zoos, for example, lead lives of luxury, by comparison, though disadvanteged in that they have unwillingly become captives, and however palatable the displays are to approximate a natural environment, creating the illusion of freedom, they still spend their lives in cages. 

So given the limitations of our species, we can expect almost anything, even mystics can be charlatans.

“It is not difficult to establish contact with the spirit,” said one at a meditation seminar. “The seed lies within us.” (This may be true.)  “God is everything and we are part of God, so in essence we are God.” (I wouldn’t go that far.) However, I like challenges with a bite. Maybe not God, but what about Guardian Angels?  What about them? Was that possible?

He then introduced what he referred to as “Diving Rods”. They looked a lot like those contraptions people use to scrape the surface of sand for the hidden treasures below. “These rods,” he said, “are used to determine, measure the length of one’s aura.” I was picked for this demonstration. Phil and I stood opposite each other, across the room. He held out the Diving Rods, and with minimal movement of the wrist, they began to vibrate.

“Can you feel the pull?” he said.

“Not really,” I said.

“Let’s try again,” he said.


“Can you feel it now?”


“Well, they don’t always work,” he said. “Sometimes there’s a fluke in the system.” I wondered which system exactly he was referring to? Flukes in the spirit world system? Were they intervening, blocking the connection? It’s possible.

“Let’s move on to visualisation,” he said. “The most common technique we use to contact elementals is through visualisation.”

“So you don’t really see them?” I said. “I mean, like here, in the room? Is your guardian angel here right now? Standing next to you?”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “But I am in continuous contact with my guardian angel (did he say angle?). He’s always there whenever I need him. I can always see him on the top of the hill.”

I was confused. Always with me, but on top of — which one was it? Was it a hill, or the hill? His hill? It was a lot like basic high school Algebra — x+y — just never clicked. I only understood them as alphabet partners, existing solely to join other letters to make words. Sometimes, however, we must cope with uncertainty — it’s healthy. So I gave the idea of visualisation another shot. I repeated the word slowly and in all caps:


“So I’m supposed to contact my guardian angel through the technique of visualisation?”

“Precisely,” he said. His enunciation was crisp. It made me think of crackers.

“Visualisation.” I repeated out loud at first, and from thereon, I drifted and began mumbling the word, until I finally reached the portal of silence. Once I crossed that threshold, I bounced it on the walls of silence, bit into it, to see if it resembled anything comparable to anything I had ever tasted — just because.

Daydreaming, surprisingly, posed a significant obstacle in my search for spiritual significance. Daydreaming from an early age was as natural as breathing. It was where 5 year olds could travel without a passport. The freedom to wander through the mind, drifting from one image or thought and into the next, and into the one next to that, sliding between reality (for that is necessary) and the world of imagination, well, is not only is time-consuming, but requires stamina, which I always had possessed, and later reinforced during my training as a dancer. But unlike visualisation, which requires focus, daydreaming uses an altogether different lens. So I developed a hybrid of daydreaming and visualisation. However, as you seldom can predict how hybrids will behave, you factor that risk into the equation.

I was now curious. I wanted to meet my guardian angel — just because.

Naturally, it didn’t happen immediately, and the fun began to fade. It almost felt like a 9-5 job. And for me that was no different than living in a cage. So my interest waned. I was ready to give up. My time, after all, was valuable.

Now I know you can guess what happened next.

The unexpected happened on one uneventful night. First, I felt them. Then, I heard them. Then, I saw them. Just as I was about to go to sleep. Apparently that’s when they like to show up, right before you drift into sleep. They slip through that dimension, I suppose, which our feeble brains cannot detect. So in addition to having more than one, they were not just any old (well they were old) angels. Not at all. These dudes were heavyweights.

They came dressed in business suits and immediately started to whine. They had long stringy hair. And they all talked at the same time. They stood around my head, like 3 probes attached to some cosmic radio; you know how radio waves go in and out depending on frequencies? — that’s how they sounded. And they argued amongst themselves about the most ridiculous details of my day.

“I really think she should’ve done something with her hair today. You know, she’s gonna have to make a decision about that soon. What will it be? Brown? Platinum? Black? Those roots are looking kind of, well, bad, really bad.”

“So what will it be, Princess?”

But they didn’t bother to wait for a response.

“Personally, I like the platinum —”

“That makes her look too pasty. What do you think, Gabe?”

“I think she should go with red. She hasn’t done that for a long time. And it complements her freckles.”

“Hey,” I shout. “Why don’t you tell me something I wanna hear? Why did Einstein insist on a week when I told him one night with him would’ve been enough? And what about the spaceship in my backyard? Why did Carl Sagan get to go on it, but I had to stay behind? I mean, even though Einstein stayed behind with me, and together, we watched it disappear, I was feeling so nostalgic. I wanted to fly away. And here I was, grounded with Einstein.”

They take notes on everything I say, and feel free to come and go as they please. They’re everywhere. I can understand emergencies, but parking lots?

I sit up on my bed, groggy and looking like a ghost, with dark blues circles under my eyes, and red threads in my eyes. I sit there dumb, speechless, and think it’s time to audition for the Living Dead. This amuses them. And they giggle.

“Go away. You guys are creepy. I wanna go to sleep.”

But do they listen to me?

Hell, no.