Burying the Dead: The Cyclic Nature of Release and New Life

When I was little I could communicate with and often see the unseen world of ghosts, poltergeists and astral beings. 

Growing up in a '60s home built on top of a Native American burial ground and reincarnating into a family with no shortage of ancestral baggage, I was primed in the best training ground possible to develop sensitivities to navigate the unseen world.

I remember sitting on the living room couch watching the shadowy silhouettes of Native Americans and the hunters and trappers who occupied the land. Seeing my mother’s deceased cat Puffer Belly mosey on by from the corner of my eye. Pushing a paw away from my left shoulder as I was writing up a school paper on my laptop.

My street was exactly half a mile long, and I lived at the dead end, the lowest foundation on the street. During my middle school years, the school bus would drop me off at the top of the long hill after school, and I was the first one to reach home in my family of four. Because I had the house to myself, I took advance of the space to make pizza rolls and lounge in front of the TV watching Doug and Even Stevens.

For a series of months or years — time is a blur at this point - I witnessed a strange occurrence during my daily pizza role ritual. It happened at the same time each day. The clunky faucet in the side half bathroom would turn on and run for about five minutes, until, chachum, it magically shut off. I would sit there frozen on the couch, listening and observing, thinking that as long I didn’t move, the ghosts wouldn’t bother me.

Throughout the years, I witnessed many objects move from place to place as if portaling through Narnia’s lost and found or moving spontaneously without human intervention. My mother’s purse handles moving. Lights flickering. Objects flying off shelves.

And then there were the angelic and demonic beings. I remember occurrences of witnessing seven-foot-tall bursts of light or light apparitions swooshing across the room. I felt comforted and awed by their presence. The dark silhouettes were less welcoming. Seeing shadowy figures at the foot of my bed made me freeze and bristle like a porcupine. I would squeeze my teddy bear, drape my blankets tight over my body wrapped up like a cocoon, and pray the Hail Mary until I could fall asleep.

Continue reading this article on Substack: https://melanieadrianna.substack.com/p/burying-dead