To say that it was an emotionally-charged moment for me would be an understatement. In a few minutes, it was my turn, and I laid my hands on her spleen, went to Level, and surrendered to the process. My imagination was focusing like I did with the strawberry and tomato, multiplied by a million or so. My body shook and I felt a tremendous heat passing through my hands. After we finished, the girl said that she felt an intense heat enter her through my hands, so it was not just my perception.
I came for the next three days, to lay my hands on her and be her friend, but whatever happened that first time did not happen again. On the second or third night, after laying on hands and as I was talking with her, that I realized she that was dying and that there was nothing more I could do. The fourth day, about 70 hours since my first session, I went to her hospital room and her bed was empty.
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I went home in a sorrowful daze and called the friend who invited me to the healing. The girl died a couple hours before I arrived. I was devastated and decided that I was not qualified for such work. I have not done that kind of work since, but I also have not been asked, and I am happy that no one has. I was four-for-four in praying or laying on hands, and the patient died within three days.
I felt like an angel of death, not a healer. Her mother had a fractured vertebra from an automobile accident, which gave her great pain and a drug addiction, and I laid hands on her neck several times over the next few months, and many years later, she told me that her neck healed soon after that, and she believed that my healing sessions did it.
She replied that when we finished working on her that first night, the atmosphere in her hospital room dramatically changed. But the next three days were blessedly peaceful, as if a loving balm was in the air.
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Since then, I have happily been around loved ones soon before their deaths, and the times have always been good, but I just tell them I love them and dispense with any attempts to help heal their conditions. Intern et videos are available of John Chang , an Eastern spiritual practitioner, burning paper with his hands.
I have also encountered the effect where an accomplished meditator can recharge batteries while holding them. The annals of science are full of unexplained phenomena that were measured, and only much later was a theory developed to explain them. Dur ing my LA days, I was in several spiritual groups that were primarily comprised of Silva graduates. We performed many exercises, and I led some of them. One night, we had a spoon-bending class.
There were about 30 of us in a circle. Some kind of stressed their spoons with their hands, saying that that was how they bent. That did not seem quite right to me, and most of us closed our eyes and concentrated on the bending without the stressing part. I had my eyes closed and nothing happened for me, but opened my eyes when some began exclaiming, and an old lady, the oldest person there at nearly 70, had her spoon in her hand directly across from me in the circle, and it was bent nearly in half, drooping toward the ground from where she held it.
I had my eyes closed and did not see it bend, but others around me did. The woman was modest about it. When she was younger, she once took 42 units, nearly two years of courses, in one semester of college, using Silva techniques. When people bend a spoon, they often make it into a trophy and hang it on their wall or make it into a desk ornament.
I had a friend who knew of a local LA diner where a woman bent the spoons of customers while they were stirring their drinks and the like. I heard of many spoon-bending events from the participants, and children pick it up easier than adults, as with many skills, especially psychic ones. I did a great deal of hiking and backpacking in the eastern escarpment of the Sierras , from Mammoth Lakes down to Mount Whitney. During my short-lived career in Seattle in after college graduation , I attended a Silva class in Seattle. One day they could see rain in every direction except for the hole in the clouds above their heads.
It was the most spectacular trip I ever took in the Sierras. My friend had been a ranger in that district, and it was also his most spectacular trip. The first two nights it rained on us. It was early August, and afternoon thunderstorms are typical in the High Sierra. My ranger friend later said that it was the hardest pass he ever crossed, as we were climbing up a snowfield without traction gear.
I led the way, kicking steps in the snow with my boots. Ignorance was bliss in that situation. As I think back, it was highly dangerous, and one slip would have meant a quick death at the end of a foot fall or so. In later trips I faced death more than once, would rather die in bed, and have become far more cautious in my old age. As we neared the ridgeline, rain clouds rolled in again.
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Being rained on every day is not a fun way to backpack, and as we neared the ridge I tried out psychic weather control, for the first and last time in my life. I imagined a rectangular hole in the clouds above our heads, keeping us dry. A few minutes later, we reached the ridge top and I looked up.
In a mass of ominous-looking storm clouds was only one break in the sky, right above our heads, in the shape of the rectangle that I imagined. However, what happened next was more memorable. Within a couple of minutes, that hole in the sky closed and the storm broke. It began hailing on us, and then a lightning bolt nearly hit us as we stood atop that ridge. My friend thought that it missed us by only a few feet, and I will not deny it. The light and sound was surreal, with the thunder seeming to roar forever.
I was somehow not afraid, again probably in my ignorance, but decided that we should probably seek some shelter under a rock. Below are pictures of our route that day. I pulled several all-nighters during those early years in LA.
I began to get shortness of breath, constantly gasping for air, and did not know what caused it, but the problem disappeared when the busy season ended. The next year, the stress symptoms came back and did not disappear when the busy season ended, and I gasped for air every waking hour for a year. As the next busy season approached, I finally went to a doctor. He said that I was having classic stress symptoms, and that I had better quit my job before a health disaster befell me.
Just then, I was called out of town for the second year in a row, to that infamous savings and loan bank. I was always ext remely loyal to my employers, but I quickly became useless at work. I had tried getting a job in Seattle the summer of , but did not have enough experience to land a job in a couple of weeks, went back to LA, defeated once again and decided that if I ever lived in Seattle, it would not be for many years. In January , I had a talk with my manager.
He told me that my career with the firm was finished, but my loyalty was so great that I could stay on their payroll for as long as I needed, so that I could find work. It lifted a huge burden from my back. That night, as I went home to my apartment it was not in LA, but the apartment that I had on that out-of-town job , I was nearly euphoric. As I approached my apartment door, I could not find my apartment and office keys.
I had not lost my keys before or since in my lifetime, and immediately knew that something was up.
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I still use the key ring that my father gave me when I was 16, but those lost keys were on a ring holding out-of-town keys. I tried to imagine where I lost them, and about the only possibility was the parking lot of the office building where I worked, which was in a bad part of town. It was raining, at night, and I drove several miles back to the building. As I drove into the parking lot, a scene from the movies greeted me.
The parking lot was empty, and as I pulled into it, a woman ran at my car in my headlights, and a car was following her, as if it would run her over. I opened the door while the car was still rolling, and she leapt in and screamed that we needed to escape fast.
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I drove past the oncoming car and kept going; it did not turn and around and follow us. When it became evident that we were not being followed, I looked at my passenger. She was a young woman of about 18 years who had a swollen eye and bleeding facial cuts. I asked if I could take her to a hospital, but she said that she just needed some antiseptic and bandages. She said that she was a prostitute who had just finished transacting business with the customer in that car that was chasing her.
Instead of paying her, the customer began beating her and she somehow escaped. He began to chase her in his car as I drove into the parking lot. She probably escaped as she saw a car pulling into the parking lot.
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I bought some first aid and took her to my apartment to treat her. Then I drove her home, which was across the street from my office building. That ordeal lasted a couple of hours. I gave her some money and left to find my keys. Just as I drove into the parking lot, about a hundred meters ahead something glistened like a beacon in the darkness. As I drove up, it was my key ring. The next day at the office, the receptionist found me and said that a young woman was asking for me at the front desk. Then my dance with the hooker began, which lasted for a month.
She thanked me for saving her and asked for more money, and I gave it to her. I could see that she was going to get whatever she could from me, and I let it play out, but decided that a thousand dollars would be my limit.