The Other Dream ...

Years ago I had another dream that terrified me.
In the dream I was crouching behind a copse of trees. Nearby, there was a gothic church and cemetery. In the distance a bright moon, and pastural hill. Beside me was a young woman, wearing plain provencial clothing from the 1600's. All around were other women and children, and a few men. I knew we congregated in secret for some sort of religious gathering. The woman clutched my arm in terror as she pointed toward the hill. Riders descended with their dark leader in the forward. He was a middle aged man, and from what I could tell, a rich nobleman. I watched as his cloak wavered wildly behind him, a sword in his hand.

The woman beside me screamed. She spoke in French and I understood everything she said, even though I know very little of the language. It was as if I had spoken it all my life.

"He's possessed. He's going to kill us!"

I remeber yelling his name, but unfortunately time has erased it from my mind, but I definitely knew who this man was. He was an evil man, and very intent on destroying.

As the riders drew near. I remember the rush of fear. He spotted me, reigning in with his sword about to strike. At which point I awake, gasping for breath and shaking.

This is the second past life dream I've experienced. Just like the first experience, which I have written about in my blog "The Dream" ... everything was so vivid and surreal. There were things in this dream that I could not have imagined. Especially, the clothing. I've researched for hours, trying to find something that resembled the clothing in the dream and this portrait is about as close as I am going to get, although the model is wearing something more fashionable.



After more research I found some interesting information pertaining to St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre which took place in the city of Paris and its surrounding rural areas around 1572. This event intrigued me. The fashion of the day for provencial peoples and the subject matter of that event seemed similar to my dream. Sadly, I will never know what event really took place, but one thing's for sure. I will never forget the look in the mad man's eyes or his hate for the people or that place. So far, this is my last past life experience dream. I think that when young these things come very easily, but then time passes and we forget while wrapped up and molded in the present.

Isinamakan

1ST SFOD-Delta


Ode to Isinamakan

Ten years, my friend ...
Time does pass.
Though not these memories -
How they last.

Remember the smile ...
Remember the place.
Remember the words -
How they lit up your face.

Where did you go, brave old soul?

KHAN PASS ... October 25, 2003

Swept away, wayward wind ...
Fleeting life.
Destined for all time -
Rendered immortal, Warrior divine.

Na'pi, hold your brave son ...
He gave his life, this one.
Sweet Grass Hills are calling -
Isinamakan - Takes Rifles Ahead

R. Granados
August 2, 2009
For Chief
Never forget ...



SWEET GRASS HILLS

The Dream ...

The first experience I've ever had with a past life recognition was when I was about twelve years old.

I had a very vivid and terrifying dream that has haunted me to this day ...

As far back as I can remember, I've always been afraid of heights. I remember my mother took me on a trip to Ohio to visit relatives in Painesville, and we visited this lighthouse on Lake Erie. I hadn't recognized my fear until I actually reached the top of the lighthouse. Upon making it to the causeway, I was attacked with this wild sensation of falling to my death. I remember clinging to the wall with my hands spread, trying to hold myself upright even though I wasn't near the railing.

I had another one of these strange attacks when I grew older. My father decided to take us on a hiking trip, and upon climbing higher, we rounded this steep hill with a narrow trace. I recall growing very dizzy. At one point my father nearly had to drag me along, as I cried with terror.

Hence, the moment arrived that I experienced my dream, a revelation if you will ...

My father was in the military, and we traveled around quite a bit. With every change of duty station, he took the opportunity to visit relatives, and quite often. And so, we visited my aunt in Oakland, Maryland.

One day, I was tuckered out from tomboyish roughhousing and took a nap. I fell into a deep sleep and then images of the western plains came to me. I heard little boys laughing, and horses nickering. It was dark, but I felt the wind on my face, and I could smell the scent of sweet prairie grass. Through the cover of darkness, I saw a flash of him, an indian boy about the age of ten or twelve, riding a pony. He had paint on his face, and he laughed a secretive laugh. I couln't see the other boy, but I knew the reason I couldn't see him was because his soul was mine. And so, I laughed back. I knew we were on a mission, one that was dangerous and against the rules, but I followed because the lure was too exciting.

We rode out across the prairie, with the wind at our heels and bow and arrows at our backs and we were free, young boys on the verge of proving our manhood. As we drew near, I rode up beside my brother. I knew he was my brother, I could sense the special bond. Jeering at him, I jerked my head and encouraged my mount to outpace him, pulling into the lead. Laughing, I headed straignt for our pursuit.

Beneath the full moon, we could see them. Hundreds and hundreds of buffalo. I could hear the rush, the pounding of hooves drowning out my voice, the exhilaration unbelievable. The dust rose thick as the buffalo drew in around my mount, trapping me within the herd. Looking back, I saw my brother. He shouted at me, but I continued to laugh. How could I not? I was happy and completely free. I saw him, waving his arms, the alarmed expression on his face. Slowly, my brother manuvered his mount, and I watched him fall back until the darkness consumed his face, and then I was alone and at one with the beast. It's a funny thing, one moment, hearing the sound of monstrous rumble, and then next, an instant sound of silence as you sail through the air, still happy and free, falling to your death.

My mother rushed into the room shaking me out of my scream, which slowly faded away as if I were falling, and falling. She asked me if I was okay. Obviously, I had belted a hideous noise or she wouldn't have checked in on me.

Later on in life as an adult, I shared my dream with my brother. I was telling him about the two indian boys hunting buffalo ... and he gasped in amazement, telling me that he had the same nightmare, but only in his dream, he watched an indian boy ride over a cliff ...

Things started to make sense. My fear of heights, my unusual habit of not staring directly at people while talking (In some old Native American cultures, it's common courtesy not to stare at someone while talking - it is considered rude), which by the way when observed - I've noticed my brother doing the same thing.

There our other coincidental things that are unfounded but interesting nontheless.

In this life, I was born into a nomadic military family.

My brother and I look very similar. We have aquiline faces, long and narrow with high foreheads and prominent noses. If you look at my brother's side profile, he looks native american, yet my mother claims there is no history of such ancestry in our family line. I did some research on the subject and found out that some past life experts suggest that we carry on our phycial traits into the next life. Take this for what you will ...

Incidentally, just recently I went through a box of old school pictures and artwork. I came across a picture I drew in the third grade. In the picture, there are two indian boys riding spotted ponies, while shooting arrows at buffalo...

The World Is Too Much With Us ...

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not--Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
~ William Wordsworth c.1802

The Gurney

I've have many psychic experiences from my past, but there is one that stands out in my mind more vivid than any other. Strange how we recall things ...

On the eve of the 1990 Kuwait invasion I had been living in a small German town called Enkenbach-Alsenborn. My husband had already deployed to Kuwait, and so I was alone as usual, the plight of a young military wife.

Just to brief you before I continue - Even now when I'm alone, and there is no one to absorb my energy, I am very in tune with my senses. I guess one must be at peace with one's self in order to subconsiously focus on the intelligence that lingers around us. We all have the ability, yet some are more susceptable than others. Strangely, my ability comes to me in the form of dreams.

In my dream, I found myself wandering a hospital. Everything seemed so bright and sparkling, even the clinical smell was overwhelming. It was like all my God given senses were a hundred times stronger. I remember passing an empty nursing unit. Nearby, there was an open door. There was a bright light that beckoned to me, and curiously, I found myself moving to the door. There was a strange mix of emotions as I neared. One of excitement, anticipation, and then the most agonizing fear. Somehow, I knew that I would find something that I didn't want to see through that door. When I reached the door, I peered into an empty room save for a lone gurney that stood in the center of an operating room. Blue sheets covered the form of a body. Instantly, I knew. Even though I knew, I had to see for myself. And so, I stood before the gurney, and slowly lifted the sheets. As I had expected. I found him lying there. My brother, cold and blue, no life at all. I stared down at him accepting the inevitable. Without warning, his hand reached out and grabbed at my wrist. Instantly, he came to life. Gone was the cloak of death. Tan and warm, he lifted his face to mine. "Help me." The words were raspy, as if he were in severe pain. As soon as he'd touched my hand, he then let go. Once again, cold as ice ...

I woke up from my dream. My heart was racing because the telephone was ringing. I grabbed the phone and it was my mother on the line. She told me that my brother had a severe appendix attack and that he almost died if not for the emergency surgery. I'm happy to report that my brother is alive and well , and very much single.

Haunted German Brownstone

Since it's almost Halloween, I 've decided to share with you one or two personal stories that I've experienced over the years relating to paranormal activity, strange unexplicable things that I've witnessed in the many different places that I've lived.

My very first experience with the other world was when I lived in a small village just outside of Sembach AB, Germany. I've already forgotten the name of the village, it was so long ago but I will never forget the apartment building I lived in. Originally, the large brownstone building was built from bricks of an old castle that had been built by the Princes of Ludwig nearly 500 years ago. The town used the bricks to build many of the public buildings, and our brownstone had been used over the years as a Gahsthaus, a school, a brothel, and even a hospital during World War II.

As I recall, one night my husband then had been pulling NATO security at one of the posts outside of town and left me all alone. There was only three doors in my apartment. The front door, my bedroom door, and the bathroom door, and all three had been shut. later that evening, I woke up hearing the sound of doors opening and closing and a light pair of footsteps just inside the kitchen. As they moved closer to my bedroom door, I cringed down under my sheets and waited for something, but I didn't know who or what. I was scared shitless, but whatever it was it never appeared. Looking back, tt was almost as if whatever it was had been standing just outside my bedroom door, waiting knowingly, taunting me. Needless to say, after a few more strange haunts we finally moved out of that apartment and closer to the airbase. This was the oldest building that I've ever lived in. It was ancient. The cobblestone hallway downstairs had old sconces and when you walked down the corridor at night to answer the door you could hear the echoe of your footsteps and you always felt like someone or something was just behind you ...

Part One

EERIE PREMONITION ...

Most of us know exactly where we were 09/11/2001 ...
However, I knew where I was three months before. I had decided to take my son on an all day excursion into New York City to let him experience the sights and sounds of a big city. We started the day bright and early. From Whitestone we bustled on through the subway system, making stops here and there along the way. At this one particular stop there was a black woman standing outside the gangway, yelling and screaming at the top of her voice. She wasn't in trouble, nor was she seeking help. No, actually she was preaching a spiritual message to the masses enroute into the city. I've experienced this type of preaching before when I was a kid since my mother ushered us into a number of small town penecostal churches where preachers would run up and down aisles and the congregation raised their hands and spoke in spiritual tongues. Many people on the subway were laughing at this woman because they thought she was crazy, but having knowledge of this type of prophetic spiritual movement I listened carefully because I recognized something powerful.

She told those on the subway to listen, and to listen well for God is speaking to us and forewarning us of impending doom. She called to the mothers to grab hold of their children, and husbands to cling to their wives for the time of God was near and many shall perish. She moved into the car, marching up and down the aisles and I felt the spiritual power move through the entire cabin. She stood right behind me and laid her hands on an individual next to me and started praying. Again she called to everyone, caste your sins aside and get right with God for the day of reckoning is at hand. As she marched one last time through the car I realized not a soul laughed. Instead their were many with their heads down or those who quietly stared the other way. Perhaps they sensed the same power but they couldn't understand what was happening. As quickly as she got into the car, she got off and went on marching through the subway with her bible in her hand and our subway car rambled away and the people from every walk of life went back to what they were doing, most everyone except for me. I sat there pondering the next ten minutes trying to understand what she'd been trying to say. I couldn't for the life of me understand what type of impending doom she was trying to communicate and eventually as we drew near to the city I became excited and forgot the preaching woman in the subway.

Our first stop was Battery Park, and then we walked a few blocks into the financial district until we headed straight for the twin towers which had always fascinated me. The idea was to take my son to the top of the tower so he could get an incredible view of the entire city. Unfortuantely, the lines were very long and their was so much to do and see that we decided to go into the other tower to the bottom floor mall and purchase some more film for my camera. We stopped to talk to an old black gentleman, a building security attendant who worked just outside the mall. He was a nice man who smiled and seemed like he really enjoyed his job and hence to this day I often wonder if he ever made it out of the towers alive.

As soon as we made our way into the mall I immediately felt this strange wave of oppression. From the pit of my stomach came this feeling and it traveled to my heart and I felt a huge burden, and one that I'd never felt so powerful before.
I knew I was picking up on something, the spirits were whizzing around, and they were whispering frantically to any psychic heart that would listen. This is what they do right before any kind of disaster. I knew this because in my late teens I'd had this same feeling when someone I knew had died. And so I listened to my psychic nature and I became increasingly restless as I went into a drugstore and purchased the film. The burden in my heart hurt, it hurt so bad that I felt like crying, and it was becoming harder and harder for me to breathe. I remember my son asking me what was wrong with me. For some people there is spiritual knowledge in the air and all you have to do is listen, be in tune and reach out and grab it. And so I replied to my son, telling him that the building was going to fall and we needed to get out of there as soon as possible. My son looked at me as if I was joking. About that time I got so lightheaded from the dizziness of the oppression that I had to sit down on a step just outside the mall. My son answered to me "Mom, this building is not going to fall." and I replied "Yes it is and many people are going to die." We quickly departed, and back into the subway and far away until we reached the Central Park. Again, the day was still young and there was so much to see that eventually I forgot about my insight.

Three months later, the evening before September 11th, I was standing outside on my terrace, looking down on a Via Barbieri street. I lived in Vicenza, Italy at the time and I loved sitting outside in the evenings and listening to the music from a nearby outdoor tratoria. Italians are always busy, even at night and long into the evening. I looked up into the sky and saw the lights of a faraway airplane signaling in the night sky and I had the oddest most morbid thought which entered my mind. What would happen if that airplane crashed?

The next day, my husband called me at about 4pm in the afternoon. He told me to rush over to the community center on post and watch the main lobby television since our tv was broken. I asked him why and he told me to just do it, something terrible has happened and he was on alert. Alarmed, I got on my bike and peddaled as fast as I could to Caserma Ederle military post and went to the community center. There must have been at least a hundred people milling around, watching the CNN news. The only sound I heard was the chaos coming from the television. All around I saw the soldiers faces, the outrage, the horror on the wives faces, the tears of desperation. In that moment it all came back to me. The preacher in the subway, the burden in my soul as I walked the halls of the twin towers mall, and the night before when I recognized the airplane in flight. Little premonitions that I knew but did not heed. I often wonder if I had been brave enough, strong enough like that preacher to roam the streets seeking anyone that would listen, would it have made a difference?

Later, my son talked to me. He said, "Mom, do you remember that day when we went to New York City and you said the building was going to fall?" And I silently replied, more than you'll ever know.

A Patriot of No Measure ...

"Unlike most mortals, Chief joined the CIA and returned to the same unforgiving mountains of Afghanistan to hunt Al Qaeda"
Steven Greer, Washington, DC

The Good Always Die Young ...
William "Chief" Carlson was an aquaintance of mine through a very good friend of ten years from Fayetteville, North Carolina. I was extremely sad to learn that in 2003 Chief was killed while on a treking mission in Afghanistan and since then I have kept his memory alive with me. Sometimes we are given a brief glimpse into the lives of those who could have been or should have been something more in our own life but because of poor timing and circumstance the moment was nothing more than it was destined to be ...
at least, not in this lifetime.

I am fortunate to have met William Carlson. I feel very honored that I was able to share a personal moment with him before his passing. He shared with me his great love for his BlackFoot heritage, his sense of humor and warmth, and sadly, an unexplainable spiritual connection that I can never explain but I shall keep dear to my heart. I will always remember the values Chief expressed to me about being a good husband and father and I don't think I'll ever meet a more honorable man, this I know. He was a trusted comrade and and now, a legendary warrior and he will be sorely missed even after all these years ....


And So To William "Chief" Carlson:
I give toast with a good cigar, a sweatshirt that was never mine and forever memorable words echoe in time, making his BlackFoot heart smile, and his warrior spirit laugh.
"We are one."

"Chief"

A patriot of no measure,
a soldier without fear,
a father and a husband to which
time with them stood still.
Admired by everyone whose path
he ever crossed,
He never took for granted
the job to which
he had been brought.
Alone at times it might’ve seemed,
through the pain
and through the tragedy,

The task ahead seemed much too great
for any normal man,
But anyone who’s met this chief
would know
that he’s greater than a man.
Forever people will look back on him
and see what he really was,
a soldier and a family man,
but still words cannot describe
Because there is no greater man
than he who lays his life down for
his country.

by Seth Patterson
A Memorial Remembrance given by wife, Cheri Carlson

Tomahawk Medal

Read Chief's Biography: The Greer Foundation

Let's Cross Over the River ...

I love old books, treasure them.

When I was a teenager I once visited a friend of my mothers' who lived in an old farm house near Cross Keys, Virginia. I remember the crisp air and the rain that dribbled all day beneath plumes of mist. To pass the time I would wander about the old ruins of a grand 1860's style Plantation house that stood nearby. I found out that the mansion was built just before the onslaught of the Civil War.

Since I enjoyed Civil War history, you could imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind as I admired that old mansion. I was truly fascinated because I was standing on private property that once was overran by Civil War soldiers and the sounds of cannon and buckshot filled my mind. I remember looking out toward the road which led away to Harrisburg and envisioned Union troops winding like a long snake of never-ending blue.

As a gift, my mother's friend gave me a copy of the "The Long Roll" by Mary Johnston, a rare turn of the century novel about life during the Civil War in the Shenandoah Valley. I have always held on to that novel not only because of the rich story, but because of a little treasure I found in the last pages of the book - a poem written by Willian E. Byrd - 12/30/1940 who once lived at 2.48- 37th st N.W., Washington D.C., a resident of the Georgetown University area.

I have never found this person, nor do I believe he is still alive, but I do have one other clue that is inscribed in the front of the book - a little oath of love - "Harry Byrd loves Ann Shiner" written by a child's hand. I often wonder if this booked belonged to one of those famous Byrds of Virginia. And so my little mystery still carries on to this day and if anyone recognizes these names or the address I would love to hear about the original owner of my book.

"Let's Cross over the river
and rest under the trees"
Thus to the [cross?] of the giver
The soul of a great man flees.

To him the end of the conflict

Urging all to press on
Awaiting his [weaken?] verdict
At the set of the May Day sun.

Thinking of country only
As he lay on a bed of panes
Fighting the battle so lonely
That he might not die in vain.

Had he live till the fighting was over
Had he been able to lead
A different story would cover
the tale of blood and deed.

William E. Byrd
December 30th, 1940

William E. Byrd wrote the poem as a posthumous tribute to Stonewall Jackson, who died may 10th, 1863 at the Battle of Chancellorsville. He was inspired by Mary Johnston's 1911 fictional novel, "The Long Roll" and on page 681, General Jackson speaks his final words, "Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees", which are the first two lines of the poem notated in qoutes, and with every two lines, the last words rhyme. "Panes" was a form of cloth he was laid on and the words "cross" and "weaken" were the best poetic words that could be made out.

There are allot of Byrd's in Virginia, West Virginia, and Washington DC, but it should be duly noted that Stonewall Jackson was born in Clarksburg, West Virginia, and not too far from the town that my mom's friend lives, and so I think this book has travelled full circle.
I would like to credit my father, Bill Lawson for deciphering the old English scribe and breaking down the poem in it's light penciled format.