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Well over a decade ago, I used to write on 100words.com, under the pen name "Quanita". It required that I write 100 words - no more, no less - every day, for a month. At the end of the month, if I had completed 100 words each day, it was published on the site.

There’s a space between our waking moments and our sleeping moments. I call it the “Grey Space” or the “In-between.” Instead of everything being as colorful as it is in this dimension of “Here & Now”, everything is grey. The environment is grey. The energy is grey. The entities are grey. The souls are grey. It’s like being in a black and white movie.

One of my spirit guides - “Belushi” - described it like a grey subway station that loops and loops, and goes nowhere. “The only way to get out of there is to remember who you truly are. All the things chosen to numb oneself accumulates in that space and can hold a soul prisoner.”

Think of the Grey Space as the alley between dimensions. It serves a purpose, but don’t stay there.

The Grey Space is where some suicides transition to, especially if their death included overdose and/or addiction. However, it is important to note that all suicides do not go to the Grey Space. The circumstances, reasons, and emotions around the suicide, matters.

Eventually, when they are ready, some who have been in the Grey Space may choose to go to the Healing Space, but as in all things, it’s a process. There are no shortcuts.

When necessary, the Divine will send emissaries or loved ones, to assist in retrieving a soul that is ready to shift out of the Grey Space

In the early 2000’s, I was driving home from Wisconsin, after sharing a few days of sessions and a Gallery. The weather was very stormy, but I had confidence in Star to get me home safe.

As usual, I prayed to the Big Kahuna to get me home safe and to protect me and others from any injuries.

I love driving long distances alone in my rolling temple. It’s a wonderful time to meditate, sing, chant, and converse with the Divine and others. I so enjoy the scenery while listening to a variety of music; and I find great joy in sipping on a big sparkly cup of cold ice water, to quench my thirst.

Suddenly the weather changed from bad to worse. The wind was blowing so hard, it felt like my car would get blown off the road. The trees were bending all around me. I started praying and asking the Divine if I should pull over or continue, which is when I noticed a rather large, black stallion, riding in stride with my vehicle, to the left of me, on the meridian. The rider had on all black, like one of those cowboys from the wild, wild, West.

“If you’re so psychic, why haven’t you won the Lottery?!”

Let me share a true story with you. It happened while I was separated and in the process of divorcing my wasband.

One day, my wasband’s father came to me in spirit.

He apologized for being the jerk he was, then he begged me to talk to “his son”. He had an important message for him. “Tell him don’t marry that woman he’s engaged to, because she doesn’t love him. All she wants is her citizenship and to bring her children to the states.” I swear, as soon as those words were communicated to me, there was a knock at the door. It was my wasband. He was dropping off money for the kid’s lunches.

I sat on the stairs deciding whether or not I was going to be the microphone for his father’s message from the Other Side. Regardless, I have a sacred obligation to the Divine to be the messenger. It’s not about me or us. It’s the integrity of the message and messenger.

Once I was reminded of that, by the Big Kahuna, I told my wasband his father was standing right next to him and had an important message for him. He responded sarcastically, “Yeah right, if my father’s standing next to me, and you’re talking to him, then tell him to give me the winning Lottery numbers.”

This happened well over a decade ago…

My spiritual sister Patti and I decided to visit Bachelor’s Grove one day. I forget why we decided to go there, but this I know, I haven’t returned since.

We were walking down the path to the cemetery, and were about forty feet from the entrance, when we heard a heavy wooden door creak open. Believe me when I tell you, there were no visual doors where that sound came from. My sister and I jumped so high. We looked at each other and decided “That was creepy.”

Bachelor’s Grove has an ambience about it. It’s surrounded by a wire fence, and there’s a body of water on one side. Many of the grave markers are so worn from the weather and elements, that’s it’s difficult to read some of the inscriptions. Some of the graves looked like they had been desecrated long before I had been born.

We walked into the cemetery.

There are a lot of emotions I process as I share my stories with you through blogging. I do not share the stories to portray being a victim. I share the stories to share the steps and process of understanding, that I am a Divine being living a human existence.

The only authority of me, is me. The only authority of you, is you.

I heard the Divine voice speaking to me the other day as I was blogging. She said, “All these things you experienced not so that others would believe you, but that you would believe yourself, and in me.” This was a profound thing to hear from the Big Kahuna herself.

Over and over again, I have heard how vital faith is. Have faith in God. Have faith in the Divine Plan. Exercise faith. I believe that includes having faith in ourselves.

Each of us is born with a Divine purpose. …

From the time I can remember, my mother always encouraged me to pray to God in Jesus’ name, and read the KJV Bible. Today is her birthday.

In her honor, I requested she guide me to a scripture that would inspire me today. I was drawn to the King James Version of Romans 14:13 –

“Let us not therefore judge one another anymore: but judge this rather, that no man put a stumbling block or an occasion to fall in his brother’s way.”

I’ve been meditating on that verse all day.

In the late 1960’s, there were beautiful Banyan trees across from Waikiki Beach. I was in awe the first time I saw them. There was something very inviting and magical about them, especially when the sunbeams burst between their branches.

In elementary school I read a book about a Banyan tree and a little boy. If I recall correctly, the spirit of his ancestors, including his Tutu, resided within the Banyan tree. (I believe Banyan trees are gateways to other dimensions, spaces, places, and times.)

There’s a Banyan tree in Maui that has enchanted me. I’ve only ever walked or driven by it. Each time it seems to sing lovely, inviting, Hawaiian melodies. I think it’s the combination of the fragrant tropical blossoms; the ocean breeze; and the ancient Hawaiian ancestor’s spirits, that makes it feel like such a sacred space.

I sure am grateful for the United Way and all the programs available to assist those in need. I have benefited from their patron’s generous donations and counseling services.

The Court Advocate sat across from me crossed legged on the chair. “We have services available to assist you through this crisis.” She said, encouraging me to at least attend one counseling session.

Being in hospitals or sitting in waiting rooms can be very difficult for me. Over the decades I’ve recognized how many layers of energy are in such scenarios and the effects on me - physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually. The waiting room at the Southwest Suburban Family Shelter had a layer to it that was heart wrenching, yet there was a safe space feeling about it. None were caused to suffer there.

The year was 1982. I was 23 years young…

“Do you remember that time we lived in Great Lakes, Illinois, and your mother took you girls to visit her girlfriend and sons?” my father inquired, “Do you remember what you saw in their house?”

I shook my head yes.

He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I believe you.”

Silence.

The year is 1965. I was six years young.

My mother had taken us on a journey to visit her friend. Something my father had done hurt her very bad. She was very sad.

The house was two stories, with a basement and crawlspace. The kids were laughing and playing upstairs with my big sister. I wasn’t included, so I sat at the bottom of the stairway pouting. I heard someone call my name behind me

It was right after my son had been born. I was sitting with my father, upstairs in his bedroom, at my grandma’s house. He hadn’t spoken to me in over four years. We had recently reunited.

He seemed to have something very serious on his mind. He began to ask me questions about specific moments I could clearly recall from my childhood.

The first moment he asked me about was in Honolulu, Hawaii, when he asked me to hit him as hard as I could…

We lived in National City, California, in a two bedroom/one bath, pink duplex. Another Filipino family lived right next door.

We had a green couch we laid on, with our mother at night, to watch TV. She didn’t like to sleep alone, so we often fell asleep on the couch snuggled next to her. (I was always the one chosen to sleep on the edge of the couch because I was “so brave”.)

I don’t recall my mother reading us children’s books or fairy tales, instead we watched “The Twilight Zone”; “Alfred Hitchcock”; or “The Outer Limits”, with her. (To this day, I love those shows! I feel very nostalgic whenever I watch them.)

I believe I was 4 years young when the Man in Black appeared. I had fallen asleep on the couch. I remember opening my eyes in the dark and sensing I wasn’t alone. He stood right next to me.

We had just moved into base housing in Honolulu, Hawaii. I was eight years young. My little sister was five. My little sister and I were outside exploring the neighborhood and playing. There were two girls about my age on a bicycle. One was pedaling, the other was on the handlebars. We weren’t bothering anyone. We were smelling the flowers, looking at slugs, finding snails.

They yelled something at my sister, then got off their bike and started picking on her, kicking and pushing her to the ground. The had pushed her hard enough that she was bleeding. She cried in pain. Believe me, my little sister is the sweetest, kindest being ever. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. I saw what was happening and ran by her side to defend her. I told the girls to stop being mean to my sister, or I would stop them. They didn’t care, and came after me, so I did what my father had taught me to do, …

For those who have attended one of my Psychic Galleries, or have shared a session/reading with me privately, its not unusual for me to receive messages via songs, from loved ones who are on the Other Side.

I’ve noticed those trying to communicate beyond the veil use the songs I am mostly familiar with, so it’s wise for me to listen to a variety of music. It’s a language or form of communication that is universal. I’m not always astute about the words, but the melody mostly comes through. Sometimes I make up my own words, to match the energy that is being conveyed by the Other Side. The correlation between the song and what it communicates to the receiver fascinates me, especially their response(s). Most of the times, the song isn’t just for one person. It can be for an entire audience – present and not present.

I was parked outside My Mermaid’s & Sir Bob’s Cedar Mansion, in the magical Verona woods. It had been a long journey from Chicago. It was wonderful to park, roll down the windows, and breathe in the fresh country air. The daffodils and various other flowers were blossoming in abundance.

My cell phone rang. It was my mom. She was concerned if I had arrived to my destination safely. I assured her I had. I started to describe how beautiful My Mermaid’s garden was. As I was describing it, a wispy white figure began to descend from the top of a tree. It didn’t look like any bird or insect I’d ever seen before, that’s when I saw it’s tiny, human like feet extend beneath it. I did a double take. It wasn’t a bird. It was a fairy! A fairy!!!!

The story is told, that shortly after my Grandma and Ogeesan bought their house, they discovered a macabre painting in the crawlspace. My uncle said the eyes at the center of the painting glowed red in the dark. My father only spoke about it once with me, after I asked him as an adult.

The painting frightened my uncle so much, he refused to touch it. My uncle was a strong and brave man, but he wasn’t stupid. My dad took a swing of his Budweiser and went in. The instant my mother saw it she said, “It’s the De-bil!!!!!!!!” and refused to look at it, demanding it be burned. She told me many times throughout my life, that “… the eyes glowed red!”