What Indigo Eyes See
Being a little child of five going to a Pentecostal church in the sixties I was expected to sit quietly in the evening service as fiery rhetoric spewed from the pulpit. I cannot forget those cold blue eyes of the minister nor my nerves that something would go wrong with him. Feeling that I was being stared at I would turn around in the pew and sit with my knees propping me up so that I could see the tiny glass cut out window at the back of the church.
Like a paper doll, made of black construction paper, a figure stood out against the inky darkness of the stairwell. It casually looked around the members of the service and then stared directly at me. It seemed as if it was trying to tell me something and I stared back somberly trying to figure out why it chose me to show up to. I was watchful but not frightened. My mother, noticing my uncharacteristic disobedience at church asked me why I stayed turned around during the service. I told her and she told the elders who asked that I not come back since I could see demons.
A month or so later the minister suffered a stroke. I would tamp down that incident somewhere in the experiences of growing up. Later I made the mistake of going to churches again only to feel overwhelmed with panic attacks and having the unfortunate habit of being blunt.
Years later I became associated with a pagan group much publicized during the eighties only to find that they had no clue (as a rule) and no interest what I saw while with them. So I shoved what I witnessed further and further down, somewhere between midnight pizza's and early donut runs.
No matter the deity stance of the group I would come across I met no one like myself nor a place of understanding. So to be normal, I worked day jobs, went no where that I might see what people dug down or up from the levels they explored and kept to myself.
I have never seen what people have described on GhostHunters, Paranormal State or Psychic kids but I feel the hollow thump of awareness when I watch those shows. I am not a psychic, to be frank I do not know what I am, yet I can tell you the measure of a group’s intent when they cast pleas and pebbles into the depths or towards the heavens by what responds to them. I have learned not to tell them what they have brought forth. They really don't want to know and they resent that I have seen what they histrionically reach for.
I asked a therapist once, in an attempt to finally handle what separated me so, and he said I had a longer bandwidth than most people and not to worry so about it. So I keep my myopic gaze close to home.
Once I do recall seeing a tree reach deliberately towards a Native American man playing his flute before a crowd at a powwow. It teased him lovingly about his hair and shoulders while he blended tone to intent. His call was to the earth and with affection beyond my understanding he was enveloped by green tendrils of regard. I went home that night to sigh into my pillow, knowing only when we call out, the answers come on the terms of those who answer. Thank you for your time Elana Torres
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