On My Feet

What The Sitter Wants part 2

SO, WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU RECEIVE A READING?

When I posed the question, “What do you want from a perfect reading?” I should have realised that the question would eventually be asked of me — and it was. Fair enough, but at the time I was too busy being amazed by my colleague’s answers.
Fortunately, I’m reasonably good at thinking on my feet (even though I was sitting down) so I answered.
Like everyone else, I’m interested in which Spirit has come through, so a crisp description comes in handy. If it is an open reading (the Medium is not going directly to me), I tend to latch onto specific details. Recently, the Medium referenced sore knuckles (I had some due to a lot of typing and constant gardening), so I ‘tuned in’ and the reading was for me. This seems to be happening to me more and more — which is interesting. So now, the Medium has asked if they can come to me and I’m listening intently (my head tilts slightly when I listen intently, and my eyes glaze over when I’m not). I’m looking for physical characteristics and signs of a personality. This last one seems to be very important to me — I remember people by their personality. I listen to the words the Medium uses because I can pick up a turn of phrase that will give me a clue.
I’m a bit more tuned in than most people when it comes to readings because I participate twice a week in Circle. I’m tuned in to certain clues, and I know what to listen for. The average ‘sitter’ is under a lot more pressure than I am — they need more time to digest the information.
Most of all I want to be reminded of how good it was to know this person. I want to bask in the feeling of them. I want to hear that they remember me and I made a difference in their life. I also want to hear about what they are up to now, but this very rarely comes up in a reading, and I think this is a shame. From time to time I have experimented with bringing through a sense of what the Spirit is up to now, and it often reflects something that they loved to do when they were alive — which is very interesting to me.
When it comes to messages, I’m looking for encouragement and direction. I need encouragement on a daily basis — it’s like omega 3s, you cannot store them up, you need more each day. I like specifics in a message, and I love the message to emerge during the reading, not just at the end. I can always use a few insights as well, but I know these are rare and as everyone should, I filter the information and its value to me through the relative ability and intent of the Medium. I take some readings with a grain of salt while others are taken more seriously.

What the Sitter Wants

There isn’t a specific chapter in TRUST that deals with the expectations of the sitter (the person receiving the reading), but there are heaps of references throughout the book. After all, the sitter is the focus of a Mediumship reading — no sitter, no reading, even if the reading is for you. If you are not ‘present’ the reading is pointless.

At a recent meeting of our evening Circle, I posed the question to those who were present, “What does a perfect reading look like to you when you are the sitter.” In other words, ‘what do you want from a reading?’

We were small in number on that beautiful warm Summer night, so there was heaps of time for philosophical discussion.

The answers I received were a stark reminder that people turn up to a Mediumship demonstration with quite different expectations.

In our Circle that night, each person gave a different answer. There were similarities, but no two answers were the same. I have to say that this amazed me.

One person said that a very clear description was absolutely necessary so that the Spirit was identified because that message had no meaning without knowing who was delivering it. This person often missed or forgot the message while wrestling with who the Spirit might be — very interesting.

Some people put more weight on the message and others cared more about being reunited with old friends — the message was secondary — all very interesting.

DOES THE PREFERENCE OF THE MEDIUM AFFECT THE TYPE OF READING THE SITTER RECEIVES?

Amazingly, the answer seems to be, no. This question naturally flowed on from the realisation that each sitter wants something slightly different from a reading.

This was startling news. How does the Spirit World ‘arrange’ for a reading to exactly suit the sitter? The short answer is that they do, but the longer answer is that this arrangement seems to work more smoothly with experienced Mediums — so constant practice is important.

Someone once said (jokingly) that readings would go much more smoothly if we didn’t have to have sitters.

The relationship between a Medium and a sitter is a complex one and a ‘good’ reading can often be the result of a Medium who understands this relationship and all its complexities.

In our Circle, when we are in development mode, all Mediums, experienced and beginner, bring through evidence of the continuation of the Spirit after death. The differences in the appearance of the readings comes from the experience of the Medium.

Recently Trevor, our tutor, suggested to one of our Circle that they should open their eyes when they deliver their evidence. The reading went from stalled to ‘flowing’ in the blink of an eye. Trevor understands how important it is to observe your sitter when you deliver information.

In truth, there are a myriad of things happening during a reading and a Medium needs to be aware of all of them. It’s a complicated job and it requires practice.

If you have the ability, you will receive information, but it is what you do with that information that marks you as a successful Medium.

Probably the most import consideration is giving your sitter time to digest the information. This is incredibly important. Sitters can freeze up when they are in the spotlight. This explains why we hear people come up to us after a reading and tell us that they could place the information we gave them — eventually. Naturally, we wish that they had acknowledged that DURING the reading, but maybe we just didn’t give them time enough to work it out, or more importantly, maybe we missed the telltale sign of them realising they did know a Fred, but now they are too embarrassed to say it out loud after vociferously denying all knowledge of anyone named Fred.

Knowing that sitters have a bias towards certain outcomes can help us pick up the early warning signs and deal with the sitter’s requirements.

This would be much easier in a one on one reading where we are free to ask questions — we can hone in on what the sitter wants much more quickly, but during a platform reading we are working with one hand tied behind our backs because we cannot ask questions — we must observe and intuit.

Bent out of shape

Feedback

Taken from TRUST: what it feels like to be a Medium.

Feedback.

I have learned that a Medium must learn to live with ‘not knowing’.

We do our job, we make a connection, we deliver a message.

Very little of this is about us, we are simply the vehicle.

In Circle, we give each other feedback on a reading.

It is great to know who we brought through and what that person meant to the sitter, but out in the world, this rarely happens.

It is most unusual for anyone to come up to me after a reading and tell me who I brought through for them.

It is delightful when it happens, and I have many great memories from when this has happened, [see ‘Emily’ in the short stories at the end of this book] but I have learned not to expect it.

My ego wants to know that I did a good job, but it is not essential to my performance as a Medium.

If for nothing else, not expecting feedback while knowing that I have made a good connection has prepared me for those times when no one claims a Spirit.

There are a hundred reasons why someone in an audience will not claim a reading, and top of the list is that this person was not well known to the sitter.

Grandparents and great-grandparents often come through, and these people can be difficult for someone to place.

They come through with heaps of evidence, but this is pointless if the sitter was six years old when they died!

This does not stop Spirit from trying.

Some Spirits can be very persistent.

I’ve heard sitters say, “This person has come through a bunch of times, and I don’t know who it is.”

Are you starting to get an idea of how complicated this job can be?

~oOo~

It’s one of those things that you take for granted when you sit in our Circle. Trevor encourages feedback from the sitter.

When you are starting out you really need to hear that you have hit the mark. It’s not ego, it is essential for building confidence.

For some of us, especially those of us who have not lived with this ability all our lives, it takes a while before we begin to believe that this is actually happening.

I know that you are saying, “You must trust,” but it is easier said than done when this ability appears to drop out of the sky!

I watch the new members of Circle (we have a steady stream of them as each year goes by) as they listen to the feedback from their sitter at the end of a reading and I often hear the Medium say, “Really?” when a confirmation is given. I can hear the slight disbelief in their voice, and I smile. Over time, this disbelief turns into delight as they get used to the idea of being correct.

These reactions are quite reasonable when you consider how the information comes through — often in fragments and seemingly random ideas.

These days, I gauge the effectiveness of my readings by a combination of the reactions from my sitter (this can be a mixed bag on many occasions) and the feeling that the Spirit gives me as I deliver the information and the messages. Since I have allowed Spirit to bring through emotions when I read (for a long time I was very reluctant for this to happen), I can tell if I achieved a good connection. Often the reading leaves me a bit emotionally drained. This can be a blessing and a curse. I find it to be satisfying if I can still feel the remnants of the emotion as I sit down, but on platform where there are a number of readings to do, it can make things difficult.

I have one colleague who never needs to hear feedback. He knows how well the reading went and that is enough for him. I have a foot in both camps — I know when I have achieved a good connection but I also see the delight of my sitter’s face as they relive the reading and tell me where I hit the mark. We both get something from that experience.

All human beings, including Mediums, need constant reassurance that they are on the right path. This is why being a part of an excellent open Circle (where new people are free to come and go) is essential — we consistently get to test the accuracy of our ability in a safe and supportive environment.

Responsibility

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An AK 47 & a Banana

 

This story is now part of TRUST and SLIGHTLY SPOOKY STORIES.

A bloody fingerprint on my credit card made the store clerk hesitate for a moment, but I guess he wanted to finish his shift with a minimum of fuss because he put through the transaction, handed back my card and wished me a good day, all without a single change in facial expression.

My facial expression, on the other hand, could be described as a grimace. Not the bloke in the McDonald’s commercials, but the one where you are in a lot of pain, and it has to show somewhere, even though you don’t want it to.

There was a chance that a bloody fingerprint was a part of everyday life for this bloke. Maybe, he even kept a chart of how many he encountered in a shift.

There it goes again — my mind.

Probably a side effect of losing so much blood.

It’s difficult to think clearly. Fortunately, a lot of thinking is not required. All I have to do is slow down the bleeding enough so that I am still alive at this time tomorrow. The meeting isn’t far from here, and no one takes any notice of a slightly disreputable character in this part of the city.

Melbourne is good that way; ‘big money’ and ‘down and outs’ mix freely, as long as they don’t get in each other’s way.

The bandages and gauze were enough to cover the wound, but at some stage, I was going to have to find the courage to stitch it; was not looking forward to that.

It was Sunday, and the tourists were out in force.

Lots of kids, and mums and dads.

Cameras and carry bags, giggling teenage girls and puffed up teenage boys, none of them interested in me.

Twenty-four hours is not a long time in most people’s lives, but it was to me, especially since I acquired that hole in my side.

Once it was over, if I was still standing, I was going sort out the bloke who perforated me, but till then I needed a quite place to sit.

I turned down one of the myriads of laneways that criss-cross Melbourne and I come across a sign that said the Conan Doyle Society was meeting for an afternoon of mediumship. The sign gave a start time, but I had no idea what time it was because my wristwatch was lying in pieces not far from where the fight started.

There seemed to be a bit of activity, so I entered.

The building was ancient, and I passed through an open doorway — crafted about hundred and fifty years ago.

The walls were brick, and there was a faint smell of dust in the air.

“Don’t worry about the dusty smell. It will dissipate in a little while. The building only gets used on Sundays. Ghosts play here during the week.” The lady who told me this was about sixty years old with a smile that suggested that she had left a trail of broken hearts in her wake in her younger days, and now, for all I knew.

The windows of the building were vaulted and filled with clear leadlight. The floors were Baltic Pine, and the plethora of humanity that had trodden on them had sculptured them into hills and valleys around the tight knots in the wood.

Timeworn padded chairs were being laid out in rows by helpers who looked as old as the building itself.

A tiny lady, who was not much bigger than the chair she was carrying, said to me, “Sit here young fellow. You’ll get a good view. You look like you could use a good ‘sit down’. You sit here, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

“You haven’t got something stronger than tea, have you, lady?”

“No, but I know how you feel. I could go a good snort myself.”

I laughed, and my side hurt.

The cup of tea had milk and about four sugars in it. I didn’t mind.

The chairs continued to come out through a small door, the same door that the cup of tea had come through and I wondered how many more rooms there were to this place.

Within a little while, the hall filled up with people and soon, none of the forty-odd chairs was empty.

Before the cup of tea and the kilo of sugar, I had been feeling quite sleepy, but now I was wide awake.

The lady running the show stepped to the microphone, which I had not noticed and welcomed us all.

She gave a particular welcome to all the ‘newcomers’ and looked directly at me. She introduced the two people seated behind her and gave their names, but I was not taking much notice.

She mentioned that this group had been meeting for about one hundred and twenty years, under various names, and that its current name dated from a visit by the renown author at the turn of the previous century.

A few people nodded, and the tiny lady who had supplied my cup of tea said something out loud and the woman at the microphone agreed with her.

Things were getting interesting.

The lady sitting next to me didn’t seem to mind that I looked like I’d been in a fight; which I had.

The speaker introduced one of the people behind her, a Trevor someone, and he spoke to the assembled crowd.

He walked across to one side of the hall and asked a woman if she would like a reading. She said yes, and the fun began.

Trevor described a man in fine detail and asked the woman if she recognised this person. She promptly burst into tears, and a box of tissues appeared out of nowhere. Trevor gave her a moment to compose herself, and then he went on with a bit more description and ended with a message. “The gentleman wants you to know that it is okay with him if you want to get married again, and could you please make sure that the rose bushes get pruned.”

The proceedings went on for more than an hour, and the two people on the platform took turns to read for various members of the audience.

I was enjoying myself, but the ‘over the counter’ painkillers were beginning to wear off, and I had a monster headache.

I was feeling sorry for myself when I realised that this Trevor character was speaking to me. “May I come to you, sir? Yes, you, the gentleman with the coat and the upturned collar.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Can you speak up sir, so the audience can hear you, also I’m a bit hard of hearing.”

“YES, I GUESS SO. Knock yourself out.”

“Thank you, sir. May I have your name?”

“It’s Sam.”

“Thank you, Sam. I have a woman with me; she’s presenting in her late sixties wearing men’s work clothes, and she has grey hair. Can you place such a person?”

“Not at the moment, but I had a girlfriend who looked like that a few years back.” I enjoyed the laughter from the audience, but Trevor only smiled.

“She’s carrying an AK47 in one hand and a banana in the other. Can you place that?”

A cold shiver went down my back.

“Yes, I think I can.” I was in shock.

“She’s wearing Army boots, and one of them is laced with string. She says that she always carried a banana because she never knew how long it would be between meals. She wants you to know that the wound in your side will result in your death if you don’t have it seen to today.”

Trevor stopped talking, and every eye in the hall turned in my direction.

Trevor continued. “This lady is telling me that killing people is not the way. Even though she was defending her country against invasion, nothing good came of killing the soldiers that came under her sights. She says that she has met up with them, ‘over there’ and they have made their peace. The soldier who killed her has done the same. She wants you to know that love is the only way. If you try to hold out, without treatment, to make that meeting tomorrow, you will die from your injuries. Oh, and she said that you should eat more bananas and ring your dad once in a while. Can I leave that with you, Sam?”

“Yes, you can, and thank you.”

I’m not sure why I thanked him; it just seemed like the right thing to do.

The meeting disbanded, and food appeared out of nowhere, and conversation broke out in several places.

The chairs disappeared as fast as they had arrived and we all stood around eating cake and drinking tea.

I was probably half dead at this stage, but I have to say that those were the best scones and jam and cream I have ever tasted.

I found Trevor and told him about my ancestor who had valiantly and vainly fought the Soviet invasion of her country in 1956. I wasn’t born yet, but family legend had her name up in lights. My ancestors were mostly ordinary people living ordinary lives, except for the convicts who started our line here in Australia; and then there was Maria, the freedom fighter.

Sixty-three years of age.

She could field strip and reassemble an AK47 in the dark.

The AK47 was and still is, the weapon of choice of the freedom fighter, but for all its virtues, it is not very accurate at range, but somehow Maria became the best sniper in her group.

Sadly for Maria, the Resistance was not able to hold out for very long. It was all over in a couple of days, and at the end of it all, there were only broken dreams and a family legend.

Things got a bit fuzzy after that, but I do remember waking up in the emergency ward at the Alfred Hospital.

I had become quite a celebrity.

Apparently, a diminutive older lady had carried me in on her back, saying that I needed attention for a knife wound.

She disappeared, but not before she rearranged the chairs in the waiting room.

“You’ll get more people in if you spread them out like that.”

The Triage Nurse was okay with the new arrangement, and she didn’t think that any of it was particularly strange.

I guess nurses get to see some weird shit in the course of a day.

I was laid up for a while, and I had to spin an interesting tale to get the cops off my back, but eventually, they said I could go home.

The following Sunday I went looking for that laneway, but the doors were closed, and there was no one about.

I’m not discouraged, though; I’ll go back next week and see what happens.

I get the feeling that I’ll never look at a banana or an AK47 in quite the same way, ever again.

The Two Susans

This story is now part of SLIGHTLY SPOOKY STORIES.

The two Susans never met, but for a few moments, in this room, they existed for us in a most unusual way.

Our group had been meeting for more than a year.

Every Wednesday night, come rain hail or anything else for that matter.

The group was a little larger on this cold and frosty night. Someone had turned the heaters all the way up, and for a change, I didn’t complain. I could not get my hands to warm up. The noise from the heater was distracting but so was the potential chattering of my teeth.

A kind soul had switched on the urn, but the bloody thing took forever to warm up, and I was seriously caffeine deficient.

The noise of it warming up was also irritating, but I was prepared to forgive it as long as there was coffee at the end of it.

“Don’t bother mate. The bloody thing’s cold.”

The person putting a dampener on my caffeine ambitions was Paul. He is young and enthusiastic, two things I like; me being not young and occasionally enthusiastic.

“I’ll whack the kettle on, it’ll be faster.”

“You sir, are a legend.” My caffeine ambitions were back on track.

I knew almost everyone in the room with the exception of the older bloke sitting a couple of seats up and a teenage girl sitting about eight chairs around on my right.

New faces were nothing new. This group was a lot like that, even on a bitterly cold winter’s night. Word got around that something interesting was happening and friends of friends just turned up.

I’d been pasting up my latest book for the print edition, and I was glad to be out of the house. I love writing, but I dislike the stuff that goes on around it.

My back was a little bit sore, so I gave it a bit of a stretch while Paul put coffee and sugar in our cups.

For some unknown reason, no one had grabbed the comfortable armchair, so I staked a claim in the age-old tradition of throwing my scarf over it — tribal customs of the Hills people.

The caffeine was just starting to seep into my system when the group came to order. I’d spent the previous few minutes in conversation with various friends, doing the weekly catch up. Everyone wanted to know where my beloved was. “Crook as a dog, and it serves her right.”

“That’s not very nice,” was the oft-repeated reply.

“She knows that those bloody grandchildren of ours are walking Petrie dishes, but she will hug ‘em.”

“Grandmothers cannot help themselves.”

“Grandmothers, who are nurses, should know better.”

I wasn’t getting any sympathy, so I packed it in.

“Please say hello for us and tell her to get better soon.”

My beloved is very popular. Sometimes known as the Rainbow Warrior, she is about the height of the average sixth grader and has a heart as big as anything large that you can name. No one takes any notice of me when she is around, and fair enough too.

There was no set topic for this particular evening’s discussion, and the subjects bounced around the room quite energetically.

I was happy to sit and listen for a while, so I hid behind my coffee cup and soaked up the atmosphere.

I really do like these people. They don’t waste time talking about insignificant things. They feel the way I do; this time is precious. We spend the rest of the week wrestling with the world, and then we come here where it is safe, and people show each other respect. All opinions are valued.

It isn’t always discussion.

Sometimes people tell stories.

We have some excellent storytellers.

Like the night that our moderator told the story about his boss winning a full-size, fully operational ocean going dredge, in a poker game.

That story was hard to top, but a few of us gave it a try. I’ve had a couple of goes, but people know that I just make shit up. I can tell by the way they look at me. Mind you, as long as I can keep a straight face, I get them going. Especially the new members, the ones who haven’t been warned about me yet.

“You really came here direct from the airport, all the way from the US, just to be here tonight?”

“No Luv, I just made that bit up. Gotta keep things lively?”

“Don’t worry about him, you’ll get used to it, he does that all the time.”

Not ‘all the time’, just every now and then. When the spirit takes me, so to speak.

The two Susans turned up very late in the evening. I say ‘turned up’, but what I mean is, Betty was talking about a friend of hers who had died relatively young. She was diligently describing her, and I got the feeling that she admired this lady and she was missed. Apparently, she had a bit of style, dressed well and liked to spend time in classy little cafes, the kind that is hard to find these days since the advent of annoying American coffee houses.

She was just about to tell us what had caused this lady to die when Kate jumped in, “The woman you are describing sounds just like the mum of my friend from high school. How did yours pass?”

“Blood clot,  a few days after an operation. Worked on her like crazy but they couldn’t bring her back. What about yours?”

“Mine took her own life six years after her daughter stepped in front of a train. I was there at the time, and so was our friend. The daughter put her red headphones on, turned and waved at us and calmly stepped in front of the 4:05 to Finders Street. I could not believe what had just happened. I ran to where her body landed, and I put my arm around her and sobbed. The ambulance guys had to pull me away. It took a little while, but it destroyed their family, and after battling her grief for six years the mum had had enough, and she left us too. I’ve never forgiven myself for not seeing it coming. I keep thinking that I could have said something, done something.”

“It’s not your fault kid.” I heard myself say. “When people feel the need to leave they will find a way, and nothing you say or do has anything to do with that decision.” She seemed to understand, but it was obvious that she had carried this guilt for a very long time.

After a moment, the two ladies looked at each other and, at the same time said the same thing, “What was your ladies name?”

“Susan.” The two voices spoke as one, and a chill went up my spine.

My group members were not describing the same person but the details of their lives, with the exception of their passing, were close to identical. What were the chances of that?

We were all a little bit stunned by what we had just witnessed, so we sat in silence.

Eventually, our moderator said, “I think that we are going to remember this night for a long time to come. Some conversations just stay with you.”

He was right.

Eventually, people began to stir, and a few of us expressed our amazement at what had just happened. We gathered up our stuff, put the chairs away, emptied the glacially slow urn, and hoovered the carpet. Almost everyone had gone home by the time I reached the front door. It wasn’t my job to turn off the light and lock up, so I had time. I turned and looked at the now emptying room and thought about the two Susans.

I had a few things to tell the missus when I got home, but she was asleep, so I told the dogs.

They were happy to see me, and they listened intently while I told them the story.

I climbed into bed, and so did the dogs. We fought for a bit of space while I thought about the tenuous grip we have on this glorious life of ours and I wondered if my story would end up in a room on a cold winters night somewhere, sometime.

‘The Two Terrys’, now there’s a name for a story.

Going Direct

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