Hoping to complete the first draft by December, 2019. Notes in the Night is the working title for my personal reconnection with Frank after his death on March 10, 2014. It began in subtle signals and signs. Then it evolved into a trusted dialog lasting five years.

An excerpt from Chapter One – The Conversation Begins    June, 2014

The Musoc bus lurched into the oncoming traffic lane. I could see it all from my seat #3 at the front, next to the window. Glancing at the driver I felt reassured by his calm, casual demeanor. Though not easily rattled, the narrow, winding roads and often fog-like conditions of the cloud forest sometimes triggered extra vigilance. We slid past the slower vehicle and back into the right lane regaining some speed as we neared the highest part of the trip from San Jose to San Isidro de El General over the 11,000 ft. Cerro del Muerte (Mountain of Death). I smiled to myself at the name, ‘Mountain of Death’ and thought how appropriate to be reading the book in my lap.

We were passing the stunted and oddly misshapen trees at the summit, surrounded by a sea of blackberry bushes and small ferns. The tendrils of clouds lent a mysterious note and I thought about the early foot travelers herding their pigs along the paths over this mountain before the highway was constructed in 1941. Several Ticos (Costa Ricans) had died of exposure or later of pneumonia after walking the 3-4 days from San Isidro de El General to San Jose. Their deaths had named the mountain. Now, the paved road which was also the Pan American highway took a mere three hours covering about 90 miles.

I returned to my book, nearing the last chapters.

Many Lives, Many Masters by Brian Weiss, MD had come to my attention through an intuitive method I trusted. I held a belief that if three separate people referred me to a particular book, it was a ‘must read’. So I ordered it to be waiting for me in Seattle when I arrived to teach one of the two long planned workshops I couldn’t/wouldn’t cancel. Just three months had passed since Frank’s sudden and unexpected death on March 10, 2014. Now having completed both teaching venues as well as meeting my new grandson for the first time in Indiana, I was on my way home and looking forward to a return to the quiet. And with the quiet – solitude.

How I relished the cloak of stillness that surrounded my humble Tico (Costa Rican) house overlooking the city of San Isidro de El General. Though I appreciated all the comfort from friends and my Tico neighbors, my deep grief over Frank’s death was most often soothed by silence. I looked forward to my favorite time of each day and the arrival of sunrise in the tropics. Here the night black shifts nearly imperceptibly to deep blue and then through a glaze of blue green to the low light of daybreak just before the sun charges all in bright and light. It had always been the favorite time of the day as Frank and I sat watching from the porch cradling fresh cups of coffee. It was as if my daily awareness – in thoughts as well as emotions – was covered now in a gauzy layer of deep and profound grief – without the sun.

My mind shifted to a visualization of returning home, unlocking the back door and being greeted by the dogs and parrots. But not by Frank. He would not be there. Instead, my Tico house, over looking the city, would be just as it had been on the morning he died, just a little over three months before. Everything halted that day. Frank’s house construction stopped as my world shifted into a painful slow motion. I told Oscar, my builder neighbor that we would continue when I returned. I knew the half completed house would be a visible reminder of a precious life suddenly halted – walls and a roof with empty spaces for windows and doors. A silent skeleton without access and connection. What an appropriate symbology for my grief. I wondered how I would find the strength to begin again? Would I be able?

Startled, I looked up as the driver slowed and then brought the huge bus to a stop for a single passenger standing along the road. He boarded, paid and another Tico on the bus moved forward to get off. The door closed and we eased back into motion. My mind drifted to an interesting parallel. We are on a bus traversing the ‘mountain of death’ – stopping and starting as we continue toward our destination. And I was reading about another kind of stop and start: life and death and soul continuation after physical death.

Many Lives, Many Masters had been written in 1988, but I had never heard of it. It had even been a bestseller. It’s author, Dr. Brian Weiss was a traditionally trained physician and scientist, who was initially distrusting of anything that could not be proved by traditional scientific methods. Instinctively I felt a kinship with his resistance. In his opening pages he acknowledged a casual interest in parapsychology but was completely unprepared for a patient, Catherine who changed everything in his belief system. When her phobias and anxieties did not respond to his traditional methods of therapy, he tried hypnosis, which then opened both Catherine and himself to ‘past life’ memories and highly evolved ‘spirit entities’. He had absolutely no scientific explanation for what was channeled through Catherine. His carefully honed scientific resistance was entirely eroded by the messages from the ‘space between lives’ that contained remarkable personal information. Through the seven years spent working with Catherine, Dr. Weiss’s life and life work was completely transformed. He became an internationally acclaimed author who conducts international seminars and experiential workshops on the subject of spiritual awakening and soul development.

I was spellbound. My interest was not so much in hypnotic regression or even the subject of reincarnation. It was the channeled messages from the ‘spirit entities’ that drew me in. Dr. Weiss’ stated scientific skepticism nudged aside my own and gave me the needed space to wonder about Afterlife. And to investigate.

The driver shifted to a lower gear as we prepared for the long descent into the General river valley of San Isidro, so named for Saint Isadore, the patron saint of the farmer, the laborer. The timing was perfect. I felt myself shifting internally. Readying myself for my slower and deeper thoughts.

I read the last pages in Dr. Weiss’ AfterWord:

To paraphrase the mystic Teilhard de Chardin: “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.” Our bodies are temporary. We are souls. We are immortal; we are eternal. We never die; we merely transform to a heightened state of consciousness, no longer needing a physical body. We are always loved. We are never alone, and we can never be harmed, not at this level.”

Back at home I began thinking a lot about Frank’s spirit, his soul – somewhere ‘out there’ or ‘beyond the veil’ of whatever euphemism could best describe wherever he was in his continued existence. Now I wanted a way to communicate with him.

I thought about channeling, remembering back to a time in 1983 – 1987 when I was going through the pain of divorce, moving to a new city and studying architecture at the University of Oregon. I’d found comfort through a technique that was described as ‘automatic writing’ and connection with an entity who called herself Rachael. I had no idea who she was or even if she was real – but her words always brought comfort. And direction. Though my rational, scientific mind had mightily argued against the possibility, there was just a sliver of curiosity that pried open that seemingly massive door of doubt. Once inside, messages of love and encouragement had flowed through my handwritten notes. Who was Rachael? At that time I believed she was either a spiritual guide or my higher self. No proof of either. But there was a persistent and significant part of me that knew she was real because of the way she spoke. Always loving, always helpful. And with every encounter, I felt better afterwards.

The situation with Frank was not the same though it was similar.

I knew he was near – through various electrical occurrences, sightings and synchronicities. And I had been jotting notes – journaling – sporadically since Frank passed. Usually at night when I couldn’t sleep. Anything I wrote was saved and placed in a virtual folder on my computer desktop labeled ‘Notes in the Night’.

Now I wondered if I could use the keyboard instead of a pen and find a way to communicate with Frank. We would both have to be willing and present and I had no idea how to make that happen. And then one night it did.

It was Tuesday evening, July 1, 2014–just a couple of weeks after my U.S. trip–and I was again thinking about Frank. I said out loud that I missed him and loved him and wished we could talk, could have the time that we used to have – and I wished he would get in touch with me – let me know that he was still here. I was thinking that he was probably really busy doing whatever he needed to be doing on the other side – and that it just wasn’t important to check in with me. I guess I was feeling sorry for myself – left behind while he was feeling all the immense love and amazing peace I imagined to exist ‘on the other side’. When I went to bed I again asked him to get in touch with me when he could – just to let me know that he is still here, too. And that he is in a good place. Happy even.

I drifted off to an uneasy sleep around 7 – dogs barking outdoors in the distance and a bit cool that night. I slept as best I could.

Suddenly I woke very suddenly not knowing what woke me – but then I knew it was Frank when I looked at the clock. Precisely 11:11 p.m. The numbers! Frank was always someone interested in numeric sequences – and 11:11 was bound to get my attention – a spiritual number and his signal to me that he was here, that he had heard me. I got up , walked into my office and sat down in front of my computer. Opening ‘Notes in the Night’, I then started a new page with the date and the time. Then I wrote: I love you, Frank – and I miss you. It does make me feel good to know that you are also here with me – all the time, kind of watching over me. I love you.

Then I just sat and waited with my eyes closed and some deep breaths. A firm pillow, perfectly positioned behind my back, supported me so that I could sit with my bare feet flat on the cool, concrete floor. I closed the lid of the laptop to the point where it could breathe, but not distract me with its light. Surrounded by night quiet, I closed my eyes, took another deep breath, and exhaled slowly. With each breath I relaxed further into meditative tranquility.

I had to work really hard to get my doubting mind to surrender; at least to ease up a bit. But, I continued to refocus on the quiet, the breaths, the night…

And the words came.

One by one.

11:11 p.m. July 1, 2014

It is our highest destiny to be with love and to be filled with love. If we can just pause and close our eyes and rest into the deep breath of the earth, we can feel the love that is there for us. Know that I love you with all my heart and with all my soul.

Jan, it is an amazing thing to be here in this other place. Surrounded, all the time, with pure love and pure being. I see that we are truly all a part of each other, of all that there is. I see that I am unlimited and a part of it all. My place is here and I watch you and see that your life is going as it should be going. I know that you understand that you must be patient and honor the time that is set for you to follow. All will be well and all will be revealed to you. Please, Jan, do not despair because you know, you must know, that I am with you always – and guiding your footsteps and helping as I can. My love continues for you, and all that I am now is all that we are. Love is.

Each word came to me as one word. Then another. I typed each slowly. I didn’t question, allow myself to add extra, or substitute a word. When no more words arrived, I stopped.

That is how it happened that first time.

 

After I made sure to save the entry, I placed it in the new folder on my computer desktop labeled ‘Notes in the Night’*. I resisted the impulse to re-read or write anything more because the experience impressed as absolutely complete and sacred. I closed the lid of my laptop and went back to bed. Before I fell back into sleep I realized I had no memory at all of what I had typed.

I also had no premonition of what was to come next through this journey of grief and reconnection.

Notes in the Night is the full continuation of the conversations that began in my 2017 published book, A Woman Awakens: Life, AfterLife  with 4.7 out of 5 stars and 22 reader comments.

Comment from “Whidbey Islander”

“Wow, I was not prepared for such a compelling story. Because I’ve come to know Jan through social media, I bought this book to learn more of her personal journey. On one level, this can be read as the story of one woman’s health and financial challenges that led her to leave the United States and start over as a single woman living in Costa Rica, and all the discoveries that inevitably came with adapting to a new culture. This alone reflected uncommon courage, resolve and imagination. She navigated the challenges of this transition with humor, warmth and flexibility, all of which are reflected in her delightful writing. That’s what immediately struck me about this book — how well it is written, and how eminently qualified Jan was to write it given her unusual combination of strengths as a fine artist, a scientist and a very able writer.

But then things got interesting — she met a man and they bonded deeply. And then he died, and she had to cope with the greatest loss of her lifetime. At this point Jan’s journey became highly unusual — I’ve never read anything like it. If a lesser writer were telling what happened, I would have given up and closed the book. But Jan explains it in a way I can accept and understand, and that I find inspirational. I commented to Jan recently, “You examine the subject of life and death very thoughtfully and without fear. I found your approach uplifting and reassuring.” Jan’s response was, “All of us live at the interface between life and death, even when we don’t know it until we are pulled out of the water or wake up the next morning.”

I think any reader who picks up this book will be richly rewarded with much to consider, and immense reassurance about the possibilities of both life and death.”