In the Presence of Light

Everything that has happened in my life has led me to this present moment, a moment that feels destined as if every step along the way was part of a grand design. Looking back, it is abundantly clear that I have always been exactly where I was supposed to be, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. It is often said that you are not likely to truly understand what Spirit has planned for you without first reflecting on the path you’ve already taken. These words resonate deeply with me as I reflect on my journey toward enlightenment, an incredible adventure that began unexpectedly in 1973. At the tender age of eight, I already had a vague notion that I was somehow different from the other kids. I sensed and felt things that seemed to be beyond the scope of my life’s limited experiences. These feelings were often inexplicable, a whisper of something greater that I couldn’t quite grasp. It was as though I had a connection to an unseen world that was both fascinating and mysterious. Growing up in a conservative Catholic family just outside of Boston, our dinner table was a stage for lively discussions about the day’s events. The aroma of home-cooked meals filled the air, mingling with the sound of silverware clinking against porcelain plates. My father would recount his day at work with meticulous detail, and my mother would share the latest neighborhood news. Yet amid the monotony of everyday life, certain topics remained unspoken. Psychic abilities and connections with the spirit world were subjects as foreign as a distant galaxy. By the time I reached third grade, my intuition had sharpened enough to know that broaching such topics would be like tossing a stone into a hornets’ nest—best left untouched. Trying to explain to my mother that I could sense what we were having for dinner before she even started cooking was a notion that never saw the light of day. I would sit at the kitchen table, the checkerboard pattern of the tablecloth blurring as I focused on the pot simmering on the stove. Most nights, my premonitions about the meal were eerily accurate, but it didn’t change the outcome. Without a word, I ate what was served without. The predictability of my insights was a secret I kept to myself, nestled among the mashed potatoes and green beans. My father, a brilliant left-brained engineer, viewed the world through a lens of logical precision. To him, life was a series of equations, each with a clear and definitive solution. The concept of psychic phenomena and the supernatural was an abstract art he had no interest in deciphering. My mother, a no-nonsense schoolteacher turned administrative assistant, was pragmatic and grounded. She enjoyed watching television mediums for their entertainment value, perhaps finding a temporary escape in their theatrics. Yet I doubted she would have welcomed the idea of her young son developing the ability to converse with spirits. Our household was built on the solid foundation of routine and rationality, with little room for the spectral and unseen realms that quietly occupied my mind. To be honest, at eight years old, I wasn’t conversing much with anyone—living or dead. My world was a cocoon of solitude. I found solace in the sanctuary of my room, where the melodies of my favorite music floated through the air like a caress. With its playgrounds and cliques, the outside world held little appeal for me. I adored my family, but I felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit into their picture. I was an introverted loner far from the athletic prodigy my parents might have hoped for. Fortunately, my younger brother stepped into that role enthusiastically, embracing their vision and lifting the burden of expectations from my shoulders. In 1976, at ten years old, I was blissfully unaware of spiritualism or the mystical arts. Yet there was something magnetic about a small shelf at the local library labeled “Occult.” Its presence was a quiet invitation to explore the unknown. Similarly, a slightly larger section in the local bookstore, devoted to tarot and astrology, was tucked away in the back like a well-kept secret. While my friends immersed themselves in the latest Hardy Boys adventure, I would stealthily slip away, drawn to these mystifying realms. The idea of purchasing a tarot deck was thrilling yet daunting. I didn’t fully understand its purpose, but I knew that such items were forbidden in my family and church. Even if I had managed to buy a deck discreetly, I feared the consequences of being discovered. I envisioned myself as the eccentric lady in the downtown psychic readings shop whose pink and red neon bulbs cast an eerie glow visible from several blocks away. Her allure was undeniable, but she also reminded me of the ordinary fortune teller who transformed into the mighty Wizard of Oz—a charlatan in the eyes of many, exploiting the desperate for a glimpse into their futures. At that time of my life, I found myself enthralled by the world of make-believe. This realm of imagination was my sanctuary, a place where reality’s rigid constraints gave way to boundless fantasy. Mr. Rogers, the guide of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, often spoke about the importance of imagination. He believed that children could use their imaginative worlds to express emotions and situations that felt too complex or overwhelming in their everyday lives. This sentiment profoundly affected me. My childhood was filled with the magical allure of shows like Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie. The main characters were outsiders, much like me, gifted with extraordinary abilities yet striving to fit into a world that couldn’t comprehend them. I felt an affinity with them, though I lacked their supernatural powers. My longing to belong in their enchanted circle led me to magic. One Christmas, Santa seemed to sense my yearning and gifted me a magic set. The plastic top hat was brimmed with tricks that promised to astound and amaze. Despite my fervent efforts, I quickly realized that no amount of nose-wiggling would conjure a piece of candy into existence. I was just an ordinary boy keenly aware of his differences but unsure of their origins or significance. “You’re too sensitive,” my mother would often chide. “Pick yourself up by your bootstraps! You worry too much about what people think!” Her words, though well-intentioned, only deepened my sense of alienation. I began to believe there was something fundamentally flawed about me. My mother’s inability to understand me mirrored my own struggle to comprehend my feelings and experiences. I was caught in a web of confusion, unsure of why I felt so acutely different from everyone around me. Her insistence that I was too sensitive made me question my own worth and resilience. Friendship has always been a complex terrain for me. Over the years, I’ve had wonderful friends, but the initial stage of forming these bonds was often fraught with difficulty. From a young age, I possessed an uncanny ability to perceive things about people that others could not. I could read their energies and sense their true intentions. This intuitive insight often left me perplexed. I remember meeting new classmates and instinctively knowing whom I would like or dislike, sometimes without any rational explanation. My intuition was almost always accurate, but it made social interactions challenging. Some people saw me as judgmental; others thought I was simply strange. I, on the other hand, was bewildered by my own abilities. I couldn’t understand why I felt so strongly about people upon first meeting them. It was a mystery that left me feeling even more isolated, unable to shake these intuitive feelings that set me apart from my peers. As the years passed, I learned to erect a sturdy wall to defend myself against ridicule and misunderstanding. This protective barrier also helped shield me from the relentless onslaught of intuition and gut feelings that often overwhelmed me.