My family, weird as it sounds, likes to contact us from the other side through music boxes and clocks. It started with my father back in 2003, when shortly after he died a regulator clock in the living room (which was never wound) would go off at odd times when we were all together. The pendulum on the regulator would swing back and forth as it rang. The first time it happened it freaked out a few family members, but then we came to accept that it was my Dad’s way of communicating he was still with us in spirit. When my mother died the next year, not to be outdone by my father (they were very competitive), she picked a glass globe clock and would make it spin and spin and spin. This clock was never wound either. Way to go, Mom!
Then one day at my Aunt Jo’s house, my mother moved on and started manipulating my aunt’s music box collection. There were three of us who witnessed and heard the music box playing in the evening, myself included. It certainly got our attention. It played a tune for a few seconds, stopped, then started again 10 minutes later. When my aunt went over to it to point out that it was the one my mother had given her, it started playing again immediately. She hadn’t even touched it. So we knew when this happened several more times, that it was my mother’s way of saying hello. Interestingly enough, it would only happen when I was visiting my Aunt Jo.
This past week my dearly loved Aunt Jo passed away at the age of 90 in Chicago. We gave her a grand send off, as she would have liked. She was active in a few octogenarian women’s clubs, and the 80-90 years still living showed up en mass. They told me afterwards it was the best funeral they had ever been to, and these days, for them, they should know since each month they were going to several as their generation quickly dwindled.
Some of you may remember me mentioning my favorite Aunt Jo in my book Fractals of God or featured in one of my prior blogs: The Simple Secret to Longevity. She was quite a character—both feisty and spunky. And she was fascinated with my stories of death and dying and multidimensional travel. A week before she died she asked me if dying was like falling asleep–sort of like a brief moment of unconsciousness. “Yes,” I told her. “Only you wake up in another dimension.”
Days before she died I had been visiting my Aunt Jo in Chicago while being in town to give a talk at Evanston Hospital for the Chicago chapter of the International Association of Near Death Studies (IANDS). Two days after I left, she suddenly went into the hospital and my cousin told me she might not make it. A few hours later I got the strong urge to sit down and meditate. As I did, I saw her approach a luminous tunnel of light, still holding her cane. My father, her only brother, came to meet her and he looked like a man in his early 20’s. He greeted her with, “Hey there carrot top.” (She was a redhead.) I have no idea if he ever called her this, but her eyes grew wide with recognition and amazement when she saw him. “Is that really you, Roy?” she asked. “Who else would it be,” he answered, finding this somehow amusing. “C’mon” he said to her. “Let’s go.”
I saw she still had her cane in her hand, and I sent her the thought that she didn’t need it any more. And that’s when she dropped it and morphed into a younger version of herself. It was stunningly beautiful. She glanced back over her shoulder, nodded to me one last time, and then was gone. I waited to get the call that she had passed. Fifty minutes later in the Hospital’s ICU, her heart and vitals stopped. They declared her officially dead, yet I knew her spirit had already left some time prior to that.
Hours later, back at her house, her music boxes were dinging for about two hours straight, then randomly on and off. My sister, Chris, was there to witness it and she knew immediately what it meant. The family sign had been given. I am still with you. The next day I flew back to Chicago. The night of her wake, she woke us up at 4:45 AM with a full rendition of Lara’s theme from Dr. Zhivago playing on a small wooden music box. My brother, who had also arrived in from Panama, wasn’t sure if it was my mother or my aunt making all the music.
“Ding once for Aunt Jo,” he said aloud. “Ding twice for Mom, and three times for Dad.” Ten minutes later there was a loud singular ding. Message received. I took the Lara’s theme music box home with me. So far it’s been quiet. Must feel strange in a new environment. But I’m sure sooner or later it will start playing again.
The deceased attempt to communicate with us all the time. The key is to remain open to hearing from them. Unfortunately, many of us are not tuned-in to what a friend of mine calls “Channel D” (D for dead). Instead they have to resort to manipulating our environment to signal us their intent, like through music boxes. In order to speak directly or communicate telepathically with the deceased, who are vibrating at a higher frequency than on this physical plane, we must be in a place where we’re also vibrating at a frequency whereby our energies are accessible to them. Mediums and psychics seem to be more adept at doing this.
Interestingly, music is one of the most common ways (and they say the easiest) for loved ones to use to communicate with. Sound and music are a carrier wave between the dimensions since it contains higher frequencies. People have reported hearing music playing when no TV, radio, or sound equipment is on. It’s an amazing thing to experience. Rest in Peace Aunt Jo–but please keep those communications coming!
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