I'd always known, somehow, that there was more to "religion" than church and mainstream religions, but I hadn't been able to sort it out. I was lucky, though: I learned early on the difference between religion and spirituality. As many of us are aware, the teacher appears when the student is ready. And when I was 15 or 16 years old, I was ready. While I'd always been interested in the paranormal, I hadn't experienced much validation for my interest. I was in high school, having a ball growing up in Daytona Beach, Florida, and then along came Cayce. [You other Boomers thought I was going to say "Mary", didn't you? ;-) ]

Very rapidly, every book available on Edgar Cayce in the late 60s fell into my life. As I read, I found myself becoming more and more excited, while at the same time, becoming more and more peaceful. "YES!", I would think. Suddenly, I knew what I'd always felt. And the best gift then was the understanding of reincarnation. At last, life was beginning to make sense. I was amazed, intrigued, and curious.

From then on, I read what I could find, talked with others, and, in general, grew. And life, as it does, went on. I went through many phases, and explored many pathways (always uninterested in any organized religion).

Getting Closer

Eventually, I experienced what can only be described as an epiphany. I had a massive awakening that gave me an entirely new world view. From that point, less than a decade ago, I have found myself growing and learning in leaps and bounds. I dislike speaking for others, but I think I can safely say that my husband experienced much the same thing at the same time.

Over the years, I'd had some vague successes with automatic writing, developing my psychic abilities and so on. But I wasn't consistent, and I tended to bounce around from one interest to another (spiritual and non-spiritual). All I'd ever found on meditation, for example, was formalized, often ritualized, instructions. Somewhere in my subconscious, I knew it was all a lot of hooey, that nothing should be that complicated or rigid ("here's the only right way"....).

And then came that wonderful awakening. Suddenly, everything made sense. Now, don't get me wrong. . . I'm not saying that I suddenly knew everything. I mean only that my life, the world, the universe, made sense. I had some basis for exploring and discovering new pieces of the puzzle.

That simple, elegant, magical basis is this: All things are connected.

Over the next few years I felt an increasing desire to be able to channel. A special person came into my life who was a wonderful spiritual mentor, though his presence in my life was brief. Time passed, and one day I found myself with pad and pen, writing like crazy. My hand couldn't keep up with the flow of words. I played at this inconsistently for a week or two. Nothing of significance came of it. And then. . . .

A Whale In My Lap

On a very cold day in late January of 1996, Steve and I took our dog, Booker, and a neighbor's dog, Truman, for a long walk on the beach. Our favorite stretch is Crescent Beach, a few miles south of St. Augustine. It was nasty cold, with heavy, grey skies and very rough, high seas. It had rained that morning, and the threat of more rain loomed. Despite the strong wind and damp cold, we and the dogs had a great walk. We were tired by the time we returned to the car, and ours was the only car on the beach. The tide had turned, and was going out, but the surf was very rough and the waves very high.

Steve was opening the tailgate to let the dogs in the car, and as I had my hand on the door, I glanced out at the water.

"Look! Dolphins!", I yelled to Steve. But as I spoke the words, I realized it wasn't dolphins, it was a whale! A whale was rolling in the surf, not far from shore.

"Oh my god, it's a whale! It's beaching!", I yelled as Steve closed the tailgate behind Truman. Steve, Booker and I ran down to the edge of the water and stood, staring and stunned, for a few seconds. In retrospect, I'm sure we thought it would be able to turn itself around and head back out to sea. Just a few seconds of watching told us a different story, though.

Blood was rhythmically gushing from what was either the anal or vaginal slit. The whale was alternately thrashing in its attempts to turn around and just giving in and letting the waves pound and toss it. In addition to the blood, we could see dozens of cuts and abrasions.

The coast of northeast Florida is marked by sandbars. They vary according to season, tide and weather, but are always present. These sandbars make our water murky and a bit grey-looking, unlike the waters of the Gulf or south Florida, which are generally quite clear. Many a boat and ship has been troubled by these sandbars, and a whale coming across the sandbar would surely suffer a bad case of "surf rash". Anyone who's ever been tossed under water at the beach and come up with an abrasion from the rough sand will know what surf rash is.

I told Steve to go call Marineland and the Sheriff's Office for help. Marineland of Florida is only about 10 miles or so from Crescent Beach, so we knew it wouldn't take long for the rescue crew to arrive. Steve ran back to the car and drove to the nearest pay phone. I stayed to watch the whale.

I fought the urge to go out to it. It was just far enough out in those rough seas that I knew it would dangerous for me. Plus, Booker had stayed with me. I was suddenly aware of tears rolling down my face, just as a woman appeared by my side. She wore a blue parka, and we stood together on that cold beach, feeling helpless and sad. For reasons I can't explain, we talked softly, sharing our anguish. I told her my husband had gone for help.

Then a couple drove up in a Jeep, stopped right next to us with their engine running, and sat in their car and watched for a few minutes. They drove off before Steve returned.

Steve was gone for what seemed like half an hour. I would later learn it was only 10 minutes or so. I kept one eye on the whale and one eye on the nearby beach approach where I knew he'd be coming from.

And the blood kept pouring from the whale.

At last, Steve came back. I was in agony, watching the whale, and the relief I felt when I saw our car appear between the dunes was dizzying. We put Booker in the car with Truman, and ran back down to the edge of the water. (The dogs had treats and plenty of fresh water.) The Woman in the Blue Parka agreed that we had to do something, but none of us was sure just what to do. We wondered aloud if the whale had recently given birth, was about to give birth, or had been injured. There was a lot of blood.

Every time the whale began to thrash, I felt my soul weep and my heart ache. I have never felt so utterly helpless in my life.

Within just a couple of minutes, Steve and I simultaneously decided to go out to the whale. The whale was beaching upside-down. It would drown without its blowhole above water. He took his shoes off, I left mine on (for which I would be grateful later), and out we went. We never felt the cold of the water at all. . . not a bit. . . not once. We waded out, fighting the strong current and the rough water, and began trying to right the whale. It was a struggle: the whale was large and the waves were relentless.

Out of nowhere a man appeared, with his pants rolled up, and his dog nearby in shallower water. He was just the extra two hands we needed to get the whale right-side-up.

And there was blood everywhere. It was still rhythmically pulsing from the whale's orifice.

The three of us held the whale upright, keeping balance against the rough surf that threatened to topple us all at any moment. The man with the dog was quite kind, but kept repeating that with losing that much blood, the whale would never survive. Steve and I both tried to keep those thoughts from our minds and think only that this whale would survive.

The man with the dog stayed for a few minutes, then left, walking up the beach with his dog. I don't think he ever looked back.

Tears began to roll down my face. I felt so utterly helpless and totally incompetent. Every wave that came threatened to knock us over and roll the whale over, but we found a good balance fairly quickly. By rolling the whale over to one side, Steve was able to kneel down in the water, resting the whale's body on his thighs. Steve was about one-third of the way back from the whale's head. I did the same thing, with the whale's head resting on my thighs.

And there was blood everywhere. It washed out on waves, and back in on the next one. It pooled all around us. We were soaked with sea water and blood. The metallic, coppery smell of blood filled the air. There were even clots of it floating around and washing in and out with the surf.

In this position, we didn't have to worry about being knocked over or constantly bending. We could focus all our attention on the whale for the first time. It was amazing. Profoundly amazing. We stroked the whale, avoiding the cuts and scrapes, for fear it would cause discomfort or pain. We touched it, and we held it. And we waited.

We were aware at various points that a small crowd had gathered on the beach. People were taking pictures, shouting instructions to family members to "go get the video camera!", and generally being tourist-spectators. No one offered us help except one young couple who relieved us for a very few minutes so we could stretch our legs. They did this even though one of them would be late for work.

I remember my tears falling onto the whale. I remember the dark red-stained water. I remember the feel of the whale's skin. And I remember Steve and I talking quietly as we knelt, side-by-side, in the water, cradling a whale in our laps.

Everything we said was merely confirmation aloud of the communication we were having silently. I believe we were in full telepathic communication with each other during that time. Steve and I have always been marvelously in synch with each other, but this was astounding. We both intuitively knew the whale was a male, despite the blood. And we simultaneously thought Samwise was a perfect name.

Samwise is a character in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. He is Frodo's best friend, and embodies all the characteristics of a true, loyal, and loving friend. We'd had a cat named Samwise (a girl, nicknamed Sami) who had died young and who was still sorely missed. Our Sami was a lovely shade of pearly gray with pale spots of peachy-pink. She was very elegant and very loving. "Samwise" surely fit this whale. And we had a sense that he liked it, too.

And so, our relationship with Samwise deepened. We knelt in the water with him and still the blood rhythmically poured from him.

At some point I knew that his beaching had been a conscious choice. He had chosen to come ashore, into an alien world. At the last minute he'd changed his mind, which was right after we first spotted him. (When we'd first seen him, he was rolling in on the surf, but soon after, we noticed that he was struggling.) I don't know how I knew it, but I knew it. . . as surely as I know my name and address. I also knew he was frightened and very, very lonely.

Samwise was about two-thirds (back and sides) a deep shade of grey. His coloring had a depth to it, a luminescence more felt than seen. His skin had a pearly, gem-like quality to it. Along his sides, the grey became lighter and lighter, eventually fading into a pearl white, with shades of delicate, pale pink and rose. Just as we humans, upon close inspection, have small lines, cracks, and crevices in our skin, so did Samwise. Some of the markings were star-shaped, some looked like an asterisk. His skin was smooth, similar to a newborn's skin, yet quite different. There was a depth to his skin, perhaps his being, that I've never felt before or since. It was as though he had another dimension, too alien for me to comprehend. I did get a hint, though. A hint. He felt magical. He felt magnificent in a way I cannot describe. We felt we were in the presence of something beyond ourselves, beyond our understanding. . . something so deep, so profound, it still defies description.

We talked to Samwise. We also thought to him. We simply sent our thoughts to him. We talked and thought about healing, about help, about assistance, about life, about gratitude, about awe and wonderment.

Time passed, and still the rescue crew hadn't arrived. We'd been in the water about an hour when an officer from the Florida Marine Patrol arrived. He knew nothing, but felt we were doing the right things. He helped splash water onto Samwise to keep his skin from becoming dry. Not long after that, a deputy from the Sheriff's Office arrived. He tried to tell us to get out of the water, but we explained that we were actually warmer in the water.

And so we sat, with Samwise cradled in our laps, praying for the blood to stop, praying for the Marineland rescue crew to arrive, and communicating with each other and Samwise on every level imaginable.

After about an hour-and-a-half, we learned that the Marineland crew was out on two other rescue calls. We would be next. . . whenever "next" was.

Every few minutes, Samwise's blowhole would open and he would breathe. We could look right down into it. It was clean and fresh. We inhaled his exhaled breath. It smelled clean and pure, with no hint of "fishiness" or anything else we associate with the sea. His breath was as pure as the air on a mountaintop or the middle of the ocean. It was warm, certainly, just as our own exhaled breaths are warm. I remember, though, getting the faintest, vaguest hint of freedom and love as we humans can never know it. . . of the deep regions of the sea. . . of the highest regions of life on this planet.

Steve and I were soaked from head to foot, and the tide was nearly out. Only three or four inches of water now washed around us when a wave came in. Somehow we still didn't feel the cold. We knelt and continued to fall in love with Samwise.

And still the blood flowed.

Goodbye?

It was now dark, we'd been in the water with Samwise for about two hours. A pumper truck arrived from a nearby volunteer fire department. With the hose from the truck, keeping Samwise's skin wet was much easier. And a new deputy on the scene told us that Marineland was, at last, on the way and should arrive within ten or fifteen minutes. And then he ordered us out of the water. We tried to argue, but he was adamant. And someone from the fire department slid a big piece of plywood under Samwise to keep him upright. We learned shortly that this was the worst thing they could have done. They should have let us stay with Samwise. (Some whales have extremely sensitive and tender skin, and pygmy sperms are one of these. That wood probably caused him great pain. We humans make dangerous suppositions, especially about other creatures.)

One of the firefighters seemed knowledgeable about whales, and told us he was a pygmy sperm whale. She also told us that he wasn't bleeding, he was "inking", much as squids do. This certainly made instant sense, since he'd been bleeding massively and rhythmically for hours by now.

Steve and I were shivering uncontrollably and longed to get back in the water, or at least next to Samwise.

And there it was, the Marineland rescue truck. The biologist in charge (Dr. Whaley, believe it or not), gave Samwise an injection to calm him. He'd begun to thrash and toss himself around. Dr. Whaley estimated his length to be about ten feet, confirmed that he was a pygmy sperm whale and also that he was male.

I won't recount the next half hour or so. It was ugly and brutal. Suffice it to say that the Marineland crew arrived with a truck that was too short for even a small, ten-foot whale. The truck was not equipped with anything to assist in loading a large animal, nor did they have anything except an old tarp that ripped and tore while Samwise was carried on it. I was sobbing by the time poor Samwise was loaded on the truck. An ambulance crew who handled a human that callously would be sued (and deservedly so).

Dr. Whaley was kind enough to answer our questions, and before they left with our sad and frightened friend, she told us we could call the following day for an update.

Steve called every day and spoke with Dr. Whaley. We learned that pygmy sperm whales are seldom saved after beaching, though occasionally one is saved and returned to the ocean. Little is known about them. They are shy and live far out and deep in the ocean. Samwise had an eye infection, and a serious case of surf rash, but as for what illness caused him to beach. . . she couldn't tell and they continued to run tests. He asked over and over again if we could come visit Samwise, but was denied permission.

On the day we decided to simply show up and nicely demand to see Samwise, he died. We never got to see our friend again. And our lives were forever changed.

During the six days Samwise lingered at the Marineland facilities, I had flashes of communication with him. The flashes evolved into genuine back-and-forth communications. At first, it only happened during meditation, then shortly, after only a brief moment of quiet reaching for a higher level, I could nearly instantly connect with Samwise. And yes, I was surprised. Nothing had prepared me for it, and yet it seemed perfectly natural.

Steve and I have found our lives deeply and forever changed. What we believed before, we now know. And we know it in a way that has become, literally, a part of our physical beings, as well as our emotional and intellectual selves. But most importantly, this knowledge is now wonderfully linked from our spiritual selves to our physical selves. It is deep, it is profound, it is sure. It is this: All things are connected.

All things truly are connected! As surely as your hair is connected to your head, you are connected to every other thing in the world (and the Universe!). We are connected in a sacred way to everything. . . to other humans, to trees, to clouds, to flowers, and to animals four-legged, two-legged and no-legged. We are deeply connected to all the joy -- and all the suffering -- in the world. We are responsible, and we must take responsibility. That is not to say we are to blame; there is a difference.

We are grateful to Samwise for choosing us, for coming into our lives. His brief physical stay in our lives still feels like a great, joyous gift. We are fortunate, indeed. We still take our dogs for walks along the same beach. Another dog has come into our lives and home, so now we are a two-dog family. We always pause at the spot where Samwise came ashore, precisely in front of our car. We look out to sea and we remember, and we give thanks. And sometimes I wonder, as we pause, if Booker remembers, too. I like to think he does.

Samwise's story doesn't end there, though. The best is yet to come. Read on.

Love and Magic

About two weeks after Samwise died, Steve noticed a grocery cart left out in front of his work. He went out to move it back across the parking lot to the store when he noticed something in the child seat of the cart. He couldn't believe his eyes. It was a plush sperm whale! He picked it up, dumbfounded, and turned it over and over in his hands. It was small, about six to eight inches long. He looked around to see if some small child were nearby, hoping to return the lost stuffed whale. No one was in sight.

He called me right away, telling me I wouldn't believe what he'd just found. I, too, was astounded. It seemed fantastic and unbelievable. Neither of us had ever seen a plush sperm whale. Sure, everyone sees orcas and dolphins and the occasional humpback in plush form. . . but I'm from Florida and I've never seen one. Plus, this was a miniature whale. Rather like a pygmy sperm whale.

Steve kept the little plush whale at work for several weeks, just in case some mother or father came looking. No one ever claimed it, and now Samwise the Plush Whale sits on our mantle, among other treasures, and watches over our home.

Samwise Plush is a tangible reminder for us of the magic, the power, of love. And love, my friends, really is all there is.

And. . .?

In addition to communicating with Samwise, I spontaneously began to channel a group entity. It all happened over just a few days. I used the keyboard, in automatic writing fashion, but am now able to channel orally just as easily. In fact, it's easier to do it orally, but then I also have to transcribe the session, so I tend to use the keyboard.

Over the next few weeks, a name was decided upon for this group entity. It is not their name, nor a name any of them has ever used. It is simply a combination of sounds that is pleasing to me and to them, and it took several sessions to come up with it. In fact, their name is still evolving. In the beginning, an apostrophe seemed appropriate (Ve'ranah), but now it seems pretentious and trendy, so we've dropped it (Veranah).

At first, I had a hard time turning it all off. For a couple of weeks, I was always open, and, frankly, it drove me nuts. It was like a constant flow of information over which I had no control. But I quickly learned to turn it off. I use a color meditation that I developed over the years, and this allows me to open to different vibrations. I am not a trance channel; I am alert, though my eyes are often closed. I do not have a sense that I am leaving my body and allowing another entity in. They simply send information through me.

Steve and I are profoundly, eternally grateful to Samwise Whale who came into our lives and offered us himself. What greater gift can any of us give?

We both honor him by offering you some links to other websites related to whales. You will find them on the Netpicking page, under "Whales". We ask that you not support organizations that keep cetaceans in captivity, but the ultimate decision is yours. Please learn what you can, and find ways to help our friends in the oceans. They need us as much as we need them. Consider doing more environmentally, too. There are literally dozens of easy ways to stop or decrease your negative impact on the planet. Everything we do affects everything else.

Steve once said that the very act of writing about or telling about Samwise diminished the experience. He didn't mean it in a selfish way, certainly, but he was right. The experience is diminished, perhaps, by our inability to convey what really happened, what we really experienced. There are no words that adequately describe Samwise, our experiences with him, or the profound and sacred effect he's had on us and our lives.

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