Happy Holidays

To all of the supporters, guests, contributors and friends; the Happiest of Holidays this season. A prosperous, healthy New Year to each of You. Write on!
Cathlene Smith

A happy and joyous Thanksgiving to all my readers. This year has been difficult in every way never thought imaginable. Take tomorrow to remember what you have, not what you are missing. We shall overcome and gratitude is the first step.

Interview with an International Medium; Barrie John

Check out my recently published content on AC:

Seeking Spirit - an Interview with Medium Barrie John

Ghost Hunting

Last night was my first outing with the Wasatch Paranormal Society. It was exhilerating, cold and at times quite boring. As far as ghost hunting goes - that appears to be the norm. In one area, we were successful at making the temperature go from 38 degrees farenheight to 28 and back to 45 in ten minutes. The most astonishing aspect of this trip is that my dear Daddy, who passed away in 1981 used to work in this area. Hopefull we picked up some EVP's that he was with us. How do you feel about ghost hunting? Is it just a fad? Is it real? Are the techniques manipulated? Tell me your thoughts.

The Evolution of God

The Evolution of God; Or the Way I Altered My Perception to Meet My Needs

I came to the realization that the God of my Catholic childhood exists; formatting my creed and conduct. The God of my adolescence was present; tolerant of smoking in the parking lot, partaking in a bit of weed, and drinking on Saturday nights. The God of stability, ritual and composition from the days of rearing my children; cohabitates in this vessel as well. The God of the median of my life is the accumulation of experiences that directed my life thus far. The God of my swan song; I assume will revert to the one of my innocence. You can take the girl out of the Cathedral; etc.

The evolution of the species is received in society and scientific ideology; relayed in classrooms and revered as fact. Why not the progression of the spirit and the structure of religious thought? My own development with God corresponds with changes my life has experienced. God created me; yet did I alter God to meet my requirements? Did I fashion Him/Her in my own image; to my specifications; in order to prevail; free of guilt from my actions?

My core conviction is that all religions and followers of God, base their creed on love. It is prevalent in rituals, tomes and standards. Love is the foundation; pageantry enhances the encounter. Structures, days of the Sabbath, composition and pomposity may differ; but the essence remains the same. We are born of love; we treat others with the respect do them and we are rewarded with everlasting existence. I am not the philosopher of such ideals; they are vast. I am a student of my own theory; learning, living, misbehaving and repenting.

Have I envisioned a religion to satisfy my own desires – thus fulfilling the prophesy of all other theologians from Constantine to Jim Jones? Such extremes offend – yet, do they not hold similarities? Didn't these artisans of religiosity utilize the concepts of God and arrange them in a tapestry of ego and power; while offering: camaraderie, structure and fear of retaliation for sin?

Have I constructed a belief system convenient to my busy life? After all, if God is not contained in a building then I’m relieved of the duty to congregate for hours on the Sabbath. If God does not smite me in retribution for straying; have I excused my less than conventional ways? Did I conveniently concoct this theory in order to sleep in on Sunday? Or is God truly present in my heart and not within masonry and stained glass?

I have struggled with the question of my faith; never the lack of it. Will I burn in Hell or linger in Purgatory for not partaking in the Sacrament? Or, will I be embraced because of the love I have for the Deity and the commitment I have made to other's? My conviction to giving back more than I receive has ebbed and waned; but the desire and commitment stand firm. As I progress; I discover this principle difficult; yet more than worthwhile of my dedication.

I believe that Hell exists within; not in fire and brimstone. The demons inside: challenge me, torment me and pull me from my direction. My faith in God, aids my struggle against my own temptations.

I believe in Heaven; where I will re-unite with those past. Meadows are covered with lilac and heather. Insanity, cruelty and hatred are blown away like the seeds of a dandelion. Then why am I terrified of death? What if I am wrong? What if scientific theory, secular reconditioning and agnostic ideals are correct. What if in no more than the production of multiplying cells; only to expire into nothingness. The conclusion of oblivion to my ego is inexcusable; yet frightens the Hell out of me.

I choose; for my sanity and preservation of "the self" to believe there is something greater than I. The entity and creator of all is present in everything we sense. The existence of my being corresponds to the existence of a Deity that would take nothing and cohesively adhere it into what we know as the earth.

Remembering Kristallnacht

Check out my recently published content on AC:

The Night the World Changed Forever - Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass

An Interview with a Ghost Hunter

Check out my recently published content on AC:

Interview with a Ghost Hunter: Gary Albone

A Writer's Pondering

How do you feel about seasonal writing? Do holidays spark a new inspiration? Do you specifically seek to write about the holidays - the good and bad experiences? I don't believe I've ever written a Christmas poem or Easter story. I haven't avoided the subjects of holiday; I just haven't felt the need to rush ink to parchment or finger to key. How about you?

An Interview with Medium Audrina

Check out my recently published content on AC:

Interview with Medium Audrina

Interview with an Intuitive

Interview with an Intuitive

Shared via AddThis

Interview with Emma Turner, Theta Healer and DNA Activationist
This is an article/interview with an intuitive who works with different aspects of mediumship. I asked her specifically about a fairly new spiritual offering Theta Healing and DNA Activation.
http://www.associatedcontent.comarticle/2274789/interview_with_emma_turner_theta_healer.html

A Writer Comes "Home"

A Writer Comes Home
By Cathlene Smith

Saturday, September 12th, 2009, I had the opportunity of a lifetime. I was slated to do a book signing at the Helper City Library; promoting my thriller, "Slivers of Reality." I had attended many book signings and readings in the previous months; but not in Helper.

My excitement grew as my husband - Don, Mother - Rose Rachele Gillespie and Sister- Jennifer Gillespie drove down Helper's Main Street. I reached back forty years to the days when I traveled this same path with my Dad - Dan Gillespie, Mom and Jen.

Helper, population, 2025; 1.8 square miles, is not my place of birth; but it is my mother's. The Rachele family has graced this immigrant, mining and railroad town with its: Swinging Bridge, Balancing Rock, and rich western history for decades. My Uncle Raymond, Aunt Shirley and Cousin Eldon still call this quaint settlement, home. My precious Aunt Vee, or Iola Cobain as she was known to most; was the Helper City Librarian for fifty-five plus years.

Yes, while not my birthplace; Helper was always considered "home." My family and I spent a few weeks every summer: lazing on the porch of my grandparents Sam and Rosina Rachele's house, listening to the sounds of train whistles. We shopped at Cornet's Five and Dime where candy was truly a penny and paper kites were ten cents. We drank sodas at Veltri's Drug, went to church at St. Anthony's, and traveled the eight miles to Price to Checkerboard Grocery to eat licorice whips and gulp down Orange Nesbit; Uncle Guido refusing to take any money.

Life was simple in Helper. You got up, watered the garden, swam at the old pool across from my Aunt Helen and Uncle John Bradley's home, and helped Aunt Vee at the Helper City Library. I loved those memories, they flooded me as we arrived for my book signing.

Amanda Holley, a young, attractive librarian with an adorable personality to match, went to much detail in preparing the event. A folding sign announcing my arrival greeted me. It stood under the watchful gaze of the enormous statue of the Coal Miner; affectionately named "Big John." Jenny and I used to run through his legs and sit on his enormous feet as we ate ice cream or popsicles; the drops of childhood hanging from our chins.

The library has changed. It was once the small building attached to the recreation hall that jutted out towards the street. Now, it replaces the old coal mining museum which once housed some of Helper's scariest exhibits in the coal black basement. The museum has also relocated across the street to the Old Helper Hotel and renamed, the "Western Mining and Railroad Museum."

Amanda rushed about carrying plates of cookies and drinks. Her assistant, Leila Andrews greeted me with home town charm. I had just finished a rather large book signing event in Salt Lake at the People's Market, surrounded by other local authors, the Utah Humanities Council, the Salt Lake City Library Association and other celebrities and institutions of note. I was a tiny minnow in a sea of wordsmiths; a bit out of place. In Helper, I was treated as a celebrity, which brings a shy smile to my face.

Amanda arranged several chairs in the hall with a speaker's table and reception area. I was delighted and touched by her efforts. I asked if I could sneak a peek in the library before my scheduled event. My mission was one of guilty pleasure; I wanted to touch and smell the books I used to dust. I wanted to look at the yellow-aged pockets where the checkout cards were meticulously signed and dated. Jennifer and I delighted in pasting many of these pockets, then rolling the rubber cement into a ball before being caught by Aunt Vee.

They were all there: The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, The Boxcar Children; all of the books so lovingly enjoyed by our generation and the ones that came after. The card holders were there too and even with faded print; I could make out the signature of a child from 1957. I fingered the small, stiff card and envisioned the child who checked out the book under the watchful eye of my aunt.

The book signing was sparse - but when you figure the population; I'd say about 2% of the town showed up that day. Not bad; a much higher ratio than the book signings in Salt Lake.

I took my seat; as my Mother and Sister explored the town. Don was there, as always; a tremendous support. Amanda and a delightful woman, Anna sat down and for an hour, they interviewed me. Yes it was just the four of us at first; but the questions, the interest and my ability to relax made it the most delightful presentation of my book to date.

Later, my mother and sister returned from their adventure. Several others stopped in to welcome us and purchase a book. Mark; the caretaker of the library and his lovely wife, David Johnson; the head of the Helper City Arts Council, Tom Williams; local and national artist from the "Boxcar Gallery" and others whom, regretfully I cannot remember their names but I will never forget their hospitality.

My heart was full and my eyes darted to my mother's. I could see her transform to the little girl that walked these streets, went to school and worked for her sister at the library.

After an incredible visit and invitation to return; we rode up the hill to visit the rest of the family. Getting out of the car; the air stood still and my feet felt planted in cement. My family was here; at the Helper City Cemetery. Grandma and Grandpa Rachelle, uncles and aunts and even my Dad; who also called Helper home. We visited for awhile and I picked up a rock outside the gate to remind me of my roots, my history and my family. The rock sits on my desk at work. When I long for a loving memory, I hold it tightly and feel the breeze off the Price River as my sister bounced the swinging bridge; sending me into screams. I tasted the homemade bread of my Grandma and Aunt Helen, and I smelled the books. It's the books that remain the same; while everything else evolves. That's why I write. The written word is the one constant we have in our lives.

This visit, this book signing, this stroll into my past, brought me full circle. I will be back, Helper. There is no greater love than that of a small town everyone calls "home."