Last night I had an extraordinary dream about my estranged daughter, Janelle — the second powerful dream of her I’ve had recently. This one left me overflowing with joy and a quiet, astonishing hope. It felt important to record it here, for myself and for readers who might be navigating similar family fractures or longing for reconciliation.
For context: Janelle was only ten when her mother and I went our separate ways. Becoming a weekend Disneyland Dad was the hardest transition of my life. I did my best, but the distance that forms in those situations — physical, emotional, spiritual — is real and it takes its toll.
Our final break came much later, when she was 31, during a difficult time for my family. My brother was hospitalized, and I became angry when Janelle didn’t want to visit him. In hindsight, my anger was misplaced. He had behaved horribly to her once, on her eighth birthday, and she owed him nothing. My reaction created a rift neither of us has bridged for fourteen years.
All that is the past. Last night’s dream felt like a glimpse of a possible future — one filled with warmth, forgiveness, and the spark of reconnection.
The Dream
I was hiking through a vast parking lot at dusk, the last light of the sun melting behind the horizon. Ahead of me sat a convertible semi-truck cab — top down — with a cosmic paint job swirling like a living galaxy.
From my low angle, I recognized someone in the back seat.
“Janelle?” I called softly.
She hesitated — torn — before her husband Jason asked, “Who’s asking?”
“Her father,” I replied.
Before he could say another word, Janelle answered, “It’s me. I’m coming down.”
She stepped from the truck with a wistful smile, years of distance and love braided together on her face. When she opened her arms, I stepped into an embrace I’ve waited fourteen years for.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I whispered.
“Me too,” she said — a sigh that carried healing.
“Any kids?” I asked.
“A son. Marty.” She pointed toward a seven-year-old playing with other children. He had an unusual hook-shaped nose with a yellow-green tip, but I didn’t comment — only thought maybe that was something I could help her fix someday.
He looked up at me curiously. “Who are you?”
“Your grandfather,” I said proudly.
“What’s a grandfather?” he asked.
“The father before your father,” I told him. “A grand one.”
Janelle chuckled — and just hearing her laugh again, even in a dream, was a gift.
When I woke, the clock glowed 3:30 AM — my old Antarctica alarm clock still ticking faithfully after all these years. Elizabeth was sound asleep. I held the dream to my heart for an hour before sharing it with her at dawn.
ChatGPT Dream Analysis
To gain some distance I asked ChatGPT to explore the deeper meaning of this dream. What follows is its interpretation, which resonated with me:
1. Dusk and the Parking Lot — A Liminal Space
Dusk is the threshold between clarity and mystery. A parking lot is a place of pause, not permanence.
Together they signal: You are in a transitional moment with Janelle. A chapter where something new can begin.
2. The Cosmic Convertible Semi — A Vehicle of Destiny
A semi truck symbolizes strength, endurance, and long-haul journeys. A convertible symbolizes openness. The cosmic paint job symbolizes DreamShield energy — guidance, timing, alignment.
This suggests that your reconnection may not come from force, but from timing and openness guided by something larger than both of you.
3. Janelle’s Hesitation — And Her Choice
Her torn look reflects her real internal conflict — longing mixed with fear.
Jason’s protective “Who’s asking?” embodies past boundaries and old wounds.
But grace enters here:
Janelle overrides him. She chooses connection.
“I’m coming down” symbolizes stepping down from emotional distance into equal ground.
4. The Embrace — Pure Heart
Dream embraces bypass ego entirely. They are emotional truth.
Her sighing “Me too” is your psyche showing you the possibility — and desire — for reconciliation.
5. Marty — The Lineage Reawakening
His unusual nose is symbolic, not literal:
Yellow-green: healing, growth, renewal
Hook shape: something catching and pulling you into family again
Your instinct to “help fix it’’ reflects your desire to heal the generational storyline.
His innocence — “What’s a grandfather?” — gives you the chance to reclaim your role with humor and warmth.
6. Waking at 3:30 AM — The Hour of Intuition
This is when the subconscious speaks loudest.
Your Antarctic clock links this dream to the spiritual clarity you gained on 12.12.12 — the sense that the universe sometimes speaks in symbols, timing, and dreams.
The Deeper Meaning
According to the interpretation, this dream reflects:
your readiness for forgiveness
your longing to heal generational wounds
your hope for reconnection
Janelle’s place returning to the center of your inner world
the possibility — not fantasy — of real-world reunion
It is a dream not of memory, but of potential.
The message beneath it:
“Prepare your heart. The story with Janelle is not over.”
From Personal Healing to National Healing
And I’m back. As I sat with this dream, I realized something deeper: the reconnection I hope for with my daughter mirrors the reconnection hope of many of us our country.
We are a nation estranged from ourselves. MAGA and liberal America have become like family members who no longer speak, who assume the worst, who carry old wounds in silence.
But if a father and daughter separated for fourteen years can find their way back to one another — even in the symbolic landscape of a dream — then maybe a country can too.
Dreams show what the heart still believes is possible.
And my heart believes reconciliation — personal and political — is still within reach.
May we all find our way back to each other. One embrace at a time.
Especially for me and Janelle who is an amazing huger and who I badly want Elizabeth to meet.
I first learned the potent force of positive thinking — a skill set that paid my college tuition and as an adult allowed to me to raise hundreds of millions of dollars for everything from building skyscrapers to making movies — quite by accident back in 1971.
Here’s some 70s music to enjoy while you read this personal tale that will eventually wind it’s way to my thoughts on how our current president is breaking the laws of positive thinking laid out by Norman Vincent Peale in his groundbreaking book THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING.
It’s the fall of 1971. As the autumn leaves sparkle in the sunset I am worrying how I am going to make tuition for the second semester. Back in high school I only got average grades except for English and Art, and barely squeaked by in anything math related. So Art college is all I can get accepted into. Layton School of Art & Design to be precise. Conveniently, Layton is only about a mile’s walk from the new home my parents bought in ’69 on the banks of the Milwaukee River.
But after almost flunking out in my freshman year, in part because working night jobs to make tuition leaves me no time to study, this year’s grades and finances are looking no better. I am a nervous wreck, because if don’t stay in college it’s straight to Vietnam for my sorry ass, stuck with a lousy #15 draft lottery number.
Born 17 months after me, my kid brother Fred lucks out and pulls a draft # 265 in the lottery. He promptly drops out of college and starts apprenticing in the trades as a welder, our dad’s lucrative job. But for draft #15 me, it’s a matter of survival I keep my butt in college. A lot of us Boomers have Uncle Sam’s terrible war with Vietnam to thank for being the first in their families to graduate college.
One Tuesday night, fed up with cleaning bed pans at a local nursing home on the graveyard shift — the latest in a succession of lousy night jobs like bottle inspector at a Pepsi plant, pizza chef, window display artist, and more I’ve chosen to forget — I’m pouting in my parent’s beat up recliner that faces the Milwaukee river.
I’m still cooling off from a bad phone argument with my girlfriend from South Milwaukee. She’s away attending the University of Wisconsin Madison to learn to be a physical therapist. Her help correcting spelling and grammar on my term papers is raising my grades, but it’s a helluva lot to ask of her when she has her own schoolwork. I don’t blame my straight A student lover for listening to her mother that maybe she should dump me. Our relationship, like everything these Nixonian days, hangs by a thread.
Desperate to make tuition or it’s off to ‘Nam, I decide to ask Mom ,who is sitting mesmerized by a cartoon black bear paddling a canoe in a Hamm’s Beer commercial, where Dad might be. She shrugs and says in a hoarse whisper. “Off on another of his damned benders.”
Anxiously, flipping through the Help Wanted ads in the Milwaukee Journal I spot a winner: “PART-TIME WEEKEND DISPLAY WORK, EARN UP TO $1500 A MONTH. I hop from the easy chair, revealing a cigarette burn my Dad left behind after passing out in the middle of his third six pack, and dash for the phone. I dial, my fingers so shaky I’m barely able to spin my family’s dirty yellow rotary wall phone. Dad’s a mechanic plus a welder and his grime coats everything in the house in a thin black film.
A man with a buttery voice answers my desperate call. I blurt out my experience doing window display work at Des Forges Book Store on Wisconsin Avenue. The soothingly confident voice on the grimy phone tells me, “Come on in for an interview Thursday night, Ken.”
I holler for joy startling Mom. When I explain my thrill about the interview she says dryly, “Kenneth,” as she always does when lecturing me, “There’s no part-time job on earth that pays $1500 a month to do display work. It’s a scam, hon. Don’t go.”
I not so politely remind my Mom, “Well, I am over 18 now and I’ll decide what jobs to check out. That is unless you and Dad want to help me make tuition.” Desperation makes me sound whiny. Chastened, Mom returns to watching BEWITCHED in silence.
It seems like forever until Thursday night. As the big interview approaches all I can think of is, “Mom’s right. How the hell can I earn $1500 a month just doing part-time display work on weekends? I’m an idiot.”
My Drill Sargent Dad
The day before the interview my, lovable half the time and hateful the other half, father returns to home base. Thankfully he’s backed off beating mom on his frequent reinsertions into our lives. He’s stopped taking his self-hatred on out on Mom ever since I tossed his drunk abusive ass down the basement stairs a few months ago. I’m both ashamed and amazed I’m still alive after getting away with that angry stunt. A shrink will later explain my father was happy he forced me to sink to his level and confirm his claims I am a bad son.
Dad pops a Pabst Blue Ribbon and chortles, “Your ma tells me about this dumb ass interview you’ve set yourself up for. Ha. This how you think you’re going to make tuition? Get real. You’re on your own, Kenny boy, and I hope you flunk out. Maybe the Army can make man of you.” I storm out of the elegant north shore house that my blue-collar house poor family is over their heads owning.
His stinging words echoing in my head, I listen to my dad, except in the reverse. His disdain for the job is a huge endorsement for me. A challenge. I shout to the stars, “Fuck you, old man!”
Damn, I’m such a punk to think a man in his 40s is old.
Thursday comes at last. The glass entrance door emblazoned with gold letter reads: RAINBOW GREAT LAKES DIVISION. I am stoked. This feels like it’s the real deal, even though when I turn a corner I am taken down a set of grungy narrow stairs to the basement.
I open a flimsy hollow-core door labeled reception. My heart sinks to my shoes at the sight of a dozen other young people jammed into the dingy room built for 6 people max. I take a seat next to a kid my age and whisper, “Any idea what this job’s about?”
He shrugs and whispers back, “Fuck if I know.”
I wisecrack, “$1500 a month on weekends? Hey, maybe they’re looking for male strippers.” I get nervous laughs from the gang of applicants, but I wonder in my fevered brain, “Am I willing to turn male stripper to stay out of Vietnam?”
Before I can answer, “Hell yes!” a roguishly handsome blonde haired man, not much older than we anxious job candidates, spins into the room. Dressed in a cheap looking plaid suit, the toothy dude wisecracks, “Any of you gents wanna to learn how you can make $1500 a month or even more working part-time follow me.” He herds our bewildered clan into a crummy classroom adorned in fake wood paneling, and I grow ever more anxious.
The man in the plaid polyester suit vigorously writes his name on the chalkboard, like a teacher on crack:
Tom Deere
Now Tom asks for our first names and rapidly jots them all on the chalkboard one at a time with intense stares that seem to be some kind of memorization thing. When my turn comes I’m tempted to give a fake name but decide, “What the heck do I have to lose?” and answer, “Ken.”
Tom tells us with broad smile that never leaves his mustached puss, which does not make him look older, “Hi. I’m Tom Deere, Branch manager for Glendale’s Wisconsin Rainbow office. I’m 24 and I make seventy grand a year. More on that later. For now there’s some questionnaires for you guys to fill out before we get rollin’.”
After hearing the fantastic five figure income Tom makes, we’re all ears.
As Tom hands out questionnaires he coyly adds, “Don’t answer the last question until I give the OK.”
The questions are super easy to answer, written at 6th grade level, but give no indication whatsoever of what the hell this job is. I eye the door ready to bolt, thinking, “This dork makes 70K a year? Right. For once Dad and Mom are right. I’m outta here.”
Seeming to read my mind Tom pats me on the shoulder and says, “Relax. You’re gonna love this, Ken.” The shock Tom remembers my first name feels kinda magical and his warm hand on my shoulder quells some of my anxiety. I settle into the cheap folding chair.
A gruff Italian guy in a dried-blood-colored leather jacket slinks into the room through a half opened door. Now my overactive imagination starts to concoct a Mafia story of us all being candidates for stripper hit men when Tom speaks up, “Everybody meet Antony. — Tony, tell the guys how much you cleared working part time for Rainbow this month.”
Tony’s grimace shows he’s not loving the idea of sharing. “Tony?” says Tom, asserting some will Tony’s way.
Tony bows his head a little. After a brief internal struggle, he finally fesses up in a barely audible mutter, “Almost two K.”
“Thanks, Tony. You know, guys, Antony was a Milwaukee public bus driver before he started raking in the dough. Wanna hear how he did it and how you can make big bucks too?”
Tom cups a hand to his ear and about half of us all quickly say, “Yeah.”
Tom shouts, “Can’t hear you!”
Now we all shout back, “YEAH!” in unison. The group energy changes. We’re all in the palm of Tom’s hands. Soft hands I can see have never seen hard labor. I look at the fresh scar from a serious wound on my left index finger, a lifelong souvenir of my bottle inspecting night job at the Pepsi plant.
Tom pulls a little machine out of a box. It’s about the size of beauty parlor’s hair dryer bonnet with a chrome dome. An air slot is mounted over a brass colored base. It all sits atop clear plexiglass basin filled with water. The damed thing looks like an astronaut from a B sci-fi movie.
Tom flicks the switch and a gentle breeze flows from the noisy gizmo, stirring the stagnant basement air. Pollution is a huge issue in 1971. Tom demonstrates this air cleaner is dubbed the Rainbow because it filters out particulates through water. I’m sold.
Tom draws a line down the center of the chalkboard. He labels one column SALARY and the other COMMISSION. On the salary side Tom writes “$500 a month”. On the other Tom takes his time to diagram how by selling 30 $399 Rainbow air cleaners a month we can make $1500 a month in commissions.
He casually adds, “It’s easy to sell Rainbows because we do all the hard work of making the appointments. You simply visit potential customers and display what this beauty can do. The Rainbow has been around since the 1930s. Stellar reputation. Gents, I promise you it sells itself.”
I wonder, “How the hell has a company I’ve never heard ’til now been selling air cleaners since the 1930s; way before air pollution was a thing?”
Then Tom adds pine scent to the water. I have a pitiful sense of smell, so the fragrance of this forest scent is magic. A memory of a happy family visit to Whispering Pines State Park, when I was two and Mom and Dad were still in love, warms my heart. My worries vanish in the piney fresh smelling air.
“Ok,” Tom instructs we eager applicants, “Time to fill out the last question. Write S if you wanna work for Rainbow on a monthly salary of $500. Or write C top have the chance to make 3 times that much on commission. Ah, but wait! Hold your pens. Almost forgot to show you why the Rainbow is even more of a synch to display.”
Tom takes the grill off the Rainbow, whips a hose out of the box, and proceeds to vacuum the cheap carpet. “That’s right. The Rainbow not only cleans your air… drum roll please… it cleans the carpet.” Tom displays away, and now I finally get this ain’t window display work! I almost say “Fuck!” out loud but manage to hold it all in with a giggle internally at my dense take on the help wanted ad for “display work” that brought me here.
“Now fill out the last question, S for salary, C for commission. Tony will grab your questionnaires on the way out the door. Night and thanks for coming, gents,” says Tom bowing out the door, not giving us a chance to ask questions.
My Bic pen hovers over the questionnaire. I’m pretty shy and I think, “Better $500 a month than nothing on commission.”
I am about to write S when Tony pipes up, “Guys, I ain’t never sold nothin’ before. But if a freakin’ bus-driver-dego-whop like me can sell 40 of these Rainbows a month and knock down a legit 2 K you can too. My advice? Check C for commission.”
Feeling a little nauseous, I check C. First to make the big decision I head for Tony at the door. As I hand him the questionnaire I ask, “When will I know if I got the job?”
“Mr. Deere will hit you up quick if you’re in. If you don’t hear nothin’ in the next 48 hours, well, you’re toast,” says Tony with a mischievous grin.
When I get home Mom barely notices me slip in. She’s glued to BONANZA on her new color TV.
Recently, after a terrible fight, one that ended up with a visit from the cops, cops who always let Dad off easy even after my Mom is left black and blue — a thing still going on today in domestic abuse cases all too often — I ask her, my voice ash, “Ma, why don’t you divorce Dad? He’s going to kill you or me if this shit goes on much longer.”
Her terse answer, “Can’t afford to leave your father. He’s a good provider.”
Mom spots me pouring a milk at the fridge and asks, “How’d the interview go, Kenny?”
The dirty yellow wall phone rings before I can answer her. I’ve just gotten home so I don’t expect it to be Tom Deere on the line when I say, “Hello?”
“Ken?”
“Mr. Deere?”
“Tom please. Ha. You make me feel like I’m fifty. Congrats! You got the job.”
I cover the receiver and holler for joy, “I got the job, Mom!”
“What kind of job?” says Mom dryly.
“Selling home air cleaners,” I quickly tell Mom, leaving out the vacuum cleaner part of the Rainbow out.
“Sales? You get a salary?” Mom asks, her mouth full of potato chips.
In an instant the risk I am taking sinks in. It’s sell or off to ‘Nam and good chance I’ll die or be fucked up like the students I meet coming back the States after a tour of duty. The poor vets remind me of zombies. I shake off my fear and get back to Tom on the phone, dodging Mom’s fateful question, “What’s next?”
“Come in Saturday 9AM for training.”
The training is surprisingly good. My shriveled self esteem begins to blossom. I’m clumsy at first but soon I’m stunned to discover that I’m a natural born salesman. Thanks to my mother’s well-off side of the family buying machines as I train, in a matter of weeks I am the #1 part time Rainbow salesmen in Glendale. A title I never give up. It’s my first win-win experience of my life as my many aunts and uncles all love their Rainbows. I learn the lesson to offer customers advice on the best products and let stuff from vacs to skyscrapers sell themselves.
Even my hard case father is begrudgingly proud of the fact I’m learning to be a good provider like him. Tuition becomes a breeze and I even have enough money left over to, I shit you not, own a classic Lincoln Continental on campus.
Sculpture I Design and Fred Sheetz Welded – Our One and Only Collaboration
My kid brother Fred seems to down on my selling to earn my way through college. A jealousy takes seed in his mind that contributes to killing him one day as he drowns his rage of never making big money in drugging and drinking. Fred never copes well with my entrepreneurial successes compared to his playing it safe as a master welder on salary plus overtime. Also, he never sought therapy to heal from Dad’s epic physical and mental abuse like I did. Hell, I had a fleet of therapist help me rise from the ashes when my $162 million skyscraper project ruined me and my marriage.
My offer to set my little brother Fred up in business, him welding sculptures I’d design fell on deaf ears. Sad. He was so talented. I really regret not pushing my Gemini brother to do that. He simply was not prepared for the Obama years when America’s jobs left for China. Being laid off finished him off.
Back to 1971. My girlfriend hates my Lincoln’s big sidewalls, but she loves our expensive dates. She will become my wife over the objections over her mother. And one day my ex-wife to her mother’s delight.
So weird my wife to be’s mom hated me one for not being a doctor, like she said it right to my shocked face. A constant thorn in my side, even my becoming Chicago’s #1 commercial real estate broker according to the Chicago Times 15 years later and making her baby rich, never earns my mother-in-law-from-hell’s respect.
Me and client Oprah on the Opening of Her $28 million Harpo Studio
As part of my Rainbow sales training I am given some wonderful books to read by Mr. Deere. All of which add to my successes in life, including the building of Oprah’s Harpo Studios and developing a $162 million dollar skyscraper. Sadly, I lost touch with Tom after I graduated college and no longer wanted to sell Rainbows. He took it kinda hard I left to be an interior architect. But the most amazing of these books is Norman Vincent Peale’s THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING.
By the way, later as I become the number one part-time sales person on the Great Lakes region for Rainbow, I learn from Tom the only question he ever checks is C. If an applicant is willing to work on commission. Applications checked S for salary are placed in the circular file.
TRUMP’S ABUSE OF THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING
Now, I don’t know if Trump’s father was even half as abusive as my messed up drill sergeant dad, but it’s well known Trump’s father Fred was a hard-case father. So much so I think Fred Trump may have shattered Donald’s self worth. In fact, as junior shrink after so much therapy, I theorize the Don’s daddy issues made him the crazed narcissist we all either love or hate today.
As for me, it will be my “accidental” introduction to the power of positive thinking that serves to rescue me from the bone crushing barrage of mental negativity that my father subjected me to from birth. I remember reading these words at age 19 of Peale’s and feeling it a godsend, a life raft that saved me from a life depression and anxiety like my brother’s:
“Believe in yourself! Have faith in your abilities! Without a humble but reasonable confidence in your own powers you cannot be successful or happy.” ― Norman Vincent Peale
Note that I italicized humble but reasonable. Assuming Trump read the same book, a bit of stretch given his dislike for reading, and like me he learned how to rebuild his self worth from an abusive father through the power of positive thinking, it’s obvious Trump has either forgotten or intentionally ignored that self-belief has to be humble and reasonable.
Now, this might not sound like big deal, but without the restraints of being humble and reasonable in one’s confidence, positive thinking has a dark side. Indeed, without tempering, someone with the gift of charisma can literally become a confidence gamer or a con man, as Trump has.
My friends, there’s a simple reason conning people is illegal: It works all to well. So don’t be hard on a loved one or pal who has been taken in by Trump’s abuse of the power of positive thinking. You see, humans are conditioned by millions of years to trust our tribal leaders.
Especially, leaders who act with great confidence, as to having the greater welfare of the tribe at heart. Trump, unfortunately, is far from humble. To me he comes off as a compulsive liar. It’s sickness. I worked for one who shall remain anonymous as he’s as vindictive as Trump. “Buh-lieve me,” as Trump likes to say. Yep. These kind of mind fuckers lie for sport.
How disgustingly different the modern world that rewards lying leaders with wealth and fame is from the caveman days when the tribe stoned or hung bad leaders. Leaders today who are truthful are as rare as the 1 million endangered species Trump could give a shit about.
Lest you think Trump’s our first unethical leader, well, please read some history. To my heightened sensitivity as an abuse survivor, Obama, the drone president, the oil president, the surveillance president, was not much a more truthful a leader than the Cheet-oh Jesus as he being called, Trump. Nope. Pretty boy Barrack was just way smoother at his political con game. Still is. Though he has nothing on Bill Clinton for being a charming liar. Reagan? Don’t get me started. What a mess we’ve been in for decades.
Folks, and I am sure you know, Super liars are in charge of our world and it must change. Humanity can no longer function this way. We, the stable clan of geniuses who have created so many endangered species are now on our own endangered list. So thank your lucky stars the clumsy buffoonery of Trump has ruined lying for all future leaders. That’s where I see some hope.
The Amazon is on fire. The vast majority of scientists and his fellow G7 leaders are telling Trump that the environment is in crisis. But “the chosen one” prefers to proclaim that it’s all a Chinese hoax. He tells his followers to support fossil fuels, avoid solar power, avoid “cancer causing” wind power. He joyfully invites his loyal followers, a loyalty he does not deserve as he’s sticking it to most of them, to think positive as he proclaims global warming is liberal lie. “No biggie, so keep on gas guzzling, everyone!”
Trump’s irresponsible lack of humble leadership is a horror show on a scale never witnessed before in human history. And sadly it comes at a time when we can least afford it. The clock is running out fast on humanity’s ability to shirk off its responsibility to Gaia.
Take it from a man who worked his way through college selling Rainbows to stay out of a war he did not believe in, versus the one in DC who gamed the system with a fake story about bone spurs: We need a total reset in 2020 with young people taking the reigns from the old who cannot fully grasp that our very existence is at stake. Sorry Joe and Bernie/
Wow. It’s only been handful of days since I almost left the planet. My 3rd March NDE (what’s my issue with March?) happened this past Wednesday. A Wednesday like any other. Elizabeth and I had gotten up and off to hike with our rescue dog Lincoln shortly after sunrise. We were back home before 8 AM and making breakfast.
I like to take my supplements before I eat so I gathered them up from the many bottles under our counter and did what I’ve done many times; popped a bunch of them in my mouth at once. Then it happened. I began violently gagging.
I staggered over to the sink to try to barf them up. My stomach wretched deeply but no luck getting the logjam of supplements free. Elizabeth asked if I was OK and next thing I knew I was on the hard tile kitchen floor face down; blood dripping from my mouth and nose.
I tried to get up but both my arms were numb. Elizabeth shouted, “Stay down, Ken! You passed out and smashed your head! Are you OK?” I was confused because the last thing I remembered was choking on supplements by the sink.
Soon a team of 6 paramedics were crammed in our Sedona kitchen. As they began strapping me into a stretcher, the lead paramedic examined my eyes with a small flashlight. “Normal contraction in both eyes,” he told his clan of rescuers. Elizabeth gave a grateful sigh of relief as he asked, “What happened?”
After I recounted my stupidity of taking too many supplements at once I was told I’d suffered a hard lesson about a part of my body I’d never heard of before, the Vagus nerve. Pronounced like Vegas, but not as much fun. It wraps around the esophagus and choking can trigger it. It’s used by wrestlers to induce a sleep hold.
For a guy who had a vision in a past near death as kid this 2019 NED was nothing like that. It feels more like reboot. I simply was here one minute, gone briefly, and then back with no visions of where I went.
The paramedic asked me as blood dripped from my mouth and nose, “Who is our president?”
“Sadly Trump,” I responded. My gallows humor got a few smiles according to Elizabeth and showed them I was going to be OK but they still insisted I go to the ER for Xrays and a CT scan. My heart was acting up a bit with what they hoped was a trauma induced an atrial fibrillation.
Each day I am recuperating rapidly. The outreach of love and support on Facebook and in real life has been deeply touching and began while I was briefly in the ER. Thankfully all the tests were good, nothing was broken and I did not suffer ever a concussion. And with all the healing energy that came my way my heart happily returned to its normal beat in a matter of hours.
Man, I remember chuckling when George Bush passed out choking on a pretzel that triggered his Vagus nerve back in 2002. Well, it’s not so funny now when I feel the pain in my neck head and shoulders from the fall, a lot better each day, that makes it a challenge to type right now.
The painful lesson I happily pass on: Take your supplements one at a time or end up like me and W.
During my stay at Malibu’s Great Spirits Ranch, hosting events and running social media for the bulk of 2012, I was blessed to meet many amazing stars of the LA spirit community. One of those LA stars is now my partner in love, biz and life, Elizabeth England. We’ve been living in bliss together now for three years, nestled in a lovely home in Sedona.
Annelise Balfour Couchman (Annalisa)
As we work round the clock to get the word out about an amazing line of EMF protection devices that literally save lives on our new CoolestTechEver.com e-commerce site, it can be easy to actually forget that magical time. A time when all of us in the yoga and meditation community across the planet were looking forward to the end of the Mayan calendar with hope for a new era in human awareness.
In that heady time, there was lovely woman named Annelise (Annalisa) Balfour who visited the Malibu ranch a few times for GSR events. Her mega-watt smile and contagious positive attitude made her a stand-out from the crowds who visited the 14 acres ranch, perched high above the city of Malibu in the Santa Monica mountains. Annelise was curious about my ET spirit guide Ohom and we had great conversation about the mission of the DreamShield to assist in gently elevating human consciousness through meditation.
Yesterday, amidst all the hype on FB surrounding the mid-term elections, which gratefully succeeded in the Dems taking the house to put some check on 45, I was shocked to learn that sweet Annelise had passed away from breast cancer. It instantly put all the nonsense surrounding Trump and our crazy-making politics into perspective.
Monday, at Ross Pittman’s of ConsciousLifeNews.com’s weekly power of eight meditation event, I asked the group to help Annelise on her journey. Everyone eagerly agreed. As soon as we all closed our eyes and dropped into our heart space I connected to my dear spirit guide Robin Williams; now enjoying an oceanic afterlife as a killer whale, after short reincarnations as a blue whale and a blue dolphin. Robin, who calls himself Nanu these days, volunteered to help in the group meditation.
Robin found Annelise’s spirit wandering the beach in Malibu. When she spotted Robin they connected telepathically and he playfully invited Annelise to swim out and climb aboard his back and hang onto his dorsal fin. Annelise happily accepted Robin’s invitation and soon they were off!
Annelise gleefully clung to Robin the killer whale like a mermaid born for this. Robin dove deep and soared up, flying from from wave to wave. Annelise laughed with carefree joy as the duo glided on the wind and waves.
Now Robin dove deep. Deeper and deeper, down to the bottom of the ocean he raced. At first Annelise worried about air but then chuckled she no longer had the need for mortal breathing. She gasped as up ahead a small portal of golden light opened, a glittering beacon on the dark ocean floor.
Robin told Annelise, “Sorry. Too small for me. This is as far as I can take you, babe. Enjoy your journey to the center for the earth!”
I watched the vision from the Sedona meditation circle with a giddy smile as Annelise’s spirit accepted Nanu’s whale of an invite and dove into the golden portal. Her spirit easily glided though the layers of the earth, gaining in power. Soon she arrived at the planetary core. But instead of hot magma she was amazed the earth’s core swirled in molten gold.
A large golden lever that stuck out from a golden column beckoned to Annelise. Free of mortal hesitation, she pulled the golden lever sharply down. To her joy a wave of golden energy sailed from the earth’s core rocketing out to the surface and kept right on going throughout the solar system and the whole universe.
The vision ended and I shared the story with our Sedona meditation group. Others shared visions too of her powerful presence. And I felt immense gratitude for the abundant health of my love Elizabeth and the mutual support we give each other as we continue to grow and develop as leaders of the conscious community.
Today, America awoke to a renewed Congress, blessed with 100 women of many races and creeds who, to record turnouts, were elected yesterday. Thanks for helping make that happen, Annelise and my coolest ever mediation Sedona pals! Safe journeys on whatever you are up to next on the other side, Annalisa. I have a feeling your part of your work will be helping heal the idiotic divides between the people.
Oh, and I’ll pass your thanks onto spirit guide and killer whale Nanu, AKA Robin Williams.
I’ll lead off this blog with a message from my ET spirit guide:
“Every living being in the universe experiences immortality in the 5D quantum field.” Love, Ohom
My best rendering of Ohom in his human angelic form
Ohom’s coolest ever message came to me in the aftermath of a March 9, 2018 heart scare. Since I’ve been blessed by near perfect health my whole life this came totally out of left field.
But a prefect storm of stress, combined with a 60 day 25 pound weight gain, brought on by entertaining a food-loving future 23-year-old son-in-law for three months, had raised my blood pressure to twice normal levels.
Thanks to my awareness that something was very wrong, my love drove me to the ER where they took one look at me and rushed me to an ICU for treatment. It was a close call this heart failure did not escalate to a heart attack or stroke. I feel deeply blessed to still be here blogging to you.
BTW, I taught my 88 year-old mom what the word blog means the other day. “Blog? What a weird word!”she complained.
On March 11th I told the hospital doctors, determined to scare me into better self-care, that they’d find my heart was in decent shape when they examined me. I knew this not just because am I blessed with being pretty psychic, but because I had just hiked the Grand Canyon 6 months earlier with zero heart trouble.
The angiogram, which I had to wait two and a half days to have done, determined my heart, as I predicted, was not permanently damaged by my freak spike in blood pressure. (BP health tip. Avoid using baking soda for heartburn. Too high in sodium!) As well, my arteries checked out unclogged and my heart valves were working great. That happy Monday after my angiogram I was the “good news patient” in the ICU. The outright joy of the nurses and doctors over my groovy angiogram still warms my healing heart.
But it was not all roses for my heart reports. An echogram revealed that the part of my heart that pumps the blood, called the ventricles, was enlarged and my normally dependable heart operating at only half normal pumping power. No wonder I had become weak as kitten, short of breath went into heart failure.
Nine weeks into my heart recovery program at this posting, I am on a lot of expensive meds to rebuild my heart. One prescription, Entresto, costs $2500 for 60 tablets. That’s $41.60 a freaking pill! Thank god for my Medicare which just began last fall.
Good news, as I make this post, I have graduated from 6 weeks of cardio training, gone on a diet and joined a gym. I’m well on way to fulfilling my heart doctor’s rare prediction of 100% recovery. Heck, I’m going for 200% recovery. No rules against that!
Indeed, the heart pros have called my recovery “remarkable”. So far so good. Echogram again in June and then I’ll confirm if my heart is back to full pumping power. I feel it is a month ahead of schedule. Fingers crossed.
I have some theories on why my recovery has been so strong, besides the incredible outpouring of love, prayer and good intentions from family, friends and fans, that I want to share with you.
Ohom’s message on the nature of what immortality actually is all about, 5D -wise, came to me a little before my heart scare, but without my getting it at first. When I get massive visions like the one of ET healing the earth in 2010, which ended me up meditating to help heal humanity on 12.12.12 in Antarctica, it can take me years to figure epic visions out.
Ironically, it was the four days on my back in the Verde Valley Hospital that gave me the unexpected free time to understand an ET vision I’d had early this year. And I am just now finding the time to blog about it!
Looking back on my own multi-dimensional ET self as I lay in the air-pressurized as hell ICU bed, hooked up to IVs and monitors, was that what I had seen a few months earlier in the ET vision Ohom sent me is reality is in fact is a 5D Fibonacci sfield of trillions of universes. Think of sunflower face, but as sphere, where each seed is one of an infinite number of realities.
On this timeline, on which I am happily still writing to you, and on most other timelines, there exists an infinite range of my realities; from my being dead or good as a dead, as a stroked out man in a wheelchair, to my life as a space traveling ever-youthful immortal running marathons on other worlds that humanity is colonizing in other galaxies. And all these infinite realities are ruled by one master soul that we call God.
HOW MY HEART FAILURE HELPED ME UNDERSTAND DR. FLANAGAN’S IMMORTALITY CHAMBER
Looking deeper down the quantum rabbit hole of my heart scare, I see this 5D quantum immortality I have had its origins in a 2013 2D filming super scientist Patrick Flanagan, founder of PhiSciences.com.
One hot summer 2013 day, I was editing in the sweltering closet that was my makeshift edit suite off a humble attic room, tucked above a dusty little B&B we rented for my visit from LA to film super scientist Dr. Flanagan, when my cell rang. It was Pat on the line. Excited he said, “Hi, Ken. Want to be immortal?”
Without hesitation I shouted, “Of course!” As I raced my rental car to Pat’s Cornville estate, which doubled then as his home lab, I felt blessed to have to this amazing genius in my life.
A gentle desert breeze blew through the screen of open front door of the great inventor’s white adobe home, perched above the Verde River with a commanding view. Pat spotted me at the entrance and called me out onto the patio. I passed through the spacious living room filled with scared objects that he and his wife Stephanie have gathered from around the world, mixed with Pat’s half finished experiments that occupied every horizontal surface.
Arriving on the deck overlooking the Verde Valley and Mingus Mountains I gasped at the sight of the world renowned scientist’s prototype made of plywood and 2X4’s you see in this video. Seeing a new invention is this early stage of development is a rare treat I am honored to have filmed. Enjoy the video before reading on.
After I finished filming I got my turn to bathe in the energies of Pat’s immortality chamber prototype. When I came out Pat said with his famous mischievous smile, “Congratulation, Ken. You’re immortal now. You will only die if someone chops your head off, like in THE HIGHLANDER.” We all had a good laugh at Pat’s joke.
How cool to finally understand what this modern-day Tesla, Dr. Flanagan, meant. I am grateful for my heart troubles as it’s allowed me to see what Pat meant on 5D form here in 2018. I also love Patrick’s brilliant and beautiful wife’s message in the video. BTW, she’s an absolute human angel who adores Donald Trump as president. Her high opinion of the Donald, despite my own grave reservations on Trump that often get the better on me, gives me hope there is a deeper value to his presidency than I’ve yet to see.
Stephanie’s line at the end of the Immortality Chamber video, “Isn’t it wild?” sums up a lot of the 5D fibonacci of the immortality vision for me to live with courage and to feel love for all realities. Good and bad are human labels.
Shameless and proud plug, visit the Coolest Meditation Ever (CME) page for Dr. Flanagan’s amazing Sensor v medallion. On the sales page you’ll hear the doctor explain it’s a portable pyramidal abundance field generator. I can tell you in the five years of abundance that I’ve had my Sensor V since he gifted me one is that it is the gift that keeps on giving. It’s flat out worked miracles in my life, including a return to abundant health.
I had to buy one for my love Elizabeth, pictured below. The Sensor V has worked just as great for her too. In fact she is away right now on abundant trip to the Bahamas for yoga intensive training!
I first learned the potent force of positive thinking — a skill set that paid my college tuition and as an adult allowed to me to raise hundreds of millions of dollars for everything from building skyscrapers to making movies — quite by accident back in 1971.
Tom pulls a little machine out of a box. It’s about the size of beauty parlor’s hair dryer bonnet with a chrome dome. An air slot is mounted over a brass colored base. It all sits atop clear plexiglass basin filled with water. The damed thing looks like an astronaut from a B sci-fi movie.
On March 11th I told the hospital doctors, determined to scare me into better self-care, that they’d find my heart was in decent shape when they examined me. I knew this not just because am I blessed with being pretty psychic, but because I had just hiked the Grand Canyon 6 months earlier with zero heart trouble.
Media, Meditations & Musings 