INTRODUCTION  to 'Fly High, Little Bird' --- An Excerpt from the Book.


     If, by chance, you do not believe in other dimensions and civilizations beyond Planet Earth, nor our ability to interact with them, then this book is not for you. Unless it is. I would hate to see wisdom lost just because of a little snag like that. So, if it works better for you to look upon this as a figment of my imagination—a series of conversations between me, and me, during some of my wilder moments…well…I’m good with that. I am more than delighted to take credit for all of it, despite being oddly confident that the deeper messages could only have come from someone far wiser than I am at present. I am smart, but I’m not that smart!
     I have total sympathy with whatever doubt and fear some of you may feel at the idea that any of this is possible. I felt the same. This book in its essence is a bare-naked account of my struggle to accept that Light Beings such as these look upon me as worthy of their love and attention (as are you), and that I am up to the task of interdimensional communication and co-authorship. More than once they had to talk me down from the ledge. Not an actual ledge. More like a persistent urge to dive under the bed, never to be seen again. The irony does not escape me that in the past I have often said, ‘You don’t have to hit me over the head!’ Because, apparently, you do.
     Aliens do not frighten me, nor have I ever doubted their existence, but if I saw one sitting in my living room, I daresay my first reaction would be AAGGHHH! The denial/fear hype that most governments churn out on the subject is, to my way of thinking, a deliberate attempt to further bureaucratic agendas. Hollywood movies portraying alien invasions in gruesome, heart-stopping detail are more valuable to bureaucratic puppet masters than box office gold. I have not been unaffected by such hype. Yet to my knowledge our most spiritual, most technologically advanced space communities desire only to awaken us to our Divine identity and purpose. Why do they care? Because we are their beloved children. They seeded us here. Humans did not spring from the ground like broccoli. My belief in God as Prime Creator of all life does not in my opinion negate our alien origins.
     Someone recently asked me, ‘Why were you chosen?’ It’s a fair question. Most channeled books are produced by people with an impressive list of credentials and/or experience at this sort of thing. I have a Grade 12 education, no formal training as a writer, and my psychic abilities are erratic and barely formed. Why would these Beings talk to an ordinary person like me?
     At first, I thought maybe it was a reward for surviving a life that lays out badly if I forget to look past the tears in my throat—an emotionally isolated childhood, three abusive marriages, both my children drug addicts, and some other hits to the heart that knocked my kids and me sideways so that it seemed I was forever hauling myself out of pits of despair. With my Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD) misdiagnosed and incorrectly treated as Bipolar II Disorder until 2017, it was like juggling a hundred crazy-balls in the air without knowing how they got there or how to get them down. Surely to emerge from all of that with my humor intact and wiser than I was going in deserves a bigger reward than a bucket of Rocky Road ice cream! Why not?
     I believe in multiple lives—each self-charted on its key events, for evolutionary purposes. However, if I had been capable of speech on the day that I was born, I would surely have croaked, ‘Where am I? And what the hell am I doing here?’ Because by the time I had my act together enough to launch a sensible protest, or to request an exit visa, it was too late. I was already brainwashed by my parents and Miss Manners to take it on the chin.
     Sylvia Browne, the late American psychic, once said that when we choose dysfunctional families, stupid relationships, impossible children, and difficult bosses, it’s because we’re smart. Grappling with challenges such as these is the fastest way for us to evolve. And if that is the case—then I must be a genius!
     My maternal great-grandmother read tea leaves, and my mother saw auras, angels, and the odd roadside phantom. I was fifty-seven before I had an explanation for the onslaught of feelings and perceptions that has plagued me my entire life to the point of collapse more than a few times. To awaken convulsed in terror with no logical reason for it is enough to drive anyone nuts! It never occurred to me that I might have inherited psychic abilities. To be fair, I only recently heard about Grandma Baker’s tea leaves, and I was never completely sure of my mother.
     When a psychic informed me in 2006 that I am a Clairsentient Empath with claircognizance, or clear-knowing, and research proved it true, all the ducks in my brain-fuzz jumped into a neat little row. It didn’t make being a human sponge any easier, but it was a place to start. People like me receive psychic impressions through feelings, emotions, or physical sensations, and when I am swamped by anxieties that have no logical explanation, it helps to know that they may belong to someone else and I am not in every instance going mad!
     I’ve taken a lot of flak over the years for my belief in psychics. The eye rolls. The snickering. The frozen faces. It’s my mother’s fault. She took me to my first clairvoyant in 1969. Some are more skilled than others, to be sure, but I have known some of the best and they have been invaluable in unraveling my deep-seated issues and moving me forward. Nothing gets my attention like: ‘Your energy for service and your energy for self-abuse are living in the same valley’ or ‘You have absorbed a tremendous amount of other people’s energy.’
     Since 2007 my psychic medium extraordinaire has been Claudette. On average I have a one-hour reading every year. On April 9, 2014, she gave me this message: ‘You are about to write a different type of book…channeled by Spirit…more than one book.’ For a long time, I had received similar information from other psychics and with each message I got a little more excited and a lot more freaked. My confidence as a writer was not at its highest back then (zero for my ability to channel) and I do not respond well to pressure. Add to that my fear of ridicule and my strange compulsion to do the opposite of whatever someone wants me to do, and it was a few years before I limped on board. I knew the project would require me to expand my psychic abilities and I have an aversion to seeing ghoulish specters and mischievous fairies bouncing through my bedroom on their way to and from who knows where.
     Once in awhile I did try to align myself with Spirit for some book-worthy communication, but I couldn’t find a solid way into it. On November 13, 2014, I was highly agitated, flinging about in bed as I grappled with the weight of my constant failure. To stop from screaming like a banshee or murdering a piece of the furniture, I leaped up sobbing to pace my apartment. An hour later I collapsed at the kitchen table and reached for pen and paper, so wrung out that I decided to throw myself on the mercy of Spirit. My eyes were so swollen that I could barely see to write down the ensuing conversation. In hindsight, I think it was this overwrought state that set my head aside so that I could hear them.
     Afterwards I put the conversation down to a lucky one-off and filed it away. In the years that followed I am amazed and impressed by how many excuses I came up with to focus on everything that needed my attention besides this! Until on June 13, 2017, Claudette shared this: ‘I have here a Divine Ambassador who has been sent to help you, to lift you up to the frequency that you require to interact with all of existence, whether it is of the Spirit, or the Light Beings from other dimensions or universes, for the purpose of writing a book. To prepare yourself, you are being given a three-month period where every day you sit in meditation with your Spirit Alchemist, for a minimum of thirty minutes, to help shift your frequency.’
     I have the attention span of a flea. I run from meditation like it’s a disease. To be asked to do this was like having a giant bag of doggy-doo plopped onto my doorstep! Sure, I wanted to do the book…I am a writer after all…but did it have to be so hard? So, of course I did not fall in with their request and it was May 2018 before a Claudette reading finally pushed me into action: ‘The Light Beings are here. They say now is the time. Meditation for you is not a standard meditation. Offer yourself to your higher guidance, your guides, and teachers, to help them shift your vibration. The Light Beings have come to ask you to do that, so they can get on with their work with you.’
     What could I say? I began to meditate. Sort of. I was not always steady at it, but most days I gave it a shot. I was told that I might feel exhausted as my physical being adjusted to higher frequencies, and I was not to be discouraged if I could not focus (as was usually the case). Lots of tears and angry frustration is mostly how I remember it. I was not yet speaking to the Light Beings.
     By 2019 I was ready to communicate. To circumvent my natural preference for flighty behavior, I agreed to daily contact starting at 11:00 a.m. because I am a night owl, and it takes that long to get the bleary out of my eyes. I record the dialogue in longhand as it works better for me than staring at a keyboard. Their voice in my head sounds the same as my own, but it appears in the empty space before thoughts are fully formed. At least it does when I am not strangling the process! Yet still I questioned it. It wasn’t until the end of this book that I realized that I have been channeling Spirit for years, routinely speaking to what I eventually addressed as ‘you guys,’ and once in a while receiving telepathic responses such as: ‘When you want only love, you will see only love.’
     After two brief January contacts, on March 10, 2019, I invited the Light Beings into my mind like sunshine on an ordinary day by visualizing them and merging my spirit with theirs. And away we went in fits and starts as I doubted myself at every turn and fought to improve my listening skills. The trickiest part is to stop myself from jumping into sentences that don’t belong to me. I cannot say precisely who is speaking to me at any given time, but the dialogue can shift in flavor and style, so it is clear to me that various entities are participating.
     Claudette advises that my prime speakers are the Council of Twelve who are the Light Workers or Ascended Masters responsible for the guidance of Earth and that they are not to be confused with the Galactic Federation. She says that to call them aliens is kind of an insult. I still call them aliens. Sometimes. They don’t care. They love me anyway. As I do them. How can I not? No label that I assign to them can alter what I feel for these benevolent Beings who desire only to give their time and their love to assist those of us on Earth who wish to move into a greater experience of ourselves and our planet.
     It is not the source of the messages that is important, but the messages themselves. To be distracted by styles of speech, varying terms for Earth or God (He/She)—or whether the Beings refer to themselves individually or as a collective—is not worthy of this body of work. The same applies for those instances when a transmission is addressed to all of humanity. For simplicity, I have named the conglomerate Phil, which could just as easily be Philomena, as one of the Phils pointed out. Apparently, Light Beings (or this one) are neither male nor female, but both.
     And I wasn’t chosen. We chose each other. This book came about because I asked for help and it is their desire to assist all humans in this way. I also did my work digging out of the rubble that since first breath played silly buggers with my perception. From birth I had felt like a stranger on foreign shores, where artificiality and buried emotions were the norm, and no one seemed to feel things as deeply as I did. I thought there was something wrong with me. Self-help books, religion, psychiatry, life skills training, cognitive therapy, New Age spirituality, and trauma recovery—I tried them all. The journey was valuable and gave me the time and the insight to shake loose from a psyche imprisoned equally by victimhood and self-blame. Yet at the end of it all I still suffered from trauma memories that wept on and on like a phonograph stuck on sorrow.
     I began to voice my vexation to Spirit: ‘These philosophies are way too complicated! There must be an easier way! I need SIMPLE! Can you give me SIMPLE?’
​     I carried grief like a suitcase.
     I wanted to put it down.
     I did put it down.
     This book is the simple that I requested.