Here's what Tommy said to her (to me) during the session:
Tommy: "There is a blue book you've made recently that will be part of your coming inner work. I helped you make this book. Use this as your next book to take notes in after the curent one is full. You'll be opening to automatic writing and channeling support and assistance. You are never alone, and you are so loved. We breathe along with you and walk with you every step. You can open deeper and wider to us (Bopie) as you learn to trust yourself." Anne, I saw a hankerchief, pen, blue book (indigo?) with gold on the cover. A crown?
I was sitting in the parking lot at PC when I read this paragraph and whammy - started sobbing in the car. I went home later that night and found the book Tommy mentioned. I'd made it while sitting at Binders before a class. I'd gotten there early and was able to start this new kind of structure for an hour or two - all by myself before class began. It was peaceful. I had forgotten what I'd put on the inside front and back covers - a Robert Lewis Stevenson poem. Tommy's the sparrow. I'm the maid. And we're growing a new garden - my Awakening. And it's all so damn beautiful I can barely stand it.
I don't know yet what the 87 signifies. But when I do, I'll be sure to tell you. My first book of notes is almost full. While I fill it up, I'll be looking for the perfect pen and hankie to go with it.
Thank you life. Thank you god.
Here's the whole poem:
Night and Day
When the golden day is done,
Through the closing portal,
Child and garden, flower and sun,
Vanish all things mortal.
As the blinding shadows fall,
As the rays diminish,
Under evening's cloak, they all
Roll away and vanish.
Garden darkened, daisy shut,
Child in bed, they slumber _
Glow-worm in the highway rut,
Mice among the lumber.
In the darkness houses shine,
Parents move with candles;
Till on all, the night divine
Turns the bedroom handles.
In the darkness shapes of things,
Houses, trees and hedges,
Clearer grow; and sparrow's wings
Beat on window ledges.
These shall wake the yawning maid;
She the door shall open—
Finding dew on garden glade
And the morning broken.
There my garden grows again
Green and rosy painted,
As at eve behind the pane
From my eyes it fainted.
Just as it was shut away,
Toy-like, in the even,
Here I see it glow with day
Under glowing heaven.
Every path and every plot,
Every bush of roses,
Every blue forget-me-not
Where the dew reposes.
"Up!" they cry, "the day is come
On the smiling valleys:
We have beat the morning drum;
Playmate, join your allies!"
Till at last the day begins
In the east a-breaking,
In the hedges and the whins
Sleeping birds a-waking.
-Robert Lewis Stevenson
