If anybody says dogs don’t go to heaven…

Once upon a time I read a book written by a woman who claimed to have died (unwitnessed) and gone to heaven.  I was willing to suspend disbelief until she stated the following~ only True Christians go to heaven.

My Christian friends will have to forgive me, but when I read those words I knew she was full of shit.

Anyone who has had an NDE, a Near Death Experience, will tell you heaven is not exclusive.

I’m Jewish, among other things.

***

I was part of a study about NDEs in children and adolescents.  I was asked a question, a silly question, which made no sense to me at the time.

The grad student doing the interview asked, “Do you wear a watch?”

I said, “No.”

She asked, “Why not?”

I said, “Because they just stop working.  They break after a few weeks.”

She asked, “What do you mean, they break?”

I said, “Well, they quit working. I went through nursing school without a watch because they kept breaking.  When I graduated from nursing school my aunt gave me a really nice Swiss watch.  Within six weeks it stopped working.  I took it in to be fixed twice, but the watchmaker couldn’t find anything wrong with it, so…”

She asked, “Did you buy another watch?”

I said, “I bought a couple of cheap watches, they broke too.  I’m a nurse, but I don’t wear a watch.  I depend upon wall clocks when I take vital signs.”

I learned later that people who have experienced NDEs all say the same thing~ They don’t wear watches.  Watches break or just stop working.

Weird, huh.  As far as the significance goes, your guess is as good as mine.

So yes, NDEs… I remember everything that happened when I was dead.

I remember when I was dead everything made sense– but if you ask me ‘what’ made sense I couldn’t tell you.  Maybe it was like this– I had no more questions.

I remember what I was told before I came back.

Yes, I left my body.  I watched everything happening below me.  I didn’t care about my body, it was nothing more than an empty shell.  I cared about my sisters.  I was sorry they had to see me die.

I was pulled away by ‘someone’.  He didn’t identify himself but he was very familiar to me.  We surfed on a wave of light and I remember reaching the speed of light and crossing over.  Before we reached the speed of light, I could still differentiate ‘things’.  Once we crossed over a threshold, all things became one thing and nothing at the same time.

I saw God~ I’ll describe Him tomorrow if you really want a description.  I saw what I suspect is His other aspect, like two sides of the same coin.  I saw heaven.  I saw what I can only describe as hell.

My companion stayed with me the entire time.

I didn’t want to come back here.  I begged to be allowed to stay, but I wasn’t dead enough.  And so I was sucked back into my body– which was the only time I experienced fear.  Claustrophobia would be a more apt term for what I felt.

I was sucked back in and smacked against the inside of my skull.  Panic stricken, I struggled inside my body. The man with me smoothed me into my limbs.  He sort of melded me into myself.

And then I felt pain.

There’s a baseball player whose father had an experience almost identical to mine.  Can’t remember any names, but when I read his account I recognized it as truth.

All right, that’s enough for now.  I am still super tired and have re-writes staring at me.

Be well.  Julia

P.S.  Thanks to the men and women in our Armed Forces and our Veterans everywhere.

 

 

 

 

So you wanna be a writer, huh.

Two words:  Mass Media.  I specialized in Mass Media in high school, an experimental program which included writing, art, literature, film and film making.

Know your stuff.  It’s not just a matter of reading books, although I do believe to the very depths of my soul that good writers are great readers.

With this caveat, a great reader does not necessarily a good writer make.

A young woman, a recent college grad, contacted me because her mother told her to.  Yup.  Her mother, who I met exactly one time, told her to call me.  Because like, I’m a published author.

It is to laugh.  Her mother has never read any of my books.  If I was her mother, I’m the last person I’d have my daughter call, but anywhoooo…

So this girl writes, or rather, wants to write what I consider chiklit.  Now, Chick Lit, ala The Devil Wears Prada or Sex and the City, is a bit passe.  Chiklit was big five, ten years ago, but publishers aren’t really buying unless the author is well known and the book is a sure thing.  Besides, even those of us who pretend to be writers know… well, we just know it ain’t easy to go the traditional route and if you want to swim with the self-pubbers you gotta put in your time and pay your dues.

She tells me this:

“I don’t watch television.  I wasn’t allowed to watch television growing up.”

“I don’t go to movies.”

“I don’t read newspapers or magazines.”

“I live in L.A.”

“I think it would be fun to write about the fashion industry, you know, a girl in the fashion industry.”

“How hard could it be to get an agent and sign with a publisher like Simon and Schuster?”

At this point I’m thinking, oh honey.  Your youth is showing.  (Yeah, just wait, she’ll write a fuckin’ blockbuster and make six figures.)

So I stop gagging myself and in my sweetest, most professional voice, attempt to engage her in a discussion about the current state of the publishing industry and options she may want to consider.  I bring up editing and the craft of writing, suggest a conference she might want to attend or a class or two she could take.  Nope.  She wants to write a novel and she knows way more than me because she just does.

The only reason I’m talking to her at all – because I HATE giving writing advice – is because her mother asked me to take her call.  I suspect her mother thought I could hook her up with a New York publisher.  No can do.

So I say, “Go for it.  Goodnight, Good Luck and God Speed.”

Here’s why I think it’s a mistake to ignore the benefits of Mass Media and those who have gone before UNLESS YOU ARE LAWRENCE BLOCK who can get away with anything.  It’s a mistake to ignore television and film and popular culture because you will screw up.

Sometime this past year I read a book set in the present that ignored the present, and the author screwed up in the very first chapter.  She forgot about cell phones.  I’m yelling at the character – “Pick up your damn cell phone and call the police.”  But the author had apparently decided to ignore the existence of the cell phone when the existence of a cell phone was de rigour.  It was essential to the scene.  A cell phone belonged in that scene, even if it was broken or the battery was dead or someone tossed it from a moving car.  Ruined the entire book for me.

Ignore popular culture at your own peril.  You’re likely to write something that’s already been done to death or you’ll leave out an essential piece of information or technology like a cell phone.

Anyway, this girl reminded me of a woman I’d spoken to in my capacity as a hospice nurse.  My parents convinced her to call me because she was struggling with her terminal diagnosis.  Which everybody does, of course.  But her struggle was a little different.  She wanted me to giver her a pass, get her out of her Final Exams.  She honestly did not believe she would die because she was such a spiritual person.

At last I asked, “What did you expect to happen at the end of your life?”

She said, “I thought I’d just step into heaven.  That I wouldn’t have to die like everyone else, because I’m such a spiritual adept.”

You mean because you are so effin’ looney tunes? 

But I didn’t say that.  I said, “Even the Son of God, if you believe Jesus was the son of God, didn’t get to escape death.  He died on the cross.”

“Yes,” she replied. “But I’m far more spiritually advanced than Jesus. I mean, if somebody told me your father had cancer, well, that would make sense.”

What the hell?  “Uh, excuse me?”

“Your father doesn’t even meditate,” she said. “He never thinks about the spiritual realm.  He’s not a vegetarian.  He eats dessert.  And he tells dirty jokes.  Now if someone like your father got cancer, that I would understand.  He deserves to die.  But me, well, I’ve passed through the highest realms of spirituality and I’ve achieved Godhead.”

Oh for Christ’s sake.  “Let me get this straight.  You seriously think you won’t ever die?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Listen, lady, everybody dies.  Nobody gets a free pass.  Nobody.  We all die of something.  You have cancer.  It’s bad.  You’re gonna die of this cancer.  Now if you want to talk about hospice…”

“How dare you say that?  How do you know I’m going to die?  I traveled all the way to Brazil to see John of God and he cured me.”

“Oh.  Well then, I guess you don’t need me.”

So that’s how I felt about this girl and her novel, except I wasn’t all pissed off because she didn’t insult my father.  She didn’t need me.  She just wanted me to hook her up.  Well, unfortunately I have no more pull with publishers and literary agents than I have with the Angel of Death.

Yeah, the lady died and yes, the girl is still writing her book.  Year two.  God speed.

(You know what the Buddha’s hand gestures mean, right?  Fear dispelling, boon bestowing.  Read your Joseph Campbell.)