The Language of Spirit

The Language of Spirit

by Shawn Leonard


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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781504399654
Publisher: Balboa Press
Publication date: 04/19/2018
Pages: 186
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.56(d)

About the Author

Shawn Leonard is a heart-centered Aboriginal/Indigenous psychic medium living in Nova Scotia, Canada, and has been working professionally for over twenty years. Taking an authentic approach to the spirit world in his personal readings, live shows, workshops, and radio and TV appearances, Shawn imparts enormous wisdom and knowledge of the spirit world and spirit communication.

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I Needed to Forget

To an outsider, my early life may have appeared perfectly "normal", yet my childhood was filled with extraordinary experiences. These amazing events paved the way to who I am now — what I call a "spirit talker" and what others call a medium. This life I consider to be my destiny.

I'm forever grateful to my mother, who, although a devout Catholic, also had a strong belief in the afterlife and spirit's ability to communicate with those still living. When I was five, my great-grandparents, both recently deceased, appeared in my room late one night to talk to me, she assured me this was normal and people who had just died often drop by and visit. When she heard my imaginary friend, Sam, had some controversial things to say she merely said, "Well, Sam and I don't agree." When she found out I could leave my body at night and fly around the neighbourhood her response was "Just make sure you come back in the morning!"

Although these events helped make me who I am today, there was a long period of time when I didn't even remember I had experienced them — that's how successful I became at "putting them away." I now consider these moments all clues as to my life path, but it certainly wasn't clear to me then. In fact, as I got older it was as though I placed many of the more interesting events from my childhood in a sealed box, placed it in a closet, and forgot. So, for a long time, when people asked about my early life, I would say it was just a normal upbringing for a typical country boy from Nova Scotia. Two parents who were happily enough married, and a younger brother.

The only so-called "odd" thing about our family was the fact we were outsiders. Most of those living in the rural area of Elmsdale, Nova Scotia (where we lived), had been born-and-raised there. In contrast, my mother grew up in Newfoundland, one in a large, close-knit family of sixteen children. My father was from Alberta, but was stationed in Nova Scotia when he joined the navy out of high school. By then, my mother had moved, and was working her first job at Moir's Chocolate Factory. They met at a roller skating rink in Halifax. My father pretended he couldn't skate, banged into my mother, and asked her out. The rest, as they say, is history!

My parents chose to settle in Elmsdale because it was outside the busy city, and was known for its lumber mills (but not much else). The only store close by was a mile away from our house. As a kid I spent a lot of time on my bike, riding around the countryside. Sometimes I played with friends, but I was often alone, wandering through the backwoods, up to sixteen kilometres from home. I came in to eat, sleep, and go to church on Sundays (something my mother made me do!).

As my dad had a military job, he was often away for up to six months at a time. During his absences my mother kept the house running, and also made time to explore the outdoors with me and my brother. I remember many days spent swimming in the river, picking berries, and taking long walks. When my dad returned from sea we would fish and hunt. He was a trained sharpshooter and would try to teach me his tricks, but I was never very good with a gun.

My father also liked to drink a few beers, and had the belly to prove it. He also smoked, and I remember having many conversations with him about getting healthy and taking better care of himself.

Every Christmas, and every summer, my whole family would travel to Fortune Bay, Newfoundland, to visit my grandmother. My mother's siblings had happily welcomed my father into the fold, and loved us kids dearly. My brother and I always had a ball, playing with our cousins and doing a lot of fishing.

That large Newfoundland family lost two of its elders when I was still quite young. My great-grandparents, Richard and Agnes Stewart, passed in close proximity to each other and, to my surprise, took up a nightly residence in my bedroom! I remember waking up, around two in the morning, and seeing their shadowy figures moving about the room, whispering to each other. As mentioned, when I told my mom about it she assured me this was completely normal, and said they were visiting because they loved me. This went on for some time, and the sound of their voices often woke me up. I would lie there with my eyes shut, straining to hear what they were saying.

One such night I felt a hand running its fingers through my hair. I assumed it was my mom, thinking she had perhaps snuck in to check on me, but when I opened my eyes no one was there. The lights were off and the door was shut. I did a backflip off my bed and was in my mom's room before my feet touched the floor. The talking was one thing, but touching was quite another. I didn't like it. I told my mother they had to go, so she suggested I simply ask them to leave. The next night, before falling asleep, I talked to them out loud, pleading with them to not to visit anymore. They listened, and I didn't have contact with either of them until a certain day a couple of decades later. (But that's a story for another chapter!) There was another spiritual figure from my childhood; one who never frightened me and who I never wanted to send away. His name was Sam, and he was what adults often refer to as an imaginary friend. Except Sam wasn't imaginary! Up to the time I was five he was my constant companion, joining me as I played — especially when alone. Sam was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, and was about six feet tall with dirty blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Although he seemed very "flesh and blood" to me, Sam was one of my spirit guides. In fact, he still is.

Sam and I would talk about all kinds of things, including some fairly controversial topics I would later report to my mother and which sometimes caused alarm. One such time was when Sam told me about the woman in the painting of The Last Supper. That's right — a woman! Sam said the person sitting next to Jesus in the picture was named Mary Magdalene and she was actually married to Jesus. "People won't believe you when you tell them this," said Sam, "but one day they'll find out it's true." Sam was right. Not only did my mother not believe me she tried to convince me the figure was just an effeminate John, the apostle, insisting Jesus had never been married and my friend Sam didn't know what he was talking about.

Sam was someone I could see, hear, and even feel. He used to grab my hand, and sometimes playfully shove me. He was as real to me as any other living person, so when he completely disappeared it was a pretty traumatic thing for someone so young.

The day he left was an ordinary day. I was down in the basement, playing with my dinky cars by the washing machine. Sam was with me, like he always was, but I remember him telling me he had to go. "Shawn," he said, "I have to leave, but I want you to know I'm always going to be with you, even though you won't be able to see me anymore."

I didn't know what he was talking about. For as long as I could remember, Sam had always been there and I couldn't imagine life without him. He went on, saying, "I'll always be with you. If you ever need me, just talk to me." There was a big flash of the whitest light I had ever seen — and he was gone. Sam had completely vanished.

I suddenly felt so alone; in a way I never had up to that point, and in a way that felt completely wrong. I remember crying and crying all day. I tried to talk to my friend, but wasn't able to see or hear him anymore. He had always been with me, and then suddenly wasn't. It felt like my best friend had died. It was devastating.

A couple of years later I again had a direct experience with Sam. It was not in a physical form this time, but in a way that made me understand he really was still with me like he had promised. I was just learning to ride a bike and was being reckless, doing those crazy things kids do — like setting up ramps on steep hills! As I was barreling down one such hill I hit the ramp the wrong way and went flying through the air. In the moment between my body leaving my bike and the ensuing impact, I realized it was going to be a nasty one. I suddenly felt my body being grabbed and turned upright, so instead of landing on my head I landed on my feet, and wasn't injured at all. The other kids were in awe, as was I. To them it looked like a supernatural miracle, but I knew it was Sam.

Although my spirit guide no longer appeared in physical form past the age of five, there were other magical things I was able to hold onto a little longer. The ability to leave my body at night and fly through my town was one of them. We've all had dreams of flying, but this was different. For one thing, it happened like clockwork: every night, in that strange state between being awake and being asleep. For another, my town looked ever-so-slightly different. There was always a dusky half-light I have come to think of as the light of the astral world, which is closely layered on top of our own, and to which, as a child, I had direct access.

Every night it was the same thing. I would be falling asleep when I'd suddenly find myself standing in front of my house, drenched in this sunset light, before quickly lifting off the ground. I'd then make up my mind as to which direction I wanted to go, and then off I'd fly, zipping through the sky. The topography was exactly the same, and so was the placement of all the houses. The only thing different was there were never any people in this dusk world. Never, that is, but for one exception.

On that occasion I saw an older woman, wearing a long, dark Victorian-style dress, floating over the telephone poles. She had an umbrella like Mary Poppins, and looked as though she was straight out of the 1800s. When I tried to talk to her she just looked at me, stuck up her nose, and floated on by. Excited by her presence, there was another person whom I looked for in this dusk world, yet never found. His name was David and he was a classmate who died of leukemia when I was about six years old. When he passed I told my mom I was going to use my nighttime flights to find him. That evening I flew to his house, but no one was there. When I awoke the next morning I told my mom I hadn't been able to find him, and she assured me this was because he was now in heaven.

These two experiences — seeing the woman dressed in period clothing, and being unable to find David — helped form my beliefs about the astral world. I believe it is a place of lower vibration, where spirits who haven't fully embraced the light still reside. It is a place which exists between our realities here on earth and those in the spirit world.

I had these nighttime adventures until I was about eight or nine years old, and can clearly remember realizing my ability to fly was leaving me. I would fall asleep and still appear outside my house, but I would remain earth-bound. I recall flapping my arms, thinking it would help. I actually got a bit of lift off that way, and a couple of times I even reached the height of the telephone poles. Yet I'd quickly float back down. At some point I became unable to leave the ground at all, and I remember feeling sad I could no longer fly.

Little did I know that my nighttime flights, the visits from my great-grandparents, and my conversations with Sam were just a taste of what was to come.

But first, in order to remember, I had to forget.


The Dark and the Light

And forget I did.

By the time I was fifteen, anything not connected to the reality of my daily life was ancient history. Brushes with the spirit world had been replaced by crushes on girls, practising the guitar, and starting to learn things about being an adult.

My dad was one of my biggest teachers in this respect. When his ship docked and he returned home, he would always involve me in whatever projects he had on the go. Sometimes it was hunting, while others it was jobs around the house. He was very intelligent and really good with anything mechanical. One winter he took the motor out of his car (a Chevrolet Nova SS) and brought it inside the house because we didn't have a garage. He then took the entire motor apart, piece by piece, and put it back together — just for fun! He also taught himself guitar, and would let me watch and ask as many questions I liked.

With twenty-two years of military service behind him, my dad was due to retire in only three years. He told me he was sick of travelling and being away from his family for such long periods. His plan was to continue to work to bring in money, while still having his pension supplement our family's income. I remember him taking me out to the airport and showing me a new company called Pratt & Whitney. He was taking courses that would help him get a job there as a mechanic.

In the fall of 1987, my dad was building a garage so he could tinker with his vehicles outside during the winter. On Saturday, October 14, we had just finished framing the structure and were waiting for the cement to be poured. We were taking a break in the kitchen, having a glass of water, when I noticed how much my dad was sweating. I chalked it up to hard work, but then he told me he had a really bad cramp in his hand and wondered aloud if he should be worried. I told him I didn't know, but that maybe he should quit smoking and go see the doctor. He had smoked cigarettes for as long as I could remember, and although there were times he told my mom he'd quit, I would catch him smoking in the basement by the wood stove. He also liked to have a few beers with his navy buddies, and so carried a bit of extra weight. My mom and I were always bugging him about getting healthier, and this time was no different.

Then, on Monday, October 16, I woke up to my mom yelling for help. "T here's something wrong with your dad. He's out in the driveway. His truck is running but I can't wake him up." I ran outside, past his truck with the door hanging open, and to the end of the driveway. He wasn't there. I ran back into the house and told my mom I couldn't see him anywhere. She grabbed my hand and dragged me back down the driveway. There he was; laying on the ground beside the truck. When I realized he wasn't breathing, I tried to remember all I had learned in Scouts about CPR.

In an emergency, time does funny things. The few short minutes during which I tried to resuscitate my father seemed to pass very slowly. Questioning whether I had the number of chest compressions correct, I attempted to breathe life back into him, to no avail. I remember screaming at him, telling his spirit to get back into his body and return to us. I also plead with God. Suddenly there were neighbours present and I was walking into the house to tell my mom that Dad wasn't coming back.

He was only forty-two. The fact that I ran right past where he lay in the driveway, but didn't see him, will always be a mystery to me. Perhaps I wasn't ready for the harsh reality of my father being gone, and doing so was some kind of protective mechanism. Or maybe I was just in deep shock.

I don't remember much about the days that followed. I know my mom's large Newfoundland family descended on our house, and there were many meals delivered to our door. I know my friends stopped by. And I know that sense of unreality continued. I did not want what happened to be true, and found it very hard to focus. In fact, I failed ninth grade that year because although I would go to school I wasn't really present. Needless to say, it was a very tough time.

My gift that first Christmas without him was a guitar. Seeing I had enjoyed watching and learning from him, my dad bought me my own guitar. He hid it in his bunk on the ship, knowing if it was at home I would find it and ruin the surprise. It still wasn't fully paid off when he died, but my dad's navy buddies took care of that bill. They also sent my mom a card with some extra money to help her out. But they did change one thing: rather than send me the new guitar, never strummed, they sent my dad's well-loved instrument, which I treasured.

Over the next year, I did the same things other sixteen-year-olds do: listened to loud music, grew my hair long, joined a band, smoked some weed, and stayed out too late. My mother would get mad at me for not coming home on time and sneaking in and out of the house. One October night, almost a year since my dad had passed, I was out late. Not wanting to wake my mother up I decided to sleep on the couch in the basement. Soon after I fell asleep I woke up, only to find myself outside my body, looking down at myself sleeping on the couch. It was a similar feeling to my childhood flying dreams, in that I was hyper-alert and very aware something unusual was happening.

Suddenly, an enormous white light appeared in the middle of the room. It was the largest, brightest light I had ever seen, and reminded me of the white flash when Sam disappeared from my life. But this light was even brighter and larger, and it lasted for longer than an instant. This light stayed. Then, to my great surprise and delight, my father walked out of that big, beautiful doorway.

He looked fantastic: incredibly healthy and smiling broadly, but without his trademark eyeglasses. He was wearing a white robe, similar to the one Sam had worn. My father emanated tremendous love and joy as he looked at me, and the word "glistening" came to my mind as I smiled back. He was just so vibrant.


Excerpted from "The Language of Spirit"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Aboriginal Medium Shawn Leonard.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

Foreword, xi,
Introduction, xv,
Chapter 1 I Needed to Forget, 1,
Chapter 2 The Dark and the Light, 8,
Chapter 3 Farewell to Nova Scotia, 14,
Chapter 4 Hello Alberta, 20,
Chapter 5 Spirit Talks, 25,
Chapter 6 Blue Jays and Dimes, 33,
Chapter 7 Searching for My Spirit, 41,
Chapter 8 Travelling Back in Time, 47,
Chapter 9 Ghosts at The Rouge, 55,
Chapter 10 Faith Leads Me Home, 59,
Chapter 11 Paper Messages by Day, Spirit by Night, 64,
Chapter 12 Thy Will Be Done, 68,
Chapter 13 Spirit Communication, 74,
Chapter 14 Leaving and Finding, 79,
Chapter 15 Paranormal and Pirates, 83,
Chapter 16 Connecting at Costco, 89,
Chapter 17 A Physical Encounter with My Guides, 93,
Chapter 18 My First Eagle Feather, 97,
Chapter 19 The Big Nudge, 100,
Chapter 20 An Elder Appears, 102,
Chapter 21 The Importance of Validation, 106,
Chapter 22 Courageous Parents, 111,
Chapter 23 An Unexpected Voice, 117,
Chapter 24 Dreams and Gabriel, 121,
Chapter 25 Guidance from the Masters, 125,
Chapter 26 Wendy Kelly Dawn Hare, 131,
Chapter 27 Only a Thought Away, 136,
Chapter 28 A Visit from an Old Friend, 139,
Chapter 29 Signs from Spirit, 142,
Chapter 30 The Language of Spirit, 146,
Chapter 31 Intention, 154,
Chapter 32 Native Culture and Spirituality, 158,
Chapter 33 Your Journey, 165,

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Anonymous 21 days ago
This book is absolutely beautiful. Reading this book inspires you and encourages you to really look and listen. Thank you for sharing this.