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The Magic of Angels
How to Recognize and Harness Your Own Angelic Powers
By Adele Nozedar
John Blake Publishing LtdCopyright © 2010 Adele Nozedar
All rights reserved.
A Personal Experience
As a writer and researcher with a strong interest in the paranormal, I approach my investigations into angels with the same attitude that I apply to such matters as ghosts, spirits, evidence of witchcraft, or the meanings of arcane symbols. The reason for my interest in these fascinating subjects is very much based on my own experiences. Sometimes I am lucky (or unlucky) enough to be able to see and feel certain things that some people can't, or to look at things in a different way, and I'm driven by an insatiable curiosity to understand the unseen world that surrounds us.
I like to think that I have a mind that is open enough to encompass any possibility, but with an effective credibility filter that enables me to reject anything that is obviously nonsense. My experience tells me that there are some things which exist outside of the parameters of our everyday experience, and which can't be fully explained despite all the scientific and rational tools we have amassed. So, sometimes, we set up a framework whereby we are able to explain things. After all, if we can find a way to rationalise something, we think we can exert some sort of control over it.
We all think in different ways; one person's incident of angelic intervention, for example, might be mere coincidence to another. And I've also realised that we can choose how we interpret absolutely anything at all in this world of ours.
Some time ago, I placed an ad in a popular magazine that deals in stories of the paranormal and of extraordinary events. In the ad, I asked for stories of angels, and got a significant response.
There was a catalyst for my interest in angels and the way that they manifest. I'd like to tell you this short story, and you're welcome to analyse it however you like. The reason I've chosen it is because it pulls together many of the elements that really do speak of angelic energies at work; karma, coincidences, help arriving unexpectedly when you most need it and least expect it – and the seeming intervention of a Hindu god. In addition, it seems only fair that if I'm asking for other people's stories, I include some of my own.
I have marked the series of incidents which serve to lift this particular story out of the ordinary and into the realms of the extraordinary. I'm not going to call the incidents 'miracles'. I'll leave that for you to decide. I have changed the names of those involved in the story.
I'll also leave it for you to decide whether these true events contain elements of angelic intervention, or sheer coincidence.
You might even decide that they are the same thing.
In 2003, I was due to go to India for a month to study yoga. I happened to mention this to Sarah, a wonderful woman I knew who was quite a bit older than me, then aged about 65. She had visited India after the death of her husband five or so years before. Sarah had been determined not to mope, viewing the death instead as a reminder of her own mortality, a reason to squeeze the value out of every minute she had left. Sarah went into training, hauling rucksacks full of rocks up and down the mountains of South Wales so that she could get fit for her three-month trip backpacking around south India. She was a complete inspiration.
When I mentioned that I was going to India, Sarah told me immediately that she was going to come with me. I was surprised, but delighted to have such a lovely travelling companion.
All went well. India is a magical place where, it seems, anything can happen. I did lots of yoga, toured temples and holy places, and saw a conjunction of Mars and Venus in a clear dark sky. Sarah joined in the yoga too, had a nostalgic time visiting old haunts and friends that she'd last seen five years before, and we joined up again towards the end of the trip.
A day or so before we were due to return to the UK, we were staying in a small, two-storey grass-roofed bamboo hut on the edge of the beach just south of Pondicherry. The manageress of the place lived on the ground floor. We accessed our little eyrie, about four metres from the ground, using a rickety bamboo ladder. Sea eagles regularly flew around our temporary home.
One afternoon, as Sarah started to climb down, the ladder snapped. There was a wrenching sound as the bamboo broke, and a dull, sickening thump, and there lay my friend, motionless. She had been deposited, head first, onto the concrete ground below. A pool of blood was spreading around Sarah's head. I thought she was dead.
This was the first time in my life that I had been faced with a real disaster, and I was pleased to remember, afterwards, that I was completely calm, with an instinctive knowledge of what I needed to do. I checked Sarah's pulse, found a shade to keep her out of the burning sun, and then ran into the home of the manageress of the place, a Russian woman. I ran straight past her and hauled a bag of ice from her freezer to apply to Sarah's head.
The woman, Nadia, ran outside after me, shouting, 'What are you doing?' Then she saw the motionless body and the pool of blood which had spread widely and dangerously, and she immediately started screaming.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Nadia by the shoulder and slapped her hard across the face. If Sarah was conscious, the screaming would frighten her. If she wasn't conscious, then no amount of screaming was going to help. Actually, I really enjoyed that slap.
By now a few of the local fishermen and their wives had gathered, accompanied by the ubiquitous crowd of kids that converge at a moment's notice anywhere in India. I commandeered a motorbike to take me the half mile or so back to the ashram where I'd been staying, and where one of the main teachers was also a medical doctor.
When I arrived at the Ashram, there were three people standing outside. I had forgotten that it was a major Ganesha festival, akin to Christmas Eve; consequently, everyone had left the building and the three remaining people were waiting for a taxi to take them to the party. One of the ladies, Melanie, took me inside and seemed to be taking an age to try to call anyone who could help; there was no reply from any of the hospitals.
'If Sarah dies, she will die in a good place. Everyone has to die sometime'. Melanie's words made me very angry. I grabbed the phone and the phone book and found a home number for Ananda, the teacher who was also a doctor. Despite the emergency, Melanie had told me not to call him as he'd be unavailable because of the festivities.
Incident Number One
Ananda picked up straight away. Later, it transpired that he had been on his way to the festivities when 'something' told him he should go back home. Although he'd laughed at himself for being fanciful, nevertheless he obeyed his instincts and heard the phone start ringing as soon as he got through the door.
Because of his work with a local hospital, Ananda could get straight through to a department that promised to send an ambulance. In the meantime, I jumped on the motorbike and raced back to Sarah, who was barely conscious; I peeled back an eyelid and she looked glazed. She couldn't talk, although her nursing training had given her the presence of mind to ask that she be shaded by an umbrella. Soon Ananda arrived with the small, van-like ambulance in tow. Sarah's head was bandaged in a plastic bin bag because there was so much blood that cloth alone wasn't good enough. And she was taken to the hospital.
Here is not the place to describe the full horror of a rural Indian hospital. But it wasn't nice. There was blood – and other substances – on the walls and floor. People lay in the corridors, without blankets or mattresses, waiting for attention. Unless patients had a companion to help them in the hospital, there was no treatment. Accordingly, I saw Sarah set up in the life support department – although the equipment, compared to Western standards, looked frighteningly inadequate.
By now it was dark, and I sat down on the hard floor outside Sarah's room. All I could do was wait. I couldn't make any calls; I didn't have a mobile with me, and the only place to make calls was a half a mile or so from the hospital. And it was closed. In any case, I didn't really want to have to call Sarah's family to tell them she was on a primitive life support machine in a filthy foreign hospital. What would they be able to do except panic? I told myself, optimistically, that I'd call them when she was in a better state.
Suddenly, the door to Sarah's room was flung open and a doctor came out. He thrust a piece of paper into my hand. 'Hurry – you need to buy this from the dispensary. It's urgent.'
Without waiting to tell me where the dispensary was, the doctor whisked back into the room. Just before he closed the door I could see people rushing around a prone figure on a stretcher. I ran like hell and pounded at the door of the little wooden shop at the edge of the hospital grounds. The pharmacist, who had obviously been asleep on the floor, rubbed his eyes, read the paper, and disappeared into a back room. After what seemed like an age, he reappeared.
Incident Number Two
'We don't have this drug; I just ran out. I'm sorry. It's the only thing I don't have here'.
Now I panicked. What chance did Sarah have if they had run out of the drug she needed?
'Can you look again? This is life or death ... Have you got an alternative?'
The pharmacist didn't seem to have the same sense of urgency as me. Grumbling a little, he disappeared again, returning with a small package.
'This isn't as effective, but tell the doctor it will do for now'.
Then he disappeared back inside and slammed the shutters in front of me. Breathless after running, I thrust the package into the doctor's hand, which looked at it and shook his head. 'This might be OK; it might not. Pray for your friend; she is sliding into a coma'.
There was no way I was going to sleep that night. I wandered out into the cool, fragrant Indian air, and sat under a tree by the light of the full moon. I am not the praying type, but I did say a prayer to whatever Gods might be listening.
I suddenly realised I'd need to try to contact Sarah's insurance company. I had grabbed some of her bags when we'd rushed to the hospital and now it was necessary to find the paperwork, so I started to see if I could find anything. I rooted through clothes, books, toiletries. Tucked at the bottom of the bag was an old large-sized Flora margarine tub with an elastic band round it; on the top was a label that read 'Documents'. Inside was Sarah's passport, her flight tickets, her insurance documents. ... and a list of the medications that she was taking for a heart condition.
This was something I hadn't known about. Sarah had never told me. I saw she was on warfarin, a drug that thins the blood and stops it from clotting. Maybe this would explain the vast quantity of blood that had poured like water from her wound. Maybe the doctor would need to know about this.
Tucked inside Sarah's passport was another slip of paper. On it was a list of drugs that she was allergic to.
Incident Number Three
At the top of the list was a familiar name. I took out the crumpled prescription from my pocket. The drug that had been unavailable could possibly have killed Sarah outright.
A couple of days later, Sarah's condition seemed to have stabilised. She was out of life support and lay on a pallet bed on the floor of a room full of other people; I had to pick my way over sleeping people to get to her. Things were getting very difficult for me. I was determined to read the slip for every drug that entered her body. I was also responsible for washing my friend, difficult in a place where one cold stand pipe served at least 50 people. She was unable to feed herself, or even take a sip of water. I had to make trips to the pharmacy four or five times a day, and had to call the insurance company and Sarah's family from the small phone centre, which had a continual queue.
My own situation was far from comfortable. I was unable to sleep, unable to wash, eating very little since I had hardly any money left to spend at the canteen; medication had to take priority. I was surrounded by terribly sick people. Added to this, the nine-hour time difference between India and the UK was making communication difficult. The insurance company, snug in their offices in England, had no idea of the conditions in an Indian hospital. They were worse than useless.
I hated to leave Sarah alone while I tried to juggle everything, but had no option. After I had spent a couple of hours trying, and once again failing, to get through to the insurance company, I remember thinking, divine intervention could be a really handy thing right now.
At the top of the steps to the hospital was a statue of Ganesh, the elephant-headed God who is believed to remove obstacles.
'Come on, Ganesh, you bastard; give me a break. Get me a mobile phone from somewhere, will you, and a bundle of cash?' I didn't believe for a minute in Ganesh, and I am not superstitious; I said it as a release of anger after the frustration and tension of the past few days.
When I got back to Sarah, a girl was sitting by her. The girl was wearing a blue sari and had a long black plait. I assumed that she was Indian. But then she spoke, and she had an accent somewhere between French and German.
'Hi', she said. 'I'm Eva. I heard about what happened at the huts, and I thought I'd see if I could help. I've been in Indian hospitals before, and know how difficult it can be. Is there anything I can do?'
The very presence of Eva seemed at that moment to be a miracle; the prospect of someone who might be able to keep an eye on Sarah whilst I attempted to contact the insurance company and negotiated with the hospital to put her in a decent room, was such a relief.
'Yes – you can help!'
I asked Eva to help with watching over Sarah, and gave her a list of the drugs that she was allergic to. I asked her to make sure that Sarah got water to her lips, since she was still far too weak to help herself. As an afterthought, I asked if she might have a spare mobile phone.
Incident Number Four
Without a word, Eva handed me her phone. 'I topped it up this morning so there's plenty of time on it. Oh, and why don't you let me lend you some cash? I've plenty. You can pay me back another time'.
Within minutes of my angry throwaway plea to a stone statue, I'd been given the three things I asked for: help, a phone, and money.
Talking to Eva later, I found that she was Swiss, from Lucerne. She worked in a cinema called Twin Peaks; we own a recording studio called Twin Peaks.
Eva came to the hospital every day. It was just as well, because Sarah wasn't off the critical list yet. She was back on life support for a while before being transferred to a better room, since thanks to Eva I'd been able to speak to the superintendant of the hospital (after waiting outside his door for a full day).
After I'd spent three weeks in the hospital, sleeping under a tree, Sarah's daughter flew out from the UK and I was able to return home. Eventually, Sarah recovered, but not before she'd had brain surgery and a blood transfusion. In fact, the new haircut that she had after they had to shave her head took years off her!
Incident Number Five – And Six
A couple of end notes. Retrospectively, I discovered some pieces of the back story to some of these happenings. The reason that the Russian manageress of the huts had become so hysterical? A few days before the ladder broke, she had had a dream in which a lady lay in a pool of blood. She had actually known that the ladder was faulty, but ignored the message in her dream. When the accident happened in real life, she couldn't work out if it was real, or if it was the nightmare come back again. Maybe it was both.
Excerpted from The Magic of Angels by Adele Nozedar. Copyright © 2010 Adele Nozedar. Excerpted by permission of John Blake Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Foreword Clive Thomas Jackson xi
Introduction: The Realms of Angels - where Nothing is ever Black or White xiii
Part 1 Investigating Angels
1 Angelic Energy - A Personal Experience 2
2 What is an Angel? 12
3 The Demon Dilemma 19
4 Angels of the Dark Side: Did They Fall, or Were They Pushed? 22
5 The Angel of Mons - Highlighting a Dilemma 28
6 Do I Have to Be Christian to Believe in Angels? 35
7 A Brief History of Angels 39
8 Let's Get Metaphysical: More Technical Stuff About Angles 53
9 Do Angels Actually Exist? 61
10 Madman or Visionary? 73
11 Angels of Birth 79
12 Angels of Death 84
13 Children as Angels? 91
14 Sex Angels 95
15 Drug Angels 108
16 Rock and Roll Angels 116
17 Angels of the iPod? 123
18 Angels in a Real Emergency: The Terrorist Attack of 7/7 127
19 Guardian Angels: Agents of Tough Love? 135
20 Synchronicity: An Underlying Order to the Universe 142
21 Speaking of Meaningful Coincidences 154
22 Orbs 161
Intermission: Life is Magic 163
Part 2 Accessing and Harnessing Your Own Angelic Powers
23 Do I Have to Believe in Angels in order to Access their Energies? 173
24 Do I Have to Believe in God to Access Angelic Powers? 175
25 Who's In the Room: An Angel For Every Eventuality 177
26 The Ultimate Shapeshifters - Angels in Disguise 189
27 How to Meet an Angel 169
28 Magic for Angels - Creating a Sacred Space 198
29 Ritual Items 200
30 Meeting Your Angels Halfway 204
31 Cosmic Ordering vs. The Gratitude Attitude 207
32 Are You Ready to Receive? 212
33 Forward Projection 214
34 Fasting 217
35 Meditation and the 'P' word 223
36 Imagination and Dreaming 231
37 Past Lives? 241
38 Illness as a Catalyst 244
39 Allowing For Possibilities and Asking Questions 249
40 Taking Risks 252
41 Being Courageous 259
42 A Confession 261