about seeing me:

Unfortunately, my mind's eye is blind, so I am unable to visualize things. I always thought it was weird, during guided meditations, to imagine a meadow, pond, forest, or whatever. All I see is darkness when I close my eyes. Occasionally I will see something, but it is rare. 

I can smell things, at times. Maybe your cologne or aftershave. I can also smell lilacs in the dead of winter, so there seems to be no rhyme or reason to what I smell. If somebody is thinking about having a drink, I can sometimes smell the alcohol on their breath, even though they haven't had a drop. 

I was giving a client a reading in my backyard and told her it smells like a bakery. She said her parents owned a bakery in Southern California and she worked there. She wanted to hear from her dad. He said that he sits in the chair by the window. 

I am hard of hearing from ruptured ear drums on airplanes—didn't know I was conjested. I have learned to carefully plug my ears before I fly. My reduced hearing does not stop me from hearing things that other people miss. 

I sometimes sense that a person or a dog is standing next to me, following me and wanting to be part of the interactions. The entity is usually there because of the person I am with. As soon as the person realizes who it is that is paying them a visit, the entity instantly disappears. 

When I was camping with people from a smoothie shop in Grants Pass, I was at the camp fire and saw a man's little chihuahua. It ran under his chair. I also saw that a certain person's hands looked like skeleton hands. One man's face looked like a skull, while he was talking to me. None of it was scary. I thought it was fascinating. 

When we walked back to our tent, it seemed like a long journey and the ground looked like pure white snow.