As an organist who has to play scores of funerals, every month, every year, I have often been asked whether I have seen a ghost, or whether I have not already grown nonchalant to the appearance of a hearse or a coffin:
Frankly speaking, some funerals have touched me deeply, and though I rarely have the opportunity to bid a farewell adieu to the dead, I must confess an "explicable lively presence as survived in the power of love, faith and hope." Some funerals have been attended by a large crowd of kin and kith, whereas others have been wanting of friends and family.
J.S. Bach - Air On The G-String - Violinist Rebekah Butler | Eddie Beato Organist:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=XTeTD2rOmSQ
Nevertheless, I must confess the healing power of burning incense, "frankincense," at the moment of our final departure, for it is a reminder that back to the elements we must return, but for those who have faith, it is the beginning of life.
In like manner, some funerals, so lively-felt in the faithful attendance of those dear ones, have touched me deeply. In some remarkable cases, the homily and moving ceremony, as fired by the winged words and consolation of a holy man, a great priest, could have the effect of resurrecting me to a new life.
Funeral at Church of St. Jude in Inwood
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=UC0VjgWOIMg
To the aforementioned question of whether I have seen a ghost, unintentionally, I have provoked the enduring love and dread of those who solely like me —and even love me, for my penchant for ghost-stories, but my chief interest stems from this well-known dissatisfaction with the brevity of life.
For the most part, we reach maturity belatedly, and rarely is life so good in the pursuit of pleasures, but rather, it is to be savored as conscientiously preferable but in the absence of pain or wrongdoing.
J.S. Bach - Air On The G-String - Violinist Rebekah Butler | Eddie Beato Organist:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=XTeTD2rOmSQ
Nevertheless, I must confess the healing power of burning incense, "frankincense," at the moment of our final departure, for it is a reminder that back to the elements we must return, but for those who have faith, it is the beginning of life.
In like manner, some funerals, so lively-felt in the faithful attendance of those dear ones, have touched me deeply. In some remarkable cases, the homily and moving ceremony, as fired by the winged words and consolation of a holy man, a great priest, could have the effect of resurrecting me to a new life.
Funeral at Church of St. Jude in Inwood
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=UC0VjgWOIMg
To the aforementioned question of whether I have seen a ghost, unintentionally, I have provoked the enduring love and dread of those who solely like me —and even love me, for my penchant for ghost-stories, but my chief interest stems from this well-known dissatisfaction with the brevity of life.
For the most part, we reach maturity belatedly, and rarely is life so good in the pursuit of pleasures, but rather, it is to be savored as conscientiously preferable but in the absence of pain or wrongdoing.
When I reached my 40 winter in New York City, I realized that theory and experience, like two distant walkers from foreign lands, could coincide but in the long years of trials and errors, and by the time we reach the promised land with Moses, however tardy, the wayfarer, weathered by one thousand vicisitudes, would have lesser time to enjoying the sweet fruits of his earthly wisdom.
Nay, by the time our faculties reach the pinnacle of maturity (between 45-75), the dusk of aging would claim the other lush sceneries in a passionate youth. Of course, I am not lacking in youthful vigor to undertaking other amorous travails, or some adventurous enterprises, but my life's most interesting chapters had already transpired between the ages of 23-45. Once we reach the midway of our journey, we must count it as a priceless fortune to be able to live solely for contemplation, charities and meditations:
But what is the life of a person bereft of soul or love?
There are those, and I may be one of them, whose avid interests in ghosts are often due to this deep-seated negation to admitting the Spirit Realm as preferable to this material world of samsara and karma, for, as much as we try to reprimand ourselves for our well-known superstitious beliefs in Spirits Apparitions, few things could be more entertaining than this grandest of theaters in the mysteries of existence...
The best explanation for ghostly apparitions ought to be sought in the phenomena of sentience and consciousness, for it seems plausible that a relic of ourselves could survive the hereafter:
Believing in ghostly apparitions, better if corroborated by trust-worthy witnesses, could overthrow this pernicious materialistic spell which, like a pall blinding us from seeing and feeling higher realms in the Spirit Realm, has ultimately deprived our lives of those somber moments when coming to grips with the thrill of dread at night.
But even if we admit all this phantasmagoria as the mere outcome of our fears and the insignificance of our short existence, we cannot become oblivious to a reality that has its sustenance, its marrow and substance but in the core of our heart.
For this reason, upon reaching my 30s, I sought the meaning of life but in the cobweb of feelings, this network of interconnectedness, sentience and consciousness, which, like an invisible world full-fraught with the inner stuff of ourselves, could probably survive as kinetic energy: ghosts.
Life, so brief, so full of sufferings and vanity, as eloquently expressed in the Book of Ecclesiastes by Salomón, would seem even more incomprehensible from a materialistic perspective, save one seeks to find cohesiveness in the hereafter.
For so many years, like a tireless consummate artist, we try so many methods and materials, and could even go on believing our efforts to finally reach fruition in a permanent "here-lasting now," because something deep within all of us, may refuse to accept the well-known absurdity of life to ultimately end its last chapter (finale) in a funeral.
This is the main reason why Ghosts, as evinced by those videos going viral on YouTube, are to be accessed but as an outcry to the meaninglessness of existence.
Nay, by the time our faculties reach the pinnacle of maturity (between 45-75), the dusk of aging would claim the other lush sceneries in a passionate youth. Of course, I am not lacking in youthful vigor to undertaking other amorous travails, or some adventurous enterprises, but my life's most interesting chapters had already transpired between the ages of 23-45. Once we reach the midway of our journey, we must count it as a priceless fortune to be able to live solely for contemplation, charities and meditations:
But what is the life of a person bereft of soul or love?
There are those, and I may be one of them, whose avid interests in ghosts are often due to this deep-seated negation to admitting the Spirit Realm as preferable to this material world of samsara and karma, for, as much as we try to reprimand ourselves for our well-known superstitious beliefs in Spirits Apparitions, few things could be more entertaining than this grandest of theaters in the mysteries of existence...
The best explanation for ghostly apparitions ought to be sought in the phenomena of sentience and consciousness, for it seems plausible that a relic of ourselves could survive the hereafter:
Believing in ghostly apparitions, better if corroborated by trust-worthy witnesses, could overthrow this pernicious materialistic spell which, like a pall blinding us from seeing and feeling higher realms in the Spirit Realm, has ultimately deprived our lives of those somber moments when coming to grips with the thrill of dread at night.
But even if we admit all this phantasmagoria as the mere outcome of our fears and the insignificance of our short existence, we cannot become oblivious to a reality that has its sustenance, its marrow and substance but in the core of our heart.
For this reason, upon reaching my 30s, I sought the meaning of life but in the cobweb of feelings, this network of interconnectedness, sentience and consciousness, which, like an invisible world full-fraught with the inner stuff of ourselves, could probably survive as kinetic energy: ghosts.
Life, so brief, so full of sufferings and vanity, as eloquently expressed in the Book of Ecclesiastes by Salomón, would seem even more incomprehensible from a materialistic perspective, save one seeks to find cohesiveness in the hereafter.
For so many years, like a tireless consummate artist, we try so many methods and materials, and could even go on believing our efforts to finally reach fruition in a permanent "here-lasting now," because something deep within all of us, may refuse to accept the well-known absurdity of life to ultimately end its last chapter (finale) in a funeral.
This is the main reason why Ghosts, as evinced by those videos going viral on YouTube, are to be accessed but as an outcry to the meaninglessness of existence.
Thus, most religious people are totally convinced that their inner strivings are not a waste of time, but would receive their due recompense in the hereafter. And when I speak to a Christian, a Buddhist, a Jew or a Muslim, I am surprised to hear them speak of their religious practices, prayers, meditations, fasting, retreats, purifications, and so on, but in terms of serious climbing and accession to the higher realms. Nay, they all claim to be guided by spiritual entities from
beyond.
Accordingly, to believe in ghostly-apparitions, like our incomprehensible belief in God, in spite of the scientific community to denying any evidence in the phenomena of sentience or consciousness, could not simply be explained as the awful outcomes of our fears, or our helplessness when finally succumbing to the stings of sufferings or death, for something within all of us may refuse to believe that life would end at the moment of death.
The Meaning of Life:
When I view the lives of some successful people, so common among celebrities, I am reminded that these are the exceptional cases, and perhaps they could further say that life is good but in the company of our beloved ones.
Indeed, the happiest moments in our lives, as Merry-Christmas for a family of warmest affections, may have their heartiest cheers but in conviviality, in sharing, in giving of gifts, in the obsequious presents of those congenial hearts not yet hardened by the winds of cold winters.
In the midst of this lovely gathering, one may hear the Jingle Bells. Ode to joy! what child is this!! And as I cornered myself to behold this beautiful scene of so much innocence and simplicity, I too sincerely wish this boisterous party could last forever.
May This Boisterous Party Last Forever:
Having the warm sweet-home of affection, life would be a lot more tolerable, but alas, how difficult to gather together those who once made us happy!
The children are happy while nursed by the caring hands of a mother: where is he or she today?
The greatest blow to our heart would be the departure of that great human being, once so vital and indispensable to our happiness.
When thinking about my departed loved ones, I was bound to speak of the human heart and ghostly apparitions, as perhaps indistinguishable from each other, the latter, are to be assessed as manifestation of our inner selves: our feelings and thoughts, meditations and reflections --especially when we subtract the mere essentials from the mere spurious, superfluous and material-- such thrilling emotions would fill us with a much greater sense of spirituality.
At that moment, when we are finally free from the din-noise of this world, these precious memories would speak with sincerest condolence and affection: the meaningful wordless language of feelings.
Indeed, It would be of great solace to interpret the unfolding chapters of our lives in the comprehension of feelings, dreams, visions, inspirations, our inner selves, as per-haps capable to existing beyond the mossy grave of oblivion.
If you don't believe me, then it is because you have been very hard to yourself: to your heart, your precious memories.
When I saw my mother's body in a coffin, I knew in my heart, that my only consolation would be to seek her in the Spirit Realm.
Luckily, three months later, October of 2011, I had an encounter with her in a dream. In this dream, I felt the presence of a person of gentlest nature, had fastened her nursing hands around my neck and shoulder, and when I turned around to seek her near, my mother playfully kept herself behind me. At that moment, I though of that former child so fond of sweetest pranks and caprices!
Knowing my mom had a twisted finger, I simply grasped hold of her hand, and to my surprise, oh dear! the spirit happened to be that of my mom. Then she looked at me smiling, and by her joyful countenance, I understood she was living a happy life in the Spirit Realm.
My goodness! The dream was so real, so tangible that I simply refused to call it a dream or a vision. But, alas, it was a dream, and all I could do was to console myself with the possibility that her soul was doing much better in the here-after. My mom, after a long battle with cancer, had endured much pain, but now she was letting me know her joy in this dream.
Real or Unreal?
Those who have lived the score of four decades, could well understand this truth: that our lives' fleeting episodes, for most of us, could be well construed as a phantasmagoric illusion, and for the most part, our experiences, however charged with the vivid memories of our endearing recollections, are soon to strike kindred with the Spirit Realm.
Nevertheless, there are those friends, and I could not regard them to be less amicable when speaking of ghosts or religion, have approached me as a person whose atavistic mentality smacks of medievalism.
True, while living in New York, I have always felt this repulsion to a total mechanization of my inner self, and this is due, in part, to this former paradise in the primed generosity of Mother Nature.
When I reached my 30th Spring, year 2000, I realized that where religion failed to change in me, I have found it as yet neither unspoiled, nor desecrated, but still happy in the holy shrines of Mother Nature, and like a prodigal son, I made a homeward return to my natural place with the elements.
Regardless of religious differences, we may welcome that selective affinity, that ideal company, a gusto, could probably accompany me to solitary places full-fraught with the real stuff of the heart.
Occasionally, we are asked to retreat back to the wood with our cherished friends, and if you don't have a heart for ghost-stories, then, by God's sake, let us believe our dear ones to exist but in our precious memories.
I am bound to admit that, some paranormal experiences, whether we like them or not, could change us forever, nay, they may define the very tonic upon which we may found our interpretation of fate, destiny and Divine Will.
A devout Catholic woman, whose full name I cannot recall right now, Mercedes M., and who has been an usher at Church of St. Jude for many years, has seen my head turned gray over the years, asked me whether funerals have not already hardened my heart to the question of existence.
Of course not, dear lady, do you think my heart has been depleted of any feelings?
There are days when my heart seems to harbor feelings of sweetest wellbeing, especially when I am lying supine on my bed, "half-sleep," some inexplainable joys, as those of a happy child, seem to surge aloft from the bottomless depth of my heart. At this moment, my consciousness, as though activated by a propelling will, a rapt buoyancy, could bring me to a completely different frame of mind. This blessing, fueled by these sporadic instances of wellbeing, have visited me every now and then, but by what reasons or merit are as yet unknown to me.
Occasionally, we all may experience moments of tremendous heights and actuality.
--Oh my goodness! I feel so real today!
Frankly speaking, the inner fabric of my soul, like a spiritual engine sometimes ringing with lively gears of actuality and reality, would start me in joyous instances reminiscent of a former self.
These transient bits of joy seem to appear and disappear apace with my heartbeats, like a filament of wisp, or dewy mist pulsed by gentlest winds, thus leaving behind an uncanny sense that perhaps the journey of life ought to be pursued inwardly! Or, perhaps, and this I do believe wholeheartedly to be the case, at some point in the journey of my life, I lost a firmer hold of myself.
Perhaps this is the meaning of my mother's dream.
What strikes me most is these "bits of actuality," quite often filled with inexplicable joy, like those of my childhood when losing myself in the bottomless depth of a bluest sky, are still encased in the pouch of my heart.
Some days, by the gentle brushes of these hauntingly reeling-feelings, I am soon reminded that I have perhaps forgotten other "inner-modes in this music," this spiritual existence so pregnant with actuality.
On the other hand, I am bound to say, however content with the load of cares befalling along my path, that sorrows and sadness, the inevitable lot for most human beings, outweigh the happy moments.
My Sincere Condolence:
Even till this day, some funerals have touched my heart deeply. Occasionally, I have witnessed very sad funerals, young and old, all weeping for the loss of a beloved human being, and though I don't know them, their tears could move me to sorrows and empathy:
The Ghosts of My Childhood in the Dominican Republic, La Cumbre (Mountaintops ringing my hometown Moca)
Ghosts are said to be the staunch protectors of their beloved places, but while roaming through places once believed to be inhabited by Indians (La Cumbre de Moca, Dominican Republic), I could never explain myself when conveying the impression of lonely roads wounding themselves amidst disheartening woods...
Here and there I found little houses, once the sweet homes of children, but now they appear totally razed or wreaked as though by furious winds. The wood was wanting of visitors, and I could hardly stay there without a friend or a human being.
Some little houses, "bohío," now remain abandoned, or forsaken, their somber aspect gave me chills, and I was forced to leave the dreary scene as a man overcome with fear and reprehension.
Today, instead of people and the sweet carols of children playing their games, one would encounter the indecipherable trails of former inhabitants, their existence now lost in the flux of time.. Harken! In the background, one may fancy to hear human voices decrying the meaning of existence.
Thus the scenes of human conviviality appeared to me like a fleeting dream. But overtime, such dreamy scenes have become a living cemetery. Some peasants relate stories of night-walking entities, but perhaps, like urban citizens in NYC, these peasants are prey to their own fears and delusions.
beyond.
Accordingly, to believe in ghostly-apparitions, like our incomprehensible belief in God, in spite of the scientific community to denying any evidence in the phenomena of sentience or consciousness, could not simply be explained as the awful outcomes of our fears, or our helplessness when finally succumbing to the stings of sufferings or death, for something within all of us may refuse to believe that life would end at the moment of death.
The Meaning of Life:
When I view the lives of some successful people, so common among celebrities, I am reminded that these are the exceptional cases, and perhaps they could further say that life is good but in the company of our beloved ones.
Indeed, the happiest moments in our lives, as Merry-Christmas for a family of warmest affections, may have their heartiest cheers but in conviviality, in sharing, in giving of gifts, in the obsequious presents of those congenial hearts not yet hardened by the winds of cold winters.
In the midst of this lovely gathering, one may hear the Jingle Bells. Ode to joy! what child is this!! And as I cornered myself to behold this beautiful scene of so much innocence and simplicity, I too sincerely wish this boisterous party could last forever.
May This Boisterous Party Last Forever:
Having the warm sweet-home of affection, life would be a lot more tolerable, but alas, how difficult to gather together those who once made us happy!
The children are happy while nursed by the caring hands of a mother: where is he or she today?
The greatest blow to our heart would be the departure of that great human being, once so vital and indispensable to our happiness.
When thinking about my departed loved ones, I was bound to speak of the human heart and ghostly apparitions, as perhaps indistinguishable from each other, the latter, are to be assessed as manifestation of our inner selves: our feelings and thoughts, meditations and reflections --especially when we subtract the mere essentials from the mere spurious, superfluous and material-- such thrilling emotions would fill us with a much greater sense of spirituality.
At that moment, when we are finally free from the din-noise of this world, these precious memories would speak with sincerest condolence and affection: the meaningful wordless language of feelings.
Indeed, It would be of great solace to interpret the unfolding chapters of our lives in the comprehension of feelings, dreams, visions, inspirations, our inner selves, as per-haps capable to existing beyond the mossy grave of oblivion.
If you don't believe me, then it is because you have been very hard to yourself: to your heart, your precious memories.
When I saw my mother's body in a coffin, I knew in my heart, that my only consolation would be to seek her in the Spirit Realm.
Luckily, three months later, October of 2011, I had an encounter with her in a dream. In this dream, I felt the presence of a person of gentlest nature, had fastened her nursing hands around my neck and shoulder, and when I turned around to seek her near, my mother playfully kept herself behind me. At that moment, I though of that former child so fond of sweetest pranks and caprices!
Knowing my mom had a twisted finger, I simply grasped hold of her hand, and to my surprise, oh dear! the spirit happened to be that of my mom. Then she looked at me smiling, and by her joyful countenance, I understood she was living a happy life in the Spirit Realm.
My goodness! The dream was so real, so tangible that I simply refused to call it a dream or a vision. But, alas, it was a dream, and all I could do was to console myself with the possibility that her soul was doing much better in the here-after. My mom, after a long battle with cancer, had endured much pain, but now she was letting me know her joy in this dream.
Real or Unreal?
Those who have lived the score of four decades, could well understand this truth: that our lives' fleeting episodes, for most of us, could be well construed as a phantasmagoric illusion, and for the most part, our experiences, however charged with the vivid memories of our endearing recollections, are soon to strike kindred with the Spirit Realm.
Nevertheless, there are those friends, and I could not regard them to be less amicable when speaking of ghosts or religion, have approached me as a person whose atavistic mentality smacks of medievalism.
True, while living in New York, I have always felt this repulsion to a total mechanization of my inner self, and this is due, in part, to this former paradise in the primed generosity of Mother Nature.
When I reached my 30th Spring, year 2000, I realized that where religion failed to change in me, I have found it as yet neither unspoiled, nor desecrated, but still happy in the holy shrines of Mother Nature, and like a prodigal son, I made a homeward return to my natural place with the elements.
Regardless of religious differences, we may welcome that selective affinity, that ideal company, a gusto, could probably accompany me to solitary places full-fraught with the real stuff of the heart.
Occasionally, we are asked to retreat back to the wood with our cherished friends, and if you don't have a heart for ghost-stories, then, by God's sake, let us believe our dear ones to exist but in our precious memories.
I am bound to admit that, some paranormal experiences, whether we like them or not, could change us forever, nay, they may define the very tonic upon which we may found our interpretation of fate, destiny and Divine Will.
A devout Catholic woman, whose full name I cannot recall right now, Mercedes M., and who has been an usher at Church of St. Jude for many years, has seen my head turned gray over the years, asked me whether funerals have not already hardened my heart to the question of existence.
Of course not, dear lady, do you think my heart has been depleted of any feelings?
There are days when my heart seems to harbor feelings of sweetest wellbeing, especially when I am lying supine on my bed, "half-sleep," some inexplainable joys, as those of a happy child, seem to surge aloft from the bottomless depth of my heart. At this moment, my consciousness, as though activated by a propelling will, a rapt buoyancy, could bring me to a completely different frame of mind. This blessing, fueled by these sporadic instances of wellbeing, have visited me every now and then, but by what reasons or merit are as yet unknown to me.
Occasionally, we all may experience moments of tremendous heights and actuality.
--Oh my goodness! I feel so real today!
Frankly speaking, the inner fabric of my soul, like a spiritual engine sometimes ringing with lively gears of actuality and reality, would start me in joyous instances reminiscent of a former self.
These transient bits of joy seem to appear and disappear apace with my heartbeats, like a filament of wisp, or dewy mist pulsed by gentlest winds, thus leaving behind an uncanny sense that perhaps the journey of life ought to be pursued inwardly! Or, perhaps, and this I do believe wholeheartedly to be the case, at some point in the journey of my life, I lost a firmer hold of myself.
Perhaps this is the meaning of my mother's dream.
What strikes me most is these "bits of actuality," quite often filled with inexplicable joy, like those of my childhood when losing myself in the bottomless depth of a bluest sky, are still encased in the pouch of my heart.
Some days, by the gentle brushes of these hauntingly reeling-feelings, I am soon reminded that I have perhaps forgotten other "inner-modes in this music," this spiritual existence so pregnant with actuality.
On the other hand, I am bound to say, however content with the load of cares befalling along my path, that sorrows and sadness, the inevitable lot for most human beings, outweigh the happy moments.
My Sincere Condolence:
Even till this day, some funerals have touched my heart deeply. Occasionally, I have witnessed very sad funerals, young and old, all weeping for the loss of a beloved human being, and though I don't know them, their tears could move me to sorrows and empathy:
The Ghosts of My Childhood in the Dominican Republic, La Cumbre (Mountaintops ringing my hometown Moca)
Ghosts are said to be the staunch protectors of their beloved places, but while roaming through places once believed to be inhabited by Indians (La Cumbre de Moca, Dominican Republic), I could never explain myself when conveying the impression of lonely roads wounding themselves amidst disheartening woods...
Here and there I found little houses, once the sweet homes of children, but now they appear totally razed or wreaked as though by furious winds. The wood was wanting of visitors, and I could hardly stay there without a friend or a human being.
Some little houses, "bohío," now remain abandoned, or forsaken, their somber aspect gave me chills, and I was forced to leave the dreary scene as a man overcome with fear and reprehension.
Today, instead of people and the sweet carols of children playing their games, one would encounter the indecipherable trails of former inhabitants, their existence now lost in the flux of time.. Harken! In the background, one may fancy to hear human voices decrying the meaning of existence.
Thus the scenes of human conviviality appeared to me like a fleeting dream. But overtime, such dreamy scenes have become a living cemetery. Some peasants relate stories of night-walking entities, but perhaps, like urban citizens in NYC, these peasants are prey to their own fears and delusions.