A family reunion, to a psychic, has also been called, “The Incredible Shrinking Master” syndrome. This is when someone developing their spiritual abilities returns to the same group they were spawned with, and encounters all the pictures, roles, nicknames, memories from the time when they were still asleep to themselves. It is enough to make someone feel like getting stoned, or recall the feelings of a suicidal teenager, unless they are disciplined enough to blow those pictures minute by minute. I’m fortunate now that my parents and one sibling are passed over, I feel a great deal of spiritual support, even from my siblings still living. They have each stepped onto their own spiritual path, and I feel the permission to be myself that is required for a loving encounter. The rivalry of adolescence is gone. I can talk about the hazards of a family reunion another time. But what about a high school reunion?

 

I always wonder why people are drawn to a high school reunion, especially after forty years. Now why would I spend the time and money to attend? This year of 2007, I came up with my own answer, time travel. I got the opportunity to be triggered into remembering my 17-year-old self, full of potential, inhibitions, and pain. Looking at my classmates from the mid sixties I saw that they too were trying to come out of their shell, to be recognized and loved. Projections? Sure, we all projected on each other, then and now. We all had the same teachers and strict dress codes, resistance to the expected behavior. The notes written in my school annual were frosting on a cake of confusion, since I really did not know if anyone really liked me or not. Yet there were words that indicated a smattering of awareness that this is NOT all there is. At the time, it was important to use the familiar niceties, ending with “Love Ya.” We all suffered together, wanting recognition, validation, bursting with our potential genius, but afraid to let it show too much.

 

I always had a dream, for years after high school, first of going to my locker and forgetting the combination. Frustrated, I knew there was something in there that was very valuable, but locked away until I could remember the code. Then, after years of experience, loss of innocence, defeats, wounds and healings, I dreamt that I was once again at the lockers, this time able to open mine, and also to open others’ lockers. This correlated with my psychic training at Berkeley. This may say something about our educational system, which is geared for behavior control rather than expanded awareness.

 

November 3, 2007: So here we are, about a third of the class, mixing it up once again, recognizing each other in aged bodies, for better or worse. Enjoyable were the spontaneous little groups that would reminisce about certain teachers, former classmates, and events. Each of us had a piece of the puzzle. Remember that girl with all the rings? Remember when we were in detention? Each memory was a pathway to an awareness. As each person said hello, there was a soul recognition, an expanded memory field, that adolescent potentiality beaming through and I felt honored to respond to them. One of the subjects was “the first of us to die.” Mentioned was the name Steve Morey, a guy I remembered being happy, fun-loving and easy to talk to. He had apparently passed over 9 months after graduation in a car accident. Someone said it may have been suicide but I felt strongly that his death was not intentional.

 

Some classmates I sought out, feeling bold; others I skipped, feeling mildly thwarted. The class dreamboat, Dave, was there with his wife, and although aged, he seemed happy in love, and when they took to the dance floor, they looked alive, like Dancing with the Stars. Way to go! There were a few people I simply did not remember, but who said a few things to me that indicated we had talked back then. Did I always ignore shorter guys, or was it because I was so tall we made each other feel awkward? It was a relief not to care about height or weight or clothing, but more about whether someone was happy or not.

 

I realized each of us had developed certain skills, and were there to enjoy having them give us confidence, if not flaunt them. It was my dream to play my flute for the school, but without the fearful trembling lip from excess adrenaline. So I got my dream in 3-D, played a Piazzola Tango with a digital guitar player, and sent out a silent spiritual hello with those final chords. Then true to form, I encouraged everyone to get up on their feet and burn some calories.

 

But what of those old inhibitions? Choosing not to dance is one thing, but some of us had developed a serious deficit of self esteem, and it showed up. Amazing to me was one girl, a former service club president, who had always appeared conservative and mild in high school, got herself so drunk on wine that she became possessed. At the beginning of the evening, I had greeted her and she smelled sweet, gentle, without guile. But towards the end of the evening, she was drinking out of a bottle, her mouth and teeth purplish-blue from the wine, stains down the front of her knit blouse and skirt, and a worldly gleam coming out of her eyes. I greeted her and immediately got a whiff of a sour, malevolent smell. She grabbed at me, trying to pull me down and off balance. She started laughing very aggressively, an ugly machine-gun laugh of a nervous spirit. Then I knew it was not her! I got her up and moving, and she was not able to move well. She started stomping her feet like a gypsy dancer, but without rhythm. I escorted her to the bathroom thinking she might throw up but she wouldn’t go in and seemed disoriented when choosing the women’s or the men’s room. She tried to grab me again, saying “Let’s do it! Let’s do it now!” I replied, “Whatever ‘it’ is, it probably is not to my liking.” I brought in some Christ Light and she/he responded by turning away.

 

I know how to exorcise wayward spirits, but in the middle of a reunion? I settled for doing some prayer work from my car. I knew that if I started an exorcism that there could be a dramatic battle. I wanted very much to ask it, “what is your name?” then do a proper clearing and healing, but it was not the right time or place. She moved away from me, or was it a he? That nasty laugh was aggressive. If I went after it, without support, it could become very crazy, or I could become responsible for her well-being, and so I simply prayed for the Holy Spirit to surround her and keep her from harm. Also, to surround and protect anyone that wanted to help her out. One kind-hearted girl volunteered to take her to her motel room, and what a scene that would have been. I could imagine her being jumped by a drunken sailor inhabiting the body of her friend. Such is the makings of another horror movie. I mentioned to the few people who understood that this girl needed a strong escort to her hotel.

 

When the reunion began to wind down, I gathered my flutes and my high school “Totem” and drove home. As I left Eagle Rock, I released each of them, knowing that some I will be in touch with, most of them, not. 90 minutes later, as I approached the road to my home in Anza, I remember turning off the radio and yawning. Suddenly I was having a vivid conversation with Steve Morey, who looked about 19 years old. He was telling me that he enjoyed the reunion, the flute music, and the energy I put out to the group. Then he said, “By the way, Franci, it is very easy to wake and find yourself dead. So, WAKE UP!” I opened my eyes and I had drifted into the other lane on the highway, if only for a few seconds, headed toward a ditch on the far side of the highway. I corrected in time to make the turn onto my road. I knew that he was also saying he did not intend to be dead, that he was still around, and could respond to our high school class, especially psychic flute players, and make himself my hero. Thanks, Steve!