The Master on the Mountain

By Neville Abbott Jacobs

Even while growing up in Southern California, Neville Abbott Jacobs believed that masters in mountain caves meditated for mankind. As her search for esoteric truths manifested, Jacobs eventually moved with her parents to Anchorage, Alaska, in 1949 where she learned about ancient Eskimo and Indian beliefs. But little did she know that some twenty-eight years later she would embark on an unusual spiritual and physical journey of understanding.

In a fascinating account of two years of her life, Jacobs details how she first met Tibetan lama, the Nechung Rinpoche, on a mountain in Hawaii in 1977 and recognized him as her teacher from a former life. As the door opened for Jacobs to explore Tibet’s esoteric Buddhism, she reveals the unexpected adventures, paranormal surprises, Tibetan history, and marvels of ancient Asia that followed. Through easy conversation and dialogue, Jacobs entertains while conveying the deeper meaning of Buddhism and disclosing how her quest for answers eventually led her to cross paths with another master, the Dalai Lama.

The Master on the Mountain shares the story of one woman’s pilgrimage across the seas, through jungles, and to the highest mountains in search of a greater spiritual path.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 11, 2019
• ISBN: 9781480869615

Neville Abbott Jacobs

Neville Abbott Jacobs earned degrees in anthropology and journalism from the University of Alaska. Beyond that, real-life experiences in the paranormal motivated her to research worlds beyond the physical. After marrying Bob Jacobs, an airline pilot,in 1968, they often vacationed in Hawaii. In January, 1977, with Bob flying overseas, Neville returned to Hawaii to visit a girlfriend, and then met the Nechung Rinpoche, a high Tibetan lama. This meeting launched her into a deeper exploration of Buddhism and the mysteries of Tibet. The Master on the Mountain is her first book.

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Copyright © 2019 Neville Abbott Jacobs.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Interior Art Credit: Neville Abbott Jacobs

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-6962-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6963-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-6961-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018914994

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/08/2019

Contents

Acknowledgments

Preface

Chapter 1 Billy’s Book: The Master on the Mountain

Chapter 2 A Swami, Some Mediums, and a Master

Chapter 3 To the Farthest Shores

Chapter 4 My Life in a Nutshell—How Karma Falls: 1954–1977

Chapter 5 Back to Hawaii: What Did I Know about Tibet?

Chapter 6 The Abode of the Master

Chapter 7 The Nechung Rinpoche

Chapter 8 My Eyes Get Stuck

Chapter 9 An Inner Voice Calls—Moving to Drayangling

Chapter 10 Living at Drayangling—Hawaii

Chapter 11 Rinpoche Explains Tibetan History

Chapter 12 How the Sects Began: The Jewel Ornament of Liberation and Other Works

Chapter 13 Thankas, Bodhisattvas, and Deity Yoga

Chapter 14 The Great Surge to India

Chapter 15 Pechas and Pages

Chapter 16 Dinner Table Conversation—Gastronomic Delights of Tibet

Chapter 17 Soul or Mind Stream: An Animal Has No Soul?

Chapter 18 The Workshop: Teaching Techniques of a Lama

Chapter 19 Dimensions of Consciousness: The Workshop Continues

Chapter 20 Time with the Lama—A Chinese Film and Other Surprises

Chapter 21 Refuge Is Not Trifling

Chapter 22 Leaving the Lama—Honolulu to Los Angeles

Chapter 23 Descent to the Mainland—And a Prayer Wheel Finds Me

Chapter 24 To Fairbanks—Arranging Rinpoche’s Visit

Chapter 25 Rinpoche Teaching in Fairbanks: Tong Len for Everyone

Chapter 26 Rinpoche’s Story

Chapter 27 Africa: My World Transforms to an Oyster

Chapter 28 January 1978: India Delayed—Layover in Hawaii

Chapter 29 Tokyo—En Route to India

Chapter 30 Bangkok

Chapter 31 Delhi at Last

Chapter 32 Delhi: The First Day

Chapter 33 Indian Art and History: An Overview

Chapter 34 Sri Lanka: Discovering an Ancient Buddhist Island

Chapter 35 Madras/Chennai and on to Mysore

Chapter 36 The Monk at Zongkar Chode

Chapter 37 The Queen’s Coach to Dharamsala

Chapter 38 Discovering Dharamsala

Chapter 39 Dharamsala—Day Two

Chapter 40 Lunch with the Nechung Kuten

Chapter 41 Waiting for the Audience

Chapter 42 The Audience: As You Can See, I’m Just an Ordinary Monk

Chapter 43 With the Dalai Lama: Conversation Continues

Chapter 44 To Ani Alicia’s and McLeod Ganj

Chapter 45 Losar—New Year’s Variety: A Hermit, an Opera, and a Cham at Tashi Jong

Chapter 46 At the Tibetan Library: Studies with Geshe Dhargye

Chapter 47 Life in Old Tibet—Talking with the Venerable Tenzin Geyche

Chapter 48 March 10—Commemoration Day Ceremonies

Chapter 49 Back to the World—Leaving Dharamsala, to DC, Tacoma, and Home

Chapter 50 Loose Ends Tie Together

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If there is any virtue in this work, I offer it to the wonderful teachers who have guided me through years of study, which led to The Master on the Mountain, and to His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, who has brought great light to our world in this time of considerable darkness.

For the blessing of having parents who gave love and wisdom and urged me to study everything, my unlimited gratitude.

Acknowledgments

To friends who have listened to my meanderings in an effort to put words on these pages, your patience and contributions to my thoughts are deeply appreciated. For Sharon’s friendship and patience, and to Jackie D’Auria, grammarian most excellent, for editing and suggestions, as always, thanks.

Preface

M y friend said excitedly, Oh, you’re writing your memoirs!

No, no, I denied. My book covers a period of two years after I met a Tibetan lama, Nechung Rinpoche, in Hawaii, and then went to India. I thought a moment. But perhaps it is. It was necessary for me to describe much of my previous life as flashbacks to explain what happened after I met the lama.

When it came up, and I denied that it was a memoir, sometimes people asked why I wrote it.

Oh, so many of my favorite books are personal narratives, usually of travels or explorations of some kind, I’ve replied. So I decided to share how I learned about my own inner searchings, a childhood longing for India, and finding answers in Tibetan Buddhism. Beyond that, people know very little about Tibet, Tibetans, and Tibetan Buddhism, or what they have learned is erroneous. The subject was fascinating, I thought, and as I learned more about it, I saw a need to share.

Through years of spiritual seeking, I belonged to various study groups called metaphysical, esoteric, yoga, and so on. Specifically, I studied, beginning in childhood, with Unity and the Institute of Religious Science (Science of Mind) and then the Rosicrucians-AMORC; the Arcane School; the Theosophical Society; and privately, books on the tarot and kabbalah, the I Ching, and similar works. From such groups I learned a great deal, and when I finally found it, these studies gave me a background to more deeply understand Tibetan Buddhism.

In another theme, I tell about experiences I have had, both as a child and an adult, that we call paranormal or psychic. As a child, I discovered that people generally didn’t understand what I was talking about, and they even thought I might be dangerous for having such an interest in, for example, past lives. This frightened me, but as years went by, I met other people who had similar experiences or abilities, and I realized I was not alone or unique.

It was important to me to be as truthful as possible. Many of my experiences were recorded in journals and notes, and through the years, I talked about them with others who were sympathetic. Thus, I was able to refer back to their memories of what I told them, in order to reconfirm my recollections, as I now have reported or described them.

It is my hope that others who have similar experiences, and might question them, may feel validated that such experiences do happen, or that they may find some insights through my sharing of my experiences. I also hope that this work might bring greater understanding to individuals who question or deny the possibility of a greater reality in our world. The story of my spiritual quest is intertwined with such experiences.

Some individuals find the paranormal frightening or think it evil, but my experiences have never been of that nature. In studying Tibetan Buddhism, I found marvelous archaic spiritual imagery, but this is often misinterpreted by those who do not know the symbolism, especially as it is of such a different cultural tradition than in the West. I have tried to explain the art and philosophy of Tibetan Buddhism to dispel misunderstandings.

Through the years, information has been disseminated about Tibet, Tibetans, and Tibetan Buddhism. While there are some wonderful works on higher spiritual teachings that are said to be by or from Tibetan sources, a great deal of it is plainly wrong, accidentally or deliberately. Motives to deceive have come from various reasons—political, pseudo spiritual, fictitious for profit, or merely out of ignorance. Much of my experience relates to how I was learning about this. Also, I hoped my personal experiences could illumine what different schools may refer to as the higher spiritual path. This spiritual path may not be connected directly to any religion—Christian, Judaic, Buddhist, Moslem, Hindu, or other—but is a personal seeking for growth in what is often called the greater path.

When I began to write The Master on the Mountain, almost everything I knew about Tibet came from personal conversations. Studies with the Nechung Rinpoche began in January 1977, and with other Tibetan lamas later. I have written this from notes, letters, and memory based on conversations as described. Also, prior to writing, I had extensive studies with other Tibetans, lay and ordained, from whom I gathered a much more extensive understanding of the land, people, and faith. I confess it is augmented by a great deal of research in books and documents that were unavailable to me forty years ago but are now abundant, with the dharma and Tibetans having come to the West. I believe that the material in this book is as timely today as it was then.

Tibetan Buddhism emphasizes the highest motivation to aid the suffering of all beings and to develop the mind to fully embrace wisdom, compassion, and loving kindness.

From childhood, I believed there was a greater spiritual path. This is my story of how I sought to find the path, and a teacher, or master, to lead me on that path. Across the seas, through jungles and to the highest mountains, I searched. My quest was successful. I have therefore called it The Master on the Mountain.

Chapter 1

BILLY’S BOOK: THE MASTER ON THE MOUNTAIN

January 1977, Honolulu, Hawaii

I n the tropical night air, which even in Honolulu in January is sweet with the fragrance of frangipani, I awoke, sobbing. It was a joyous sobbing. Over and over, I repeated words while shaking. My tears flowed into the pillow. He’s alive! He’s alive! I thought he was dead. Shocked at myself, I said, Don’t be absurd. You’ve never seen this person before. Go back to sleep.

Jean Burns, my Honolulu girlfriend, had always made me welcome on her couch since the days we shared a house in Manoa Valley. I was then a graduate student in anthropology at the University of Hawaii, and she was finishing her doctorate in physics. Only a few days before, I arrived in Hawaii from Los Angeles. At the airport, Jean had pulled up to the curb, and as I threw my bag in back, she announced, There’s a Tibetan lama teaching here now. The Nechung Rinpoche. Do you want to hear him?

What a question! Of course.

In the middle of the night, this emotional reaction was unreal. Throughout my life, my spiritual interests in Eastern thought conflicted with conventional Western beliefs. Rationally, this shouldn’t be happening. I knew, however, that it tied in with my past, especially to an experience I had as a little girl of about eleven.

Somehow, when I was little, I had conceived the idea there were great beings who lived in caves in mountains—it seemed to me it must be India—and they meditated or prayed to help people and the world. From their remote mountain fastnesses, they sought to give spiritual aid and guidance.

Living in Southern California, we attended churches considered modern metaphysical, such as Unity and Science of Mind. Ministers strayed beyond conventional Christianity and broke ground by focusing on the use and investigation of the mind as part of one’s spirituality. I don’t recall anyone ever proposing there were distant mountain meditators, however. Most usually dismissed my ideas as childish imagination. There were movements that explored these ideas, such as the Theosophical Society, the I Am group, and others, but my family didn’t venture into those schools of thought, and I wasn’t aware of them at the time.

At Thanksgiving 1941, our family gathered at Aunt Vera’s house in Sherman Oaks, part of Greater Los Angeles. That evening, I made an astonishing discovery that affected my belief system, and thus my future life. Now, here I was, nearly thirty-six years later, in Honolulu in January 1977, crying, shaking, and trembling for what would appear to have no rational cause. I knew, however, that it was linked to that earlier experience.

It might seem foolish that this upheaval could be connected to a childhood event, but it is so relevant I must explain it to you. Otherwise, my story makes no sense. It revolves around a boy’s novel. The story’s plot is long, and relating it here may seem unwarranted. But as it happened and forever influenced me at a deep spiritual level, I hope you will bear with it. Its significance becomes clear later.

That night in California, the family gathered around the radio. News blared of America on the threshold of entering World War II. No one expected we would enter the war so suddenly, but people were anxious.

In the San Fernando Valley, all was peaceable. My cousin, Bill, would soon graduate from high school and hadn’t yet joined the air force. Five years older, he was often out for the evening, and I would retreat to his room to read. He had a series of adventure books I thought were exciting, and I couldn’t wait to read the next one. One book stands apart, as it marked a turning point in my life. The author’s ideas validated my views about the mysteries of life that were so often dismissed as my childish imagination. Ever since, it has stood alone for me as Billy’s Book.

The book is fiction but extraordinary for metaphysical content. I believe the way it connected to and foreshadowed the later events in Hawaii are truly astonishing. It is this connection that makes it necessary for me tell you the story in the book.

Family and friends were usually horrified when I talked about India and Asia. You wouldn’t want to go there. People are poor, sick, and dying in the streets. Ridiculed, I knew I mustn’t talk about my interest in and longing to know about that part of the world. In this series of Billy’s books, however, it happened that the very next story took the reader to India. I couldn’t wait to pull it off the shelf.

Memories play tricks, of course, but in this case, the plot and words engraved themselves deeply. I’ve thought of the book so often that I think my memory may be fairly accurate. Regardless, the story in Billy’s Book is important not because of the actual writing but, rather, what I remember of the contents. I could never have imagined that my memory of it could be so connected to an event in later life, far beyond any coincidence. Thus, my story weaves like a tapestry.

Billy’s Book is long gone. In spite of research, I can find no reference to this particular book, its title, or author. There is, however, only one author, Talbot Mundy, who could have written these adventure stories. Research shows that Mundy wrote novels and a radio series featuring a hero, Jack Armstrong. Jack and his associates correspond to the characters in Bill’s books. As I remember the hero as Jack, I am going to write on the assumption this book was part of a series of novels by Talbot Mundy, and the Jack Armstrong in the book is the same as his leading radio character, Jack Armstrong.

The fictional Armstrong is a young friend of the family of an international businessman, Uncle Jim. The other main characters are Uncle Jim’s son, Billy, and daughter, Betty. In my cousin’s adventure book series, Uncle Jim and his group travel in his private aircraft to many places all over the world.

The book I had just finished had the group in Peru, where they acquired two Peruvian Indian servants. The next book took them to India. In Bill’s room, I pulled out the novel and curled up on his bed.

The tale begins as the group flies in Uncle Jim’s airplane to an Indian city, probably Bombay or Calcutta. Sightseeing, they visit a Hindu temple. Monkeys jump around the group but terrify the Peruvian Indians. In the frenzy, one of them kills a monkey. The group hurriedly leaves the temple, but as they descend the steps, an angry priest follows them out, shrieking a curse of death at them.

Continuing on, they fly through a storm and turbulence. In a panic, the servant who killed the monkey opens a door and jumps. The airplane crashes into the jungle, and the second Peruvian servant is killed. Uncle Jim and the others are injured, except Jack.

A nearby maharaja sends a rescue party. He extends hospitality, offering his great palace for them to stay in as long as desired. Unknown to them, the beauty of Uncle Jim’s daughter, Betty, has lured the maharaja into making a terrible plan. He plots to eliminate all the group except Betty, whom he would take for his harem. Jack feels something amiss and decides to leave for Delhi. There, in a crowded street, a humble beggar emerges, seeking alms. Jack gives him a few rupees. At this, the beggar stands tall and transforms into a man of dignity, no longer in a beggar’s role.

Your family is in great danger, he warns. You must go to Chandni Chowk, to the stalls of the carpet weavers. There is a message for you.

Jack quickly goes to the wide boulevard called Chandni Chowk and finds the area of carpet weavers’ stalls. Wandering, he admires beautiful designs on carpets stretched over large looms, but Jack is drawn to a very small carpet, totally unlike the others. He watches, and the weaver turns to him.

This carpet is a map for you, the weaver announces. It will lead you to the abode of the master. He will help you remove the curse upon your friends.

The weaver hands the small carpet to the young man. You must go quickly. I must warn you. There is terrible danger for you. This map will lead you through a deep jungle. In my mind, I could see his description of thick foliage with leopards, tigers, snakes, and webs of spiders.

The carpet weaver continued. Then you must climb a high cliff. If you reach the top, a wide abyss stands between you and your destination. You must jump this abyss. If you succeed in overcoming these dangers, you will reach the abode of the master.

The hero, thus warned, takes the carpet-map and sets out on his quest, struggling through the jungle’s dangers, and at last, Jack climbs the cliff. At the top, he finds the chasm stretching before him, which he must leap to reach a cave beyond. It is death if he fails. He gathers his courage, takes a long run, and jumps. On the far side, exhausted, he collapses. When he awakens, he finds himself in the cave. A figure appears. Jack knows he has arrived at the abode of the master.

The guru, or teacher, casually produces fruit and tea from the air for breakfast. After Jack rests and recovers, the master begins to answer his questions. He explains how everything we perceive as matter is an illusion, as it is energy, and the mind has the power to transcend the limitations of what we consider a dense and solid material world. He points out that under spiritual law, all must be used for good to help people and all the world. The master expands his discourse at length, including references to karma and past lives. All ties together to explain Jack’s present situation. Finally, the master and Jack set out to rescue the family from the evil plan.

In the cave, however, where the author—speaking as the guru—expounds on thoughts so unlike conventional Western views, I was transfixed by the words. They confirmed my ideas. I still find it amazing that the author of this boy’s adventure novel should include such an abstruse philosophical discourse.

Thrilled and excited, I had evidence that I was no longer alone in having ideas that made some of my elders consider me strange or even off. Eastern religion and yoga was not widespread at the time, and while my parents were open and unconcerned about my special interest, it was obvious I was better off keeping my thoughts to myself. Now, however, I was stunned. I could show that I wasn’t alone with ideas of mountain mystic meditators. Fantastic!

Pages hanging open, my thumb marking the spot, I rushed into the living room. Here it is! Here it is! I shouted. "This is what I’ve been telling you! It’s all here in this book! There are great masters in mountain caves, meditating to help people!"

My shrieking entrance shocked everyone, intent on listening to the sputtering radio. They turned and stared. In their faces, I saw that kind of amused tolerance that adults often show to children. I had rudely intruded. Patronizing eyes were rebuke enough. I wanted to slink away, tail between my legs.

Mother smiled gently, and her words seemed to apologize for me. That’s nice, dear, she said. You can tell me about it later, when we get home. I took the book back to Billy’s room and never mentioned it again, even though it would stay with me forever.

Now, in Hawaii, astonished at my emotions at meeting the Nechung Rinpoche, I thought again of Billy’s Book and how I had always believed in great beings meditating in caves. I had no idea if Nechung Rinpoche had ever spent time meditating in a cave, but I knew he was a great master and that I had once known him.

Years had passed since reading Billy’s Book, and much transpired since my first coming to Hawaii and again, now, staying with Jean and this astonishing meeting. The sobbing ended eventually, but I had to review specific events of the past that connected to this moment.

My life had taken many turns and twists, and they led me to explore many avenues of spiritual knowledge as well as to learn from people of diverse cultures. Perhaps all in preparation for this stage of my spiritual life.

Chapter 2

A SWAMI, SOME MEDIUMS, AND A MASTER

I n Jean’s bed in Honolulu, bewildered at my reaction in meeting this Tibetan lama, I reflected on the many events that had influenced me since reading Billy’s Book. These events are all connected and essential to understanding the purpose of my story, my quest, just as the plot of Billy’s Book connects the dots. One incident stood out in affecting my interaction with others as I sought to understand my persistent urge to understand my inner spiritual drive.

That child is unbalanced, I heard the woman say. She should be put in an institution. Her terrifying words etched my mind permanently. I was twelve, in the kitchen of my next-door neighbor, Eva, an open-minded lady. We had been talking about past lives when a neighbor dropped in. I continued chattering, and my next-door friend suggested I go put the tea kettle on.

A transom window over the kitchen door stood open. The other woman’s words carried loudly as she repeated, She is unbalanced. Her tirade continued. Eva reassured her, saying, Oh, she’s just a curious child. Nevertheless, images of men in white, wrapping me in a straitjacket, arose as I pictured her calling an ambulance. I grabbed my sweater and quickly climbed over the fence toward home.

Ever after, I was more careful in talking about ideas that are not a part of conventional Western thought. Today, people speak openly about metaphysics and past lives, but the world has changed. In 1941, reading Billy’s Book helped me to be more secure about myself, to reassure me I wasn’t really unbalanced, but the woman’s words reminded me how dangerous it could be to express views that were different.

In Billy’s Book, two parts especially gripped me. One was the scene in the cave when the guru presented metaphysical discourses to the young hero, explaining that reality, or matter, was illusory in nature, because it was related to each individual’s perception and was subject to mind.

The other part was earlier, in the carpet weaver’s stalls, when the weaver tells the hero that he must face great dangers. He must struggle through the jungle, climb a cliff, and jump an abyss. Then he would arrive at the abode of the master. What a thrilling challenge! Unforgettable words, and I wondered if in some way they were a metaphor for the spiritual path.

As I grew older, it became clear that a diversity of spiritual groups existed in Southern California. One of these presented itself to me unexpectedly. Riding the bus from the San Fernando Valley to Hollywood over Cahuenga Pass, on my left, I saw onion spires in the neighborhood. That’s a Hindu temple! I said to myself, breathlessly, excited.

I told Mother about seeing the spires and asked her to drive me around the area. We finally found the spires on a smallish white building, and on the lawn a sign stated it was the Vedanta Society of Southern California. Swami Prabhavananda spoke at 11 a.m. on Sundays. I began taking the bus to the temple on Sundays. I was enthralled yet unaware that he was one of the few great Indian teachers in the United States.

The swami explained about prana, a subtle energy that is substance. It has a different rate of vibration than matter, of the dense physical world, but is still substantial on its own plane. He explained that thought has substance and leaves a memory of its vibration.

Thoughts are things, he stressed. Sitting in a chair, you would leave an imprint of your thoughts. When you enter a room, you might feel good in it, or very bad. You could pick this up, he said, because the actual matter in the room had been touched by the thoughts and feelings of those who spent time there.

The Swami also talked about karma and reincarnation. He explained it works out from lifetime to lifetime, or sometimes rapidly, manifesting from causes in this life. People had often told me my memories of so-called past life experiences were merely subconscious memories of something I’d seen in a movie, or were foolish childhood imaginings.

Swami Prabhavananda’s talk of reincarnation and karma helped me realize others shared my beliefs. I knew karma and reincarnation were part of Eastern religions, although they were widely ridiculed in the West, but many did believe in them. At that formative time, the Vedanta group helped relieve my doubts.

Now, hearing Nechung Rinpoche, I was again listening to a teacher from a similar Eastern tradition, but I had never before heard this kind of Buddhism. It meshed with my own beliefs that, through years, had grown and developed. Now as I heard Rinpoche teach, the Buddhism he taught further expanded my understanding. It was broad, defining methods to harmonize inner conflict and leading one to a state of transcendent knowing, or the state of the Buddha. It went beyond any conflict I had with the Judeo-Christian tradition.

When I was still in my teens, a senior in high school, another major event occurred that related to my quest for spiritual knowledge. The school district advertised adult night classes. One was photography. I was current with my regular school studies, and my parents and I thought it would be fun, so we all enrolled.

In the first class, I saw a lady at the back table, quietly watching. As the teacher, Waldo Ford, lectured, explaining he was really a geologist and photography was his hobby, she smiled at me with a twinkle. During a break, the class went forward to talk to Mr. Ford. I went back to talk to her. It turned out she was his mother, Hazel Ford. After class, my parents joined me to meet her. We quickly became friends, learning that Hazel lived in Sherman Oaks, was a widow and an artist, and that Waldo’s wife had died. He had a young daughter and girlfriend.

Waldo led both rock hunting and photography trips. We joined these, taking Hazel with us. Then Waldo got married. Soon after, Hazel announced her big house was too big, and she was going to move into her large cabin studio in back and rent the big house.

My folks had recently decided to find a larger house, so we rented Hazel’s. Hazel noticed we had several books by the author Stewart Edward White. She asked if we had read any of his Betty Books. My folks shook their head.

Stewart and his wife, Betty, were friends of mine, she said. I knew them well, and they were very serious about psychic research. These aren’t like his other books. These are based on research with his wife, Betty. She was an astonishing psychic and trance medium. He wrote about her experiences in exploring other dimensions. She was able to report back from her investigations into the spirit world, and he worked with her to record this.

My folks decided to be open-minded about Hazel’s disclosure on this new field. White researched his other subjects well and wrote with such integrity that they felt his work would be reliable. Hazel loaned us the first in a series of books, The Betty Book. She mentioned he had been criticized for going off the deep end, but he himself said he could not judge the material he received from Betty. He said that it was simply information received and placed on file. We respected his attitude and also took it simply as information placed on file. With that, we entered the study of spiritualism.

Hazel was a regular visitor. Eventually, she confided that she was a medium who worked with automatic writing and that she wrote every morning. She had many amazing stories about conversations with her guides, especially with her grandfather, William. In one example, Hazel described working on her son’s genealogy in the Los Angeles library’s archives, and if she reached a block, William and other guides directed her to specific works and even to page numbers.

You’re quite psychic, she told me one day. I wasn’t entirely sure what this entailed, but I’d once had a related experience. I was about eleven. We then lived in Burbank. A friend invited me to join her and her mother to attend a reading with a lady psychic the next Saturday. My friend said they were impressed by this psychic’s sincerity and abilities. Curious, I was delighted to go.

Folding chairs lined the meeting room, and we sat close to the stage. The only fixtures were a table with a mike and chair, except at the back, a well-groomed, attractive, white-haired lady sat in meditation. After the room filled, she moved to the chair by the mike. She