Reader Post | By Latless Susan
Unparalleled Transmission of Latless: Enhanced Human Radio (Backstory: Ages 6 to 10)
Ages 6 and 10: I attended two elementary schools in Prince George’s County, MD: Tanglewood in Clinton and Tayac in Oxon Hill. In the main, I’ve fond memories about my early educational experiences.
For example, the school principal selected me to represent our Weekly Reader “Young Explorers Club” when Thor Heyerdahl, of Kon-Tiki fame, came to share his adventures. I had the honor of giving Mr. Heyerdahl a tour of our school and showing him where to set-up for his presentation. Meeting him, learning of his ideas and how he overcame tremendous odds to accomplish a great achievement, made a lasting impression on me.
I count Mr. Heyerdahl among those who planted seeds in me to take several adventurous trips later in my life, such as visiting the interior of America’s Alaska, and Ecuador’s Galapagos Islands and Andes Mountains, the latter included an odd visit to a run-down mountain hotel that had once, c. 1920s, hosted its own zoo. When there, the only guests were my husband and me, and a group of boisterous German tourists.
Learning of the importance of radio communications on the Kon-Tiki may have fostered my later entrance into amateur radio, a hobby in which I presently engage. Perhaps also, Thor Heyerdahl enhanced the spirit within me such that I seemed to attract to myself, over the years, others of inquisitive and/or daring mind.
For example, in 1979, while walking near Central Park West about 67th Street near ABC studios, I had, what at the time, seemed a happenstance encounter with George Michanowski, author of “The Once and Future Star”. That resulted in a several hours chat over Turkish coffee, and him trying to recruit me to be an assistant on a newly funded project at an observatory (I believe it was the Arecibo Observatory, Puerto Rico.). The offer followed our discussion about my having previously been a pre-college engineering trainee at Naval Surface Weapons Center, Dahlgren, VA. He also invited me to attend a presentation at The Explorers Club nearby.
[Note: I no longer believe in the concepts of chance, coincidence or randomness. Experience, reflection and research dissuade my continuance of such notions.]
The primary unpleasant memory about my elementary school years concerns an incident with a new teacher who took over my fourth grade class about mid-year. The year started well with a really nice teacher, but she became ill and left. It was this new teacher’s first job. At first I was hopeful. I remember the new teacher dressed immaculately, always matching bag and shoes. She was classy and stylish in mid-1960s fashion. She seemed interesting.
I do not recall the exact class context, but I drifted into a daydream, which was not typical of me at school. In this state, I started to automatically make sketches of caverns under the school where I said children would magically go, and that there were monsters and weird happenings.
At the time, I wondered how I could draw them. Though my schoolwork was fine and I was known as a respectful and intellectually able student, generally well-liked by teachers, this one sent me to the principal’s office. She wanted me punished.
Fortunately, Mom interceded. I was transferred to a different class, and no further problem came of it. I think if my mom had not intervened, my future educational experiences would have been tainted.
This taught me to be more careful about exposing my awareness or insights gleaned from visions of alternative realities. For years I remained hesitant to communicate my memories of activities I may have witnessed or believed would come about, but could not directly place within ordinary reality.
As I processed the sketching event, I early on categorized it as evidence of a past life talent that suddenly emerged to enable me to capture something I was seeing in another place but was not actually there. Later I thought I had, unbeknownst to myself, been hypnotically manipulated. That I had experienced something weird along with other children at the school, but had been induced not to recall it. But the induction was weak and so some memory material broke forth along with a latent talent, one perhaps we all possess under the right circumstances.
Later, as an adult, I had experiences of automatic writing (occurred without overt consciousness or intention). These are typically viewed as phenomena of the dark occult. I considered spiritual forces about me as possibly inciting these experiences.
I came to understand that automatic writing also produces inspirational, God-honoring writ. Such experiences gave me theological understandings beyond what I believe I would have produced naturally, if left to my own devices.
On occasion, while teaching at seminary, I presented what some perceived as exceptional insights, as if reaching behind the text to capture its true intent. It was as if I had grasped the mind of the one who had actually written the original texts, their thoughts flowing through me as intended versus interpreted through my limitations. I didn’t always know what I had written until I read it afterward. Like a bypass, with me as throughput, but not the originator of ideas. Must say, I learned much this way. Once informed, I either immediately understood, or had a direction to follow for clarifying.
There are many possible explanations for the ability to automatically draw or write. I learned to evaluate each instance by the nature of the event, consideration of its source, and the consequences that followed. I also learned that once a person is open to alternative realms, devises of both good and evil have greater reach into the mind. I believe it is the foundational contexts and moral filters previously laid up that help us discern who or what is bringing the event about, and for what possible purpose.
My mom was a nurse, a life-long career that she felt inspired to undertake in answer to a vocational call of God, one she performed with compassion and diligence. Her professional experiences included years in psychiatric; premature and newborn; public health; and emergency room nursing.
Mom’s nursing experiences, and the training and mindsets undergirding them, became part of my formational context. As children, Mom allowed my sibs and me to read her medical texts. We really got into the detailed pictures in her obstetric textbook—some weird looking creatures sometimes emerge from people. She also taught us some of the psychological paradigms she learned for analyzing human behavior, which she integrated with her spiritual perspectives. She seemed to integrate them well, though if in doubt, she went back to spiritual understandings, as the theoretical apparatus of psychology often failed to supply needed insight.
During my earliest years, Mom was Head Nurse for the Female Prisoner Ward at Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital (St. E’s), a federal psychiatric institution in Washington, DC. She worked with psychiatric female prisoners brought in from all over the country.
After leaving St. E’s, she worked for the Maryland Public Health Department. Toward the end of her time at this job she wrote a poem she titled “Ain’t Nobody Home”. This poem was based on an actual experience she had as a home visit nurse. I think if there is a way to quickly capture a key aspect of her way of thinking at that time, it is in the underlying philosophy of her poem.
What I liked best about this poem was the patter. She wrote it the same year as I had my automatic writing incident in fourth grade, 1968.
AIN’T NOBODY HOME
Once I saw an old woman
living in a three sided shack.
She didn’t want to see me,
but I could see her through the back.
She was running through the rooms, running all alone.
And every time I knocked, she’d cry,
‘Ain’t Nobody Home’.
I’ve met a lot of people
living in fancy houses too.
Husband and wife both working, living by the neighbor’s rule.
And when the kids come home at night and stand there all alone,
a voice echoes down the empty hall
‘Ain’t Nobody Home’.
I’ve looked these people in the eyes,
tried searching for their soul,
The smiles are warm, the handshakes firm, but the eyes are dead and cold.
And while they’re talking to me,
I know I’m all alone,
for through their eyes I see the sign
‘Ain’t Nobody Home’.
So open wide your windows. Open wide your doors.
Choose a friend for what he is, and soothe his pain and sores.
And when he’s walking with you, make sure he’s not alone.
Hang out your sign, ‘No Vacancy’.
Everybody’s home.
To be continued . . .
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