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A World of Souls
Talking to and Hearing Spirits
by: Rose
There’s a beautiful, lush tropical garden that I walk through whenever I find myself longing for the feel of nature all about me. In this hidden world of tangled, overhanging limbs, wide green palm fronds, and soft multicolored flowers, the concrete highways and flashing lights of everyday life seem to fade away. The garden and its botanical inhabitants are all over two hundred years old. Here in this garden I sit, close my eyes, and connect to the sounds, memories and emotions of the towering palm trees, magnolias, and majestic boghandelia. I let myself become a part of all of the life in this garden, as if I had always belonged here, as if my own roots merged with the DNA of the plant life that had inhabited this fertile piece of land for so many generations. Then I wait for them to come, and they always do. 
There are spirits tending the garden. They are the ones who had planted each tree, plant and flower bed two hundred years ago. The ones who first walked the long winding stone paths that led to the KOI filled ponds, outstretched trees, fields of fragrant flowers, and grassy slopes. I can see the men with their faded work overalls and heavy brown boots walking in and out among the trees. I see the women in their cream colored dresses gently sweeping the ground, like veils of mist. They often sit beside me on the aged wooden benches, talking of the triumphs and tragedies of their lives so many years ago.
Then, as always, my memory drifts back to a time in my childhood when my Great-grandmother held my hand and walked with me through rows of white scented apple blossoms in our own back yard. Later the trees would bear shiny red apples and we would pick them for autumn cobblers and pies, but in the spring the petals falling all around me and brushing softly across my face, transformed me to a distant world. It was the world of my Great-grandmother and her only sister Cloe. Cloe walked beside us smiling and talking as she reached up to gently touch the young leaves and April blossoms. I silently listened as my Great-grandmother and her sister Cloe talked about the old days on the farm they grew up on. Then, Cloe would bend over, kiss me on the forehead, say goodbye to my Great-grandmother and fade away like yesterday’s snow. We would see her again, each time we took a walk through the apple grove, and once again I would watch as she disappeared into the air like a swirl of mist in the golden morning light.
To me, talking to Cloe seemed the most normal thing a child could ever do. It was all as natural as talking to any other person. There were no chains clanging, no eerie moans, no formal incantations, and no holding hands in a séance. She just appeared. It was as simple as that. And when she left, it was effortless, as if she had just willed herself to leave.
So, talking to the spirits in the garden seemed just as natural as holding hands with my Great-grandmother and walking through rows of apple trees with Cloe. I have always seen and talked to spirits, for as long as I can remember.
Then, my attention comes back to the tropical garden.  I see spirits walking with other people down the stone paths, and I know that somehow, those other people are either consciously aware or subconsciously aware of the spirits about them. We all are, whether we know it or not. We all have a connection to nature and spirits that is a natural inborn part of who we really are. All we need to do is to just sit still, feel the air around us, and wait for that tiny voice inside of us that says, “We are not alone”.