“Okay!” I blurted out in frustration. “Prince, if this is you, will you please give me a sign? I don’t care if it comes in the middle of the night. I don’t even care if it scares me. But please, please let me know if this is you!” These words spewed out of my mouth during one of my daily walks in late May 2016.
Once I stated my request, I simply said, “Thank you” and let it go.
I had been in the grips of a bizarre emotional upheaval, crying at the drop of a hat, which was quite unusual for me.
Over and over, I asked myself why I was so emotionally raw and why tears erupted whenever I so much as glimpsed a picture of Prince on a magazine cover.
His face seemed to be appearing constantly in the news since his unexpected death a month before. Meanwhile, my crying spells were getting worse—to the point where I would sob at the mere thought of him, yet I had never been a fan and knew nothing about him.
In the pitch dark in the middle of the night, I tried to get my bearings. I had woken up just enough to discover that I was out of bed and walking around. All at once, I was fully awake, startled by a deafening sound. I slid my fingers across the wall for the light switch.
In my sleepy stupor, I looked up at the ceiling toward the blaring noise. Oh, that’s it—the smoke alarm! Is my house on fire? I dashed through the rest of the house, sniffing for any traces of smoke. I looked outside through the sliding glass door and was relieved that nothing appeared amiss, yet my agitation was building.
Grabbing a broom, I ran back down the hall to my bedroom and whacked at the alarm, hoping my pounding would shut it up, but to no avail. Instead, I had loosened the bottom part of the alarm from the ceiling, leaving it dangling from a wire, and still howling. I tried to push it back into the ceiling mount but couldn’t so I gave up, climbed back into bed, and covered my head with pillows.
Throughout the night, the alarm blasted me awake every forty-five minutes. Finally, after the fourth round of this, it settled down and remained silent.
The next morning, I wondered why the alarm had started and stopped every hour. And why it hadn’t chirped like a normal alarm when the battery died.
That afternoon and evening, all was quiet. I gathered my pillows and hoped for the best when I went to bed. Indeed, I slept undisturbed.
After one night’s respite, the silence was broken again. I endured the exact same scenario of the deafening noise for fifteen minutes followed by silence for forty-five. Feeling battered and worn out by morning, I whimpered to my landlord, “I need you to replace the smoke detector today.” He was kind enough to come right over with a ladder and a new smoke alarm, commenting that he had just put in a new smoke alarm and battery only a couple of months earlier.
“Are you channeling Prince?” Lori nonchalantly asked in mid-June after listening to my story. Through my tears, I had managed to share with my friend of twenty years what I had been going through.
“It’s so weird,” I told her. “I’ve been crying constantly since the week after Prince died, and I don’t have the slightest idea why.”
She patiently listened as I continued. “Then last week, as if I needed more stress, my smoke alarm went off every hour on the hour. I feel an unsettled energy around, like there’s a connection between my alarm going off and my intense crying spells.”
Lori shared her own bizarre story. “Jim came back after he died. I wrote it all down,” she said of her communications with her ex. “Why don’t you keep a journal just for this? Ask him questions and keep track of the answers you receive.”
“That’s crazy,” I declared. Then in a whisper, I added, “Do you really think I might be channeling Prince?”
“I do,” she replied with certainty. “Sounds like Prince is contacting you.”
I had experienced pretty weird psychic phenomena in the past, when my grandmother came back and visited me for two years after she passed, but Lori’s suggestion caused my heart to flip. My professional psychologist-self grappled with the idea that I could be channeling Prince.
As I drove home after our visit, I tried to assimilate what Lori had said.
Although I was familiar with channeling, mediumship, psychic phenomena, and other metaphysical topics, the idea that Prince was contacting me was hard to wrap my head around.
Still, I couldn’t deny I had been going through something…and I could find no reason why I kept sobbing every day.
A few days later, it hit me. I had asked him directly for a sign! My mind flashed to the walking path, to the exact spot under a large tree where I had asked…when I needed to know I wasn’t crazy. Could the smoke alarm have been the sign I had asked him to give me?
My curiosity was on fire. I bought a pretty purple journal for my Conversations with Prince. (Purple had always been my favorite color.) I also went to Barnes and Noble in search of anything having to do with departed souls who “come back.” I read that if they want us to be able to know that it is indeed them, they may leave specific signs to get our attention on special days like anniversaries and birthdays. They want us to pay attention so we don’t miss their signs, or their answers to our questions.
It took me weeks to make the connection that the smoke alarm had begun on June 7, Prince’s birthday! He wanted me to know it was him.
The smoke alarm was among many early signs he would bring to me. It seemed he was trying to get my attention, to the point of pestering me, but my doubts lingered, despite my knowing deep down that this was real. I had asked him from my heart to show me, and he answered—by bringing this first concrete physical sign of his presence.
All along, I would often feel a rush of energy, like a presence, which completely engulfed me. It was the most exquisite feeling of love. Was I not only connecting with Prince, but also to ALL THAT IS, to heaven, if you will? An idea too incredible for me to fathom at the time.
ASKING IS SIMILAR TO PRAYING
On that walking path a week earlier, I had no preconceived notions as to when, how, or where I might receive the answer to my request. I was simply in an open place to receive. I had spent years practicing staying aware, conscious, and open to receiving answers and signs.
My curiosity is still lit up. I keep asking, and with a little help from my friends (Prince, in particular), I continue receiving, not only signs but also knowledge, that we earthlings are only scratching the surface of “trans-dimensional communication with past material persons (PMP)”.
Indeed, we humans are going to have to find new words of a new language that will match our increasing awareness and rise to higher states of consciousness.