My Talking Heart - Chapter Eight: A Past Life Experience at Chicago's O'Hare Airport

O'Hare International Airport

One sultry August afternoon in 2002, my travel companion and I were annoyed passengers stuck at Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport. We were awaiting our delayed connecting flight back home from a vacation in New Orleans. While there were no pyrotechnics, gunshots, microphones or cameras associated with it, nor a naked man streaking up and down the aisles as I had witnessed at New Jersey’s Newark Liberty International Airport years before, this layover was different than any in my experience. In fact, then as now, it is a completely unique event in any setting in my life, and is one of my most indelible memories.

Among the sizeable group of my fellow irritated passengers, I sat with book in hand and tried to pass the time by losing myself in the story, normally a reliable escape for me under almost any circumstance. But there was something strange in the air that distracted me, a weird feeling, a sort of prickly awareness not unlike the sense that sweeps across my consciousness and skin when someone is staring at me. I looked up through my eyelashes and in the section across the aisle from ours, one for a different flight, a man and an adolescent girl sat, and indeed, both of them were looking at me intently. I recognized them instantly. I couldn’t have stated how, or why, or under what circumstances I knew them, nor did I know their names, but know them, I certainly did so. I noticed that not only were those two individuals staring at me, but all of the many people milling around or sitting near them also gazed at me relentlessly, with total recognition of me in their eyes. And as with the man and girl, I knew all of them in return—they were as familiar to me as members of my own family.

If I were Oprah Winfrey or Angelina Jolie, my outsized fame would account for the O’Hare crowd’s recognition of me, but I am “private citizen Linda Lee Greene,” even less known then than I am now, for I was yet to join the throng of Internet users. It was a decade down the road before I began to develop a serious social media presence, on the occasion of publishing my second book. However, even if I had been a celebrity, what is the explanation of my recognition of them?

Perplexed by then, I revisited every possible setting in my mind in which I might have met the O’Hare crowd before then. I thought perhaps they were a delegation of some sort, and since there were a few other children among them, maybe they were a church or sports group I had encountered somewhere in New Orleans, or in my home city of Columbus, Ohio. But their incoming flight was not New Orleans or Columbus, and the outgoing flight was to a city to which I had never visited. To this day, I have been unable to identify any prior situation in which I came in contact with those people.  

One of the other strange things about the incident is that there were no discernible responses on the faces or in the bodies of any of them once eye contact was accomplished among us. Not one of them smiled or nodded or made any physical gesture whatsoever in acknowledgement of me, not even a twitch of an eyelid, or a tiny flick of a finger. They merely held my eyes steadily, and I swear to goodness that I began to think they were communicating a message to me, telepathically, but not of a soothsaying nature. There seemed to be no warning of impending misfortune or fortune. It didn’t cause me to feel uncomfortable or creepy—it simply felt like a gentle affirmation of kinship with me. As a matter of fact, the exchange settled me somehow—my spirit relaxed, my irritation over the delay lost its edge, and I felt friendlier toward my companion, a royal pain in the rump during our trip together.

 Back in my college days, I wrote a paper about reincarnation, and I recall that one of its tenets is that we travel through time with a pack of spiritual soulmates appearing in dissimilar guises at different times. For instance, my mother in my current life might have been my brother or sister or husband in lives past. Both major and minor characters appear in the sequential acts of our spiritual journeys, like the headliners and bit players of a Broadway show. Both types are essential to the full performance and disclosure of the story, a conjoined cast of pliable energy stores materializing when needed and providing continuity through which to work out ones spiritual lessons over time.

In literature as well as in the historical, scientific, and religious records, accounts of past-life experiences abound. Across the board, or nearly so, researchers discount them as so much smoke and mirrors, labeling them as fantasies, delusions, playacting, or a type of confabulation, a fancy word for lying without knowing one is lying. Within their quiver of rationales, even alcoholism can trigger false past-life memories.

Whether or not reincarnation will ever be observational, and as a result accepted as chapters in the script of life, isn’t about to be settled any time soon, if ever, as far as I can see. But there was something about the chemistry of my O’Hare Airport encounter that has kept it vibrant in my memory. It has remained a curiosity to me. It seems to refuse to allow me any sense of closure pertaining to it. I admit that I can’t help but wonder if those people are members of my spiritual family. And when I do fess up to that possibility rattling around inside me, it feels right. It rests flawlessly in my spirit. It doesn’t rest quite as well in my brain, however.   

 In any event, reincarnation as a subject is titillating fodder for writers, me among them, as is the case in CRADLE OF THE SERPENT, my latest novel. The following is a synopsis of the story:

Fearful that her husband Jacob is embroiled in an extramarital affair, archaeologist Lily Light turns to psychotherapy, astounding consultations in which Lily often takes on the persona of a young maiden named White Flower, a member of the clan of long-ago American Indian builders of Ohio’s Great Serpent Mound.

When a gunman’s bullets leave Jacob permanently paralyzed from his shoulders down and a woman identified as Jacob’s mistress dead, Lily’s world is shattered. Through the example of her own life a thousand or more years before, White Flower reveals to Lily the unexpected path to her salvation.   

      Given 5 Stars by Readers’ Favorite, CRADLE OF THE SERPENT brims with “enthralling” journeys into the human psyche, romantic love, archaeology, American Indian history, spinal cord injury, its consequences, and its contemporary treatments, as well as “amazing” sequences of past-life regression, and unimaginable twists and turns in a long-term marriage. It is available in paperback and eBook at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, Apple, Google, BooksaMillion, and other booksellers.- Linda Lee Greene

Best-selling author, award-winning artist, blogger, and interior designer Linda Lee Greene is on social media at the following:

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/lindaleegreene

Email: lindaleegreene.author.artist@gmail.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/#!/LindaLeeGreeneAuthor

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/LindaLeeGreeneAuthor

Twitter: @LLGreeneAuthor

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Also look for her at LinkedIn and Google+

Review of TO FAME’S PROUD CLIFF by Bob W. Dunbar

In the early decades of the nineteenth century, the United States of America was in its adolescence, comprised primarily of its Eastern Seaboard and easternmost Midwest regions. Other than bustling New Orleans, the Louisiana Purchase was “unorganized” land; the Oregon Country threatened to become another colony of the British Empire; and the Southwest, including California, was under Mexican rule, as was present-day Texas. The Caucasian population of the United States at the time, driven by its fierce sense of nationalism, rationalized its greed for expansion. Its burning desire was a nation of uninterrupted land from the east-to-west coasts, and north-to-south from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico. Author Bob W. Dunbar, in his fine book TO FAME’S PROUD CLIFF, addresses a portion of America’s expansion story as it unfolded through the lives of two giants among men then, namely Andrew Jackson and Samuel Houston. Although deeply flawed in their separate personal aspects, as well as controversial, then as now, in their respective world-views, the two men were steadfast cohorts responsible in fundamental ways for much of the territorial growth of the United States.         

As a writer of historical fiction, I am well-aware of an author’s challenge in taking the two-dimensional historical figures as written in school books and expanding them into three-dimensional characters for a novel. In TO FAME’S PROUD CLIFF, Dunbar has created flesh-and-blood characters that are so real they practically jump off the page. As portrayed in this book, Houston’s yearning for a “big” life captures the imagination of the reader and recruits him/her to that epic endeavor. Houston’s uncompromising commitment to his mentor and surrogate father-figure Andrew Jackson also bends the reader’s will to the same cause. And the reader gets drunk, depressed, discouraged, wounded, sober, energized, renewed, and healed in tandem with Houston by way of Dunbar’s capable hand.

In addition, a writer’s job is to create sympathetic protagonists, and despite my ingrained prejudice against Andrew Jackson, wrought by the Cherokee blood coursing my veins, after reading TO FAME’S PROUD CLIFF, although not willing to give him the benefit of the doubt exactly, I am willing to entertain the notion that alongside his quest for glory and immortality in enlarging his country, a smidgen of altruism existed in Jackson’s Indian Removal policies, if for no other reason than to save the indigenous people from total extinction at the hands of individual whites. That too, is the rationale Dunbar gave me in response to my Facebook Private Message to him on the issue of Jackson vs Native Americans. Maybe Dunbar’s speculation on this matter fills the gap in what reasonably should have been irreconcilable differences between Jackson and Houston, that of Jackson’s seeming inhumane attitude toward Native Americans and Houston’s love of, and devotion to, them. For a time in his youth, and again in later years, Houston actually lived among the Cherokee—was an adopted son of the Cherokee Chief Oolooteka (Ahuludegi), also called “John Jolly” by European Americans. And among Jackson’s three children, all of whom were adopted, two of them were Native Americans. Of course, altruism does not necessarily explain his choice of progeny. I guess, one of my points here is that this book has caused me to ponder, and to consider searching for more information on its topic.          

                That Dunbar engaged in meticulous research of the historical period depicted in this book is apparent. His rendition of that history is couched in a well-written story that is informative and engaging. It held my interest from its opening page to its last. TO FAME’S PROUD CLIFF is a valuable addition to the bookshelves and eReaders of lovers of historical fiction and/or biographies.

http://www.amazon.com/Fames-Proud-Cliff-Bob-Dunbar/dp/0741476428/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1357319234&sr=1-1&keywords=to+fame%27s+proud+cliff

https://www.facebook.com/BobWDunbar

Linda Lee Greene’s novel “Guardians and Other Angels” is at http://goo.gl/imUwKO

Linda Lee Greene’s novel “Jesus Gandhi Oma Mae Adams,” co-authored with Debra Shiveley Welch, is at http://amzn.to/VazHFG

Linda Lee Greene’s artwork is on view online at www.gallery-llgreene.com

Linda Lee Greene’s Twitter handle is @LLGreeneAuthor.

Recipe for Healthy Berry-Pecan Muffins

“Well, dog-gone,” my father replied when I told him that hickories are in the same family of trees as pecans.  You see, we hail from a place where hickories are in abundance, while it is also the furthest northeastern boundary of where pecans grow in the United States, a deep-country-place in Southern Ohio that back in our early days there was so insulated from the rest of the world that it almost had a life of its own.  Neither my father nor I can remember whether or not we have actually seen a tree giving forth pecans rather than hickory nuts in our area.  It was also news to us that American Indians were responsible for naming both of the trees.  The word "hickory" is said to have come from the Algonquian Indian word "pawcohiccora," while the Algonquian term “pacane,” or “paccan,” or “pakan,” meaning “a nut so hard it has to be cracked with a stone,” evolved into “pecan.” 

                If we were sons and daughters of Nashville, Memphis, Dallas, New Orleans, and other warmhearted places along the “Pecan Belt,” we would be familiar with the resumé of pecans—we would know, for instance, that the trees can grow to be one hundred feet tall and live to be one thousand years old—quite a bit taller and much older than hickories.  Now that’s a lot of nuts!  In addition, after peanuts, which aren’t a tree-nut at all, pecans are the most popular nuts in North America.  In fact, the United States produces over eighty percent of the world’s crop of this indigenous commodity.  This is true even though along with John Wayne, Marilyn Monroe, George Clooney, electricity, automobiles, airplanes, telephones and countless other good things from North America, with the help of humankind, pecan trees eventually set root in other places around the globe:  Australia, Brazil, China, Israel, Mexico, Peru, and South Africa among them. 

                Along with many other firsts credited to him, Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the nation, is recognized as the person who introduced the pecan to areas east of the Mississippi Valley, its native ground.  Having discovered them during a trip to the area, he carried some nuts and seedlings back to his home in Virginia.  He also introduced them to his friend, fellow Virginian, and first president of their homeland, George Washington.  Thereafter, both of the statesmem grew the trees on their plantations, an enterprise that spread to the southern states of the country.  Subsequent to the Civil War, Union soldiers transported the seedlings and nuts to the north, which increased the regard for the buttery-flavored nut even further.  It was a black-slave-gardener named “Antoine,” at Louisiana’s Oak Alley plantation, however, who was responsible for developing the first cultivar of the tree.  In 1876, it was dubbed, “Centennial,” in commemoration of the one-hundredth anniversary of the founding of the United States.  Since then, in deference to the people who fostered them originally, many of the current, five-hundred cultivars of the plant have been named for American Indian tribes including “Cheyenne,” “Kiowa,” “Sioux,” “Choctaw,” and “Creek.” 

                No overview of pecans would be complete without including pralines, the nutty confection originated in France using almonds rather than pecans.  Stories abound regarding its appearance in the French cuisine.  One account is that Clement Lassagne, chef of Marshal du Plesses-Praslin (1598-1675) concocted it after watching children in his kitchen nibbling on almonds and caramel.  Or, it might have happened when one of his young and clumsy apprentices knocked over a container of almonds into a vat of cooking caramel.  The most popular version involves Marshal du Plessis-Praslin himself.  A notorious ladies man, he is purported to have asked Lassagne to develop an alluring treat for his paramours, which he presented to them in decorative little packets.  For a time, the treat was referred to as “praslin,” after the lascivious gentleman, but evolved into praline. 

              Brought to Louisiana by French settlers, chefs in New Orleans eventually substituted pecans for almonds and added cream to the French praline recipe.  The basic “Big Easy” recipe for this Creole treat comprises pecans, brown sugar, white sugar, cream, and butter added to either rum, vanilla, chocolate, coconut, or peanut butter.  Pronounced “prah-leen” in Louisiana, it is “pray-leen” to the rest of us, but regardless of the way one pronounces it, it is a Southern delicacy.  Having always been sold on the streets of New Orleans, passers-by are lured to the Vieux Carré-stalls of praline vendors by the mouth-watering aroma, as well as the Creole call, “Belles Pralines!”  “Belles Pralines!”

                Pecans are rich in protein, vitamins and minerals.  Clinical research has found that eating about a handful of plain pecans each day may help lower cholesterol as effectively as designated medications.  They also promote neurological health, as well as delay age-related muscle-nerve degeneration.  If you have a hankering for baked-goods, but want to avoid the unhealthy ingredients in traditional recipes, the following is a tasty and healthy substitute, one that accepts nuts, berries and fruit nicely.  It is also a better choice for people sensitive to gluten, as well as for sufferers of irritable bowel disorder, Crohns and Colitis.  The batter of the recipe can be used for basic bread, pancakes, crepes and cupcakes (add maple syrup to sweeten the batter), crackers, etc.:   

Healthy Berry-Pecan Muffins

(The recipe normally substitutes almond flour for white or wheat flour.  I have found that by adding garbanzo/fava bean flour to the almond flour, a smoother and finer batter is the result.  It also calms the rather strong flavor of almond flour.  Cranberries are featured in this recipe, but any berry, or fruit, will do.)

Heat the oven to 325° (160°C).  Line a muffin tin with large baking cups

Topping

1 Tbsp. (15 ml) ground cinnamon

2 Tbsp. (25 ml) maple syrup

1 Tbsp. (15 ml) unsalted butter

(Combine ingredients in a small bowl and mix well)

Muffin Batter

2 ½ cups (625 ml) almond & garbanzo/fava flour mixture

1 cup (250 ml) chopped pecans

¼ tsp (1 ml) salt

½ tsp (2 ml) baking soda

1 tsp (5ml) ground cinnamon

(Combine ingredients in a separate bowl)

2 eggs

½ cup (125 ml) Yogurt

½ cup (125 ml) maple syrup

1 ½ cups (375 ml) cranberries (or berries or fruit of choice)

(Combine the wet ingredients in another bowl and pour into the first bowl of the dry ingredients.  Mix well.  Add enough water to make the batter about the consistency of toothpaste.  Evenly fill each baking cup with the batter and drizzle the topping over each one.  Bake for 20 to 25 minutes.)*

*With some alterations of my own, this recipe is taken from one of my cooking Bibles:  Grain-free GOURMET by JODI BAGER and JENNY LASS

 

 

The Original Pierre Masperos Marc Exchange, New Orleans

 

My friend, Sandra Cain, a former resident of New Orleans, says that Pierre Masperos or Masperos Exchange, holds the distinction of serving the best oyster poboys she has ever tasted in NOLA!  Although I can’t remember whether or not it was my food choice the day I frequented the place, it is commonly promoted as “Very New Orleans-y…where people-watching at the venerable French Quarter eatery is almost as seductive as the perfectly-seasoned, (Cajun-Creole) entrees.”[1] 

I am assured by my friend, Mary Ann Riggle that she can actually smell the matchless aromas of the city, as well as feel its famous sunshine on her skin in my acrylic painting of the historic restaurant.  Located at No. 440 Chartres Street at St. Louis Street and formerly known as La Bourse de Masperos, it was the slave-trading house and coffee shop of Pierre Masperos.  I regret that Google wouldn’t reveal to me the biography of Mr. Masperos, and I am not inclined to dig further for it.  If any of my readers can enlighten me, I would appreciate it.  Having been erected in 1788, it is one of the oldest buildings in the French Quarter.  During the early decades of the 19^th century, the pirate brothers, Jean and Pierre Lafitte used it as a meeting place of their gang of men.  It is also famous as Andrew Jackson’s point of liaison with the brothers Lafitte in their joint planning of the epic Battles of New Orleans during the Revolutionary War.

On the opposite corner at No. 500, stands Napoleon House, a treasured, ancient bar with stucco walls and an apartment on its top floor that in the 19^th Century was owned by a former mayor of the city, Nicholas Girod.   An advocate of Napoleon Bonaparte, Girod hatched a plan to rescue the deposed emperor from his prison on St. Helena and to provide him safekeeping in the apartment.  The emperor died before the elaborate plan was put into place. 

The history of the two establishments reminds me that each block of New Orleans holds its mysterious charms and alluring stories, unending inspirations for a storyteller like me.  The artist in me is fulfilled as well by the Caribbean colors of its distinctive architecture and its mélange of humanity.  Unique history, unique people, unique music, unique food, unique architecture, unique culture, I tried to capture the essence of all of those things in my painting.

This painting has won two Roscoe Awards (People’s Choice for Best of Show), both of them at art shows at CS Gallery in Columbus, Ohio.  A balmy evening in April, 2012 was the occasion of the first award and it was during an exhibition of paintings by artist-members of the Grove City (Ohio) Arts Council, with which I am associated.  A month ago, the gallery invited all of the Roscoe Award winners for the year to participate in a showing of our own and I am happy to announce that my painting was designated as the winner of the winners.  I have two great big and beautiful ribbons to attest to the wins, as well as cash prizes.  Nice!  My special thanks go out to the attendees of the art show who voted for it and took it to the top.

For information on purchasing this, and my other paintings, as well as prints of all of them, log onto www.gallery-llgreene.com.

The links to paperbacks and eBooks of my novel, GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS are indicated below:

http://www.amazon.com/Guardians-Other-Angels-Linda-Greene/dp/1897512562/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338336762&sr=8-1

 http://www.amazon.com/Guardians-Angels-Guardian-Chronicals-ebook/dp/B0087AS9QW/ref=sr_1_3?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1338916890&sr=1-3

 

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[1] Where Magazine, August, 2009, pg. 19