CHAPTER 1

Introduction

"I Painted the Light" at the age of 5

I loved kindergarten! I loved playing with other children myage. I loved all the play stations where we could explore so manydifferent toys and make-believe worlds. I enjoyed the teachers andtheir wonderful enthusiasm. I was free to learn and experience somany new things. It was the first time I had ever been read a book andthe fairy tales were fun and fascinating. The stories had wonderfulmessages and colorful, imaginative pictures. I just loved kindergarten!My Appalachian culture at home was so dull and dreary comparedto this bright engaging environment. I finally had something otherthan my sheltered existence at home.

I also learned about finger painting. I was allowed to use a hugepiece of paper from a flip chart—all my own! What a privilege tohave a page nearly as big as me to use all for myself! I couldn't waituntil it was my turn to paint! I loved dipping my little fingers intothe gushy paints. I loved smooshing the paint between my littlepalms and feeling it squish between my fingers as I clasped my handstogether and squeezed. The slurpy sound and the slippery wetnesswere delightful sensations. Kindergarten was the beginning of myown personal expression of self.

On my day to paint, I donned my Dad's huge old denim workshirtas my painting smock. I dipped my hands into the yellow paint jarand began smearing the wonderful color on the page. I went back formore. And more. And more. I ignored the vibrant reds, the colorfulgreens, the rich blues and purples. All I wanted was the bright yellow.And on and on I dipped my hands into the yellow paint jar andcovered the entire page. Not one corner of my huge paper canvaswas left untouched by my little yellow hands.

My teacher asked if I wanted to use the other colors or addsome accents to my page. "No," I told my teacher. I shook my headadamantly back and forth. I thought to myself, This is all I want. Thiswonderful, beautiful, luminous yellow! On and on I painted, coveringevery speck of white space with that radiant, shimmering yellow.And when I was done, I stood back with all the confidence of a self-assuredfive year old and I beamed at what I had created.

There it was! I had recreated my yellow space! I had paintedthe Light! My warm, safe light. I was so proud! Wait til I show this toDaddy! I said proudly to myself. I was oblivious to the curious looksof my teachers.

The paper hung on the draped line to dry. It must have takenmuch longer to dry than the other children's paintings because therewas so much paint on that paper. Other kids had painted a cruderendoring of their house, or maybe their Mom and Dad and thefamily dog. Others had created a modern art design with swishesof blue and a blot of red or a hand print in green. But no one hadentirely covered their whole canvas with paint. And certainly noone had used only one color. My painting was so different than theothers and yet I didn't care. The excitement I felt was exhilarating!I was so thrilled about my yellow space! The anticipation of takingthis beautiful creation home to my Dad was overwhelming.

At the end of the day, my wonderful canvas was released fromthe metal clips holding it up to dry, then rolled carefully into a tube-likeshape. A trusty rubber band was placed around its belly and thenthe masterpiece was placed in my now clean little hands. Oh, waittil I show Daddy! the little voice in my head screamed. Wait til I showhim this!

My morning kindergarten class was over and Peggy, an olderneighbor girl, walked me home. My excitement was spilling overthe top and I wanted to run the five blocks home, but Peggy wouldhave none of that. We took our usual pace and it felt like an eternity.When I got home, Mom had lunch waiting for me and asked aboutthe papers I had brought home. She looked at my painting and musthave mumbled something about it, but I didn't care if she even lookedat it. I really didn't care what she thought about it. This wasn't forher. It was for me and Daddy.

My Dad worked day-shift at a local factory and would get homeabout four o'clock every day. He would come in the side door ofthe house, climb the four steps from the landing to the kitchen, sitdown in his chair at the kitchen table and take his work boots off.That day, I stood in the kitchen bursting with anticipation, eyeswide with excitement, my grand painting held tightly in a roll in mylittle hands. But I had to wait until the work boots came off before Icould show him anything or talk to him about the events of the day.That's just the way it was done. I watched as the long shoe laces ofthe work boots were unthreaded from the hooks along the top of theboot. Then the laces were loosened from the eyes along the front ofthe boot, and finally the boot was pulled off. First one—thud! Thenthe other—thud!

By now, I'm jumping up and down, squealing with delight as Iwaited for him to finish. Now I finally got to show him what I made!I unrolled my painting. It was quite an effort for my little tiny handsto hold both the top and bottom of the paper, stretching as far as Icould, nearly covering myself with that large canvas. "There, Daddy,see?" I exclaimed.

But after my gleaming yellow masterpiece was unveiled, hegruffly growled, "What the hell is that?"

I couldn't believe my ears! He doesn't know what this is? Mylittle brain raced with confusion! I looked at my painting. I lookedat him. What?! What do you mean, "What's that?" He should beabsolutely thrilled with my creation. He doesn't even know what itis. I stared at him with puzzlement. I felt confused but still expectedhim to recognize, at any time, the beautiful, warm, peaceful placethat we had experienced together many times. That glowing lightthat envelops me and takes me away when he comes to my bed andtouches me.

"Well, what is it?" he yelled.

"Daddy!" I said. "This is where I go when you do those thingsto me!"

Bam! His large dirty hand immediately took a full swing andslapped my tiny face, knocking me down. I laid on the linoleumfloor in disbelief as he screamed at me, "Don't you EVER talk aboutthat again!"

Stunned, I stare at him with my mouth open. I can't believewhat is happening. This is a good thing I've done. I've painted theLight! Why is he so angry? Why am I being punished? He continuedto scream and lunged at me. I continue to cry. I'm confused andterrified as he rips up my painting and continues to hit me. What isgoing on?

My confusion and shock are overwhelming. I had expected highpraise from him for painting that lovely place that I thought weboth experienced when he came to my bed. Little did I know thatI was the only one who experienced the Light during those times.So instead of my painting being admired, I was being beaten andmy work of art was being torn to shreds. His loud and angry voicewas terrifying me with threats of further harm if I ever spoke of thisagain.

I had painted my yellow God, my yellow safe place, the warmthof the deity, the safe surrounding of love and light, of peace andunity, of warmth and safety. I loved the sensation of floating amidthe yellow light of joy, of unlimited joy, the safety of God, of Spirit,of oneness. A place of no pain, no cares, no anguish, no limits,no harshness, no frustration, no mental pain, no physical pain, noemotional pain.

This is where I belong! Among the Lights. Among Spirit. Amidstthe Love. The unending, undivided, undimensional Love. A placewhere I could float effortlessly among the other spirits, the otherLights, and be one with God.

Here I would escape the confusion of the abuse. Why is thishappening? Why don't you love me? Why don't you take care of me?Instead you hurt me! You feast on me! You take away my innocence!All for your own depravity. I'm so little. I'm so tiny. I'm so weak.Why? Why? Why? Why? I don't understand! I don't know why thisis happening!

The evil look in his eye scares me so. His greed! His need to takefrom me! I don't understand what is happening to my little body—theharshness of this brutal attack, the fear, the torture, the pain,the confusion! The evil laugh he would laugh as he delighted in mybody was so other-worldly. I would shudder when I heard this laugh.I knew it was to be a very bad time when he laughed like this. Thesinister, evil sound was enough to send me into a feeling of shock. Iknew from this guttural sound that his behavior would be brutal andwould last a very long time. I would somehow distance myself fromthe situation and almost become a robot, obeying his commands witha detached expression. It was no use to fight anymore. I knew I couldnot win. I just gave in and checked out. I became a mere machinewho was separate from my spirit, my soul. I would detach and lethim have my body while I drifted away safely.

I experienced such lightness as I lifted out of my body. I wouldslowly drift up and float to the corner of my bedroom ceiling. I'dlook down on the two of us lying on the bed. I'd then turn to theLight and drift off towards it. I could look back and see what washappening, but I did not feel what was happening. I was disconnectedfrom by body and no longer felt the pain and fear. I had numerousout-of-body experiences long before I ever knew what they were.

My angels are waiting. Here they are! Again! "Oh, Hello! You'rehere!" I say to them. They're little angels, little cherubs, just like me!They're playmates, smiling and happy to see me. They're gigglingand playful. They take my hands on either side and off I go withthem to the Light. We play and rotate. I sing and dance and float withthem, and with all the other angel Lights. We're weightless and free!I rotate and spin within my own orb of Light. It's like swimming inLight! We fly in any direction. We fly within the Joy! I'm safe here.I'm happy here! I'm free!

As I'm writing about this memory, I'm being strongly remindedby Spirit that this is who I really am. I am the Light. My purpose, myguides say, is to tell you that: You are the Light! You are not your bodyand your experiences don't define you. You are the Light!

Sometime later, I would awaken from a deep sleep feelingdisoriented and groggy. Confusion filled my little head as I wonderedwhat had happened and what was wrong. A feeling of beingdisconnected from the world—like I was walking among the world,only more like floating, looking at the objects around me with anobjective air—in the world, but not of it. I felt spacey, light-headed,and distant. I wouldn't be fully back in my body at times. I wouldn'tremember the abusive intrusion to my psyche or the ravage attackon my body. I would be dreamy, feeling insecure and in need ofcomfort. A warm hug from either my Mom or Dad would do, justsomeone to welcome me back to this world. Sometimes I would getit, but many times not. I would need to find my own comfort bysucking my thumb and wrapping myself in my blanket until I finallyre-entered my body fully and felt "normal." Whatever that is! Thefeeling of separateness left me feeling a void, an emptiness inside.

And so when I was five, I painted the Light. I painted that happyplace where I flew with the angels and the other Light beings. Ipainted the serenity the best that I could. I painted the Love and theJoy on a single piece of flip chart paper for my Dad to see. And nowfor the world to see. Everyone in the world needs to see who theyreally are—Lights! Bright, joyous Lights!

My spirit went away to a beautiful yellow Light that was safe andwarm and peaceful during the abuse. And even as I write this, I don'treally know where I went. There are several theories and guessesthat sound plausible, but I don't really know the mystery of what Iexperienced. Did I rise beyond physical reality and go inside to thesoul and rest in the glow of my inner light? Did I have guardianangels or spirit guides who whisked me off to some other level ofexistence to escape the horror of what was happening? Did I have anout-of-body experience where I escaped into another realm and sawthe light that so many who have a Near Death Experience talk about?Or is all physical reality truly just a dream or illusion, and duringthese times of nightmarish events, did I really just awaken to theTruth of my being, to my inner Light, to escape the ugly dream?

Of course, I never talked about the painting or the Light again toanyone. The whole experience was repressed for the next 25 years.The memory of my painting surfaced while I was still involved ingroup therapy. I told my therapist and the group participants aboutthis memory, but I just received a lot of raised eyebrows and blankexpressions. No one had an idea or an explanation for my out-of-bodyexperience. There were no suggestions that I may want toexplore metaphysics and the importance of the Light in spiritual textsand teachings. It wasn't until many years later when I learned aboutNear Death Experiences, the inner Light and the importance of theLight within metaphysical realms that I began to put my personalchildhood experiences into a spiritual context. Did my escape intothe Light allow me to heal quicker than others who had been sexuallyabused? Did it allow my spirit to escape the deeper, more seriousemotional damage that comes from sexual abuse that I had seen inmy group therapy settings? Was I somehow special in that I was givenan alternate reality or escorted to a safe haven during the abuse andthe others were not? Or did we all have this Light experience at onetime or another and I was lucky enough to remember it?

What does it all mean? I don't know yet. But I am so glad toknow with all my heart that another reality or realm of existencedoes truly exist. I know because I've been there. And I'm not afraidto go back to the Light that I painted that day.

CHAPTER 2

Growing Up

I am a coal miner's daughter. I was born in the AppalachianMountains south of Pittsburgh, PA on April 12, 1954. My parents,John Wesley Grimes and Marion June McNutt, grew up in the coalmining community around Uniontown, PA. They married on June3, 1947 and rented my mother's childhood home in Uniontownfor seven years. My parents wanted to build a home of their ownand the usual custom for the area was to build it in stages as moneyallowed. So they bought a piece of land, dug a hole and built thebasement. They put the flooring down for the first floor, but insteadof building the rest of the house, they put roofing material on thefloor and we lived in the basement, which my mother always referredto as the "foundation." Their plan was that when enough money wassaved, the rest of the house would be built. I don't remember thefoundation, I was too small, but I have seen pictures of me in it. Thebasement was separated into rooms using curtains as room dividers.We lived there for about 2 years.

The coal mining industry was in decline and eventually the coalmine closed and my father lost his job. He, along with many othermen from the area, had to look for jobs elsewhere, even outside ofPennsylvania. He found a job in Cleveland, OH and worked therefor awhile. He stayed in Cleveland during the week and traveledback to Uniontown on the weekends. He then found another jobin Canton, OH, about 60 miles south of Cleveland. My parentssold the foundation home and moved to Canton. We rented anupstairs apartment on Louisiana Ave very close to the Stark Countyfairgrounds. It was a nice neighborhood with two-story homescrowded together on narrow lots. It had a big front porch that thefirst floor tenants used. Our garage was located in the back and wasaccessed by an alley that ran behind the homes. We played in thesmall backyard and in the alley behind the house. My folks reallymissed their family and nearly every weekend we would drive backto Uniontown on Friday after Dad got off work. We would stay witheither set of grandparents or other aunts and uncles for the weekendand then return back home on Sunday evening. My brother, Mark,was born while we lived in that apartment.

I remember playing in the alley out back. I thought it was so coolto be able to run in a street! Well, it wasn't actually a street, it was alarge path with two gravel ruts in it. But to me, it was a street, andit seemed to go on forever (a whole block, at least!) and I could run!After being cramped up in a small apartment, it felt good to have thefreedom to run. We also had an outside staircase that we climbed toget to our apartment. In the winters, it seemed very cold with thewind whipping around us on the open stairs. The landing at the topwas high. It always felt scary on that landing, looking down at theground, waiting for Mom or Dad to unlock the door.