CHAPTER TWO
Finding the Journal
When I first returned from Europe, I went to Grandma’s resting place with a huge bouquet of her favorite flowers. However, as I got closer and closer to her “resting place,” I knew that I would not be able to face her grave, so I turned the other way, away from the cemetery and away from what remained of my grandmother’s body.
Then, after a few months living in Grandma’s house, I was finally ready to go to her final resting place. I was very tempted to turn away again, but then I remembered the vision of her in a golden body, which gave me great comfort. Also, I wanted to thank her for all the money that she had left me.
I still wonder how an elder woman who never seemed to have a job could have so much money. My parents had been very tight with the money they gave me and said it was because my Boarding School was so expensive. But, later, I learned that my Grandma had paid for all my education, including Boarding School.
When I was in high school, I discovered that Grandma was paying for my education. I tried many times to ask Grandma how she could afford to give me all that money, but she always said, “Don’t worry about it, dear. It is all taken care of.”
I never found out what she meant by, “It is all taken care of,” but years later she was still able to leave quite a bit of money after she passed on. It was this money that allowed me to go to Europe and still not have to work for quite a while.
Fortunately, I was smart enough to get a good money manager, who put me on a budget, or I might have blown through my money like my parents always did. I am now enrolled in graduate school, which will not start for quite a few months.
I made that decision, so I would have to go to graduate school, but I would have more time off to get my life together, which included focusing my attention on taking care of “my” house, the large yard, and exploring the “locked attic” that Grandma would never let me enter.
In fact, she even refused to talk about the attic, which gave it such a great sense of mystery that made me want to enter it even more. Then, the other day I was rummaging around in some boxes in the pantry and found a key that said, “Attic” on it.
You would think that I would instantly run up and go into the attic, but now that I could enter it, I was afraid. Grandma was not a timid woman, so when she never allowed me to enter the attic, my childhood-self made up all kinds of stories of what mysterious things were happening in the attic.
As an adult, I knew these stories could not be true, but the fear that my stories created still remained deep inside of me. So, again, I found many reasons why I was “too busy” to explore the attic and put the key in a “safe place,” which I unconsciously made myself forget.
As soon as I realized that I was letting my fear get the best of me, I began my search to “find the key.” Of course, I searched the house for months and could not find it. Then, finally, one day, I was in a hurry to go on a date and could not find the necklace that I wanted to wear.
In my hurry and aggravation, I turned the jewelry box upside down to dump everything on my dresser. And then there, much to my surprise, was the key taped to the bottom of my jewelry box. I instantly recognized the key and ran towards the door to the attic. But when I got to the door, I paused.
Why was I so afraid to go into that attic? It had been many months that I had very happily lived in this house. “There was no reason for my feelings,” I told myself again and again. For two days I tried to convince myself to open the hall door and walk the stairway up to the attic.
Then, I had another dream of Grandma in her Golden Body. All she said was, “Do not be afraid my love.” She might have meant something other than the key, but as soon as I awoke I put on some jeans and a t-shirt, took the key from the bottom of my jewelry box, and headed for the door to the attic.
When I had climbed the steep stairs up to the attic door and stood there for too long, I finally got the courage to put the key into the lock. I was almost hoping that the key did not fit, but it fit perfectly. In fact, it was also as if the key turned itself.
I tried not to ponder on that strange sensation, as I already had more adrenalin than I needed. The door opened as easily as the key turned. “This is weird,” I told myself. “One would think that such an old key would not work so easily on such an old door.
I did not realize that the high window towards the top of the house was for the attic, but there it was, with the Sun shining brightly on a particular pile of old papers. Since everything that had happened so far was surrealistic, I decided to look at that pile of papers first.
I carefully moved the loose papers and found a bound manuscript just under them. It was as if those papers had been put there to hide or protect, the bound manuscript, which I carefully picked up. As I opened the manuscript to the first page, I found an introduction, which I will share, word for word. It was written by a person called Shara Lynn.
In fact, the manuscript was a journal, and it was written by someone named Shara Lynn. I am sure my grandma got this journal, which eventually turned out to be more like a book, at one of the many old bookstores she loved to go to. Was this the book that she always seemed to be looking for?
I remember going with her to visit many old bookstores and the joy of rummaging through the old book stacks in search of the mysterious book that Grandma was always looking for. I wonder if the book I just found is the one she was always looking for?
I guess I will never know the answer to that. However, if I read the book, I might get some clues as to what my grandmother was up to. It was then that I began to silently cry. Up until then, I had pushed my sorrow away into a safe place until I was ready to visit it.
But, as I thought of the memory of looking through old, used bookstores with Grandma, searching for something that she never shared with me, I was suddenly filled with the great sorrow of losing her. Then, as I remembered all the wonderful times I had spent with my beloved grandmother, I began to sob uncontrollably.
Finally, my tears spent, I was able to carefully open the old book to discover what was inside. To my surprise, the book was actually written by a person named Shara Lynn, and it was her personal journal.
Who was this Shara Lynn, and how did my grandmother get her journal? “Well,” I told myself, “You will not find out until you take the book downstairs and start reading it.”
Thank Heavens, the “practical me” took over before the “sorrowful me,” and “the more lonely than I thought a person could ever be" me took over. However, before I go more into my own problems, I want to share the first chapter with you.
“Wait! Who is this “me?” I thought? For some reason, the name Shara Lynn kept running around in my mind. “Who is this Shara Lynn, and why does she keep coming into my mind?” I yelled to no one.
Once again, I felt an emanation, NO, I am sure it was the essence of my grandmother’s sweet voice saying, “Read the book, dear. I left it here for you.” Now I was really spooked to hear her answer my thoughts. However, I then realized that she had been answering all my thoughts since she had passed on. (I cannot bare to say the word “died.”)
I think the reason why I actually opened the book and started to read it was to distract myself from my sorrow. I have always loved a good mystery, and this was, indeed, a mystery. Therefore, I took the book firmly in my hands, left the attic, walked down the long stairs, and locked the door again.
Why did I feel a need to lock the door, and why did I “hide” the key to the attic in my jewelry box again? I am now able to realize that I was, indeed, following some form of “higher guidance,” but I did not even know about that term back then.
Even with the key back in my jewelry box and the manuscript, or was it a book, recovered and waiting next to my bed, I did not even open it for more days than I can remember.
Why was I so frightened by this manuscript? But maybe it was not just any “manuscript?” What if it had something in it that I did not want to know. “STOP,” I told myself. “What could be so “scary” about what was likely my grandmother’s Journal.
I was about to find out.
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