Conversing with the Spirits
by Sonia Choquette
 The
emblem of my early childhood was our two-story, redbrick Victorian house near
Fourth Avenue and Bannock Street on the west side of Denver very close to
downtown. Solid and immovable, it had a large front porch ringed by four big
lilac bushes. Our house contained my world: my Romanian-born mother and
American-born French-Canadian father; my six brothers and sisters; my
grandmother and grandfather on my father's side; and a house full of angels,
spirit guides, and out-of-body helpers -- some of whom stayed, and some of whom
were just passing through from the other side.
My parents moved to Denver from Sioux City, Iowa -- along with my
grandparents, Albert and Antonia Choquette -- nine years before I was born, eager
to make a fresh start after World War II. They bought a house, which was
originally designed as two separate apartments, and began a new life. My father,
Paul, a very handsome man, was 21 when he married my mother in Dingolfing,
Germany, where he'd been stationed in the Army as part of the American
liberation after the war.
My mom had been a newly liberated prisoner of war (POW) when he met her, only
15 at the time and living with several other displaced persons who were all just
trying to survive after the war's devastation. As destiny would have it, they
met, fell in love, married, and soon after returned to America, expecting their
first child.
My mother, Sonia, after whom I was named, was quite petite, only 5'1". She
was the second to youngest in a family of ten children, born to a religious
mother and a sophisticated, intellectual father who owned vineyards and
cultivated grapes for wine. When she was 12, she and her family were forced to
evacuate their home with an hour's notice to avoid clashes between the Germans
and the Russians. In the chaos, she became separated from her family.
As night fell, so did the bombs, and she found herself among other terrified
strangers in the middle of an air raid, forced to run for safety and hide in the
fields near the Hungarian border. The next morning, German soldiers swept
through the fields, flushing out all those who were hiding, my mother included,
and declared them POWs. She, along with the others, was placed into a prison
camp where she spent the next three years.
During the march to the camp, my mother said the prisoners were threatened
with being shot if they said a single word to one another. So instead of
speaking, my mother prayed, and in answer to her prayers, her psychic abilities
opened up, born out of necessity and survival.
She told me on one of those very rare occasions when she was willing to speak
about those painful and horrific years, "I prayed to Heaven, and Heaven
answered. By the time we got to that camp, I heard my inner voice and discovered
my spirit guides, and through their constant counsel and companionship, my inner
voice kept me alive."
My mother's psychic voice became her lifeline to survival. She called her
psychic gift -- her inner voice -- her "vibes," and she brought that gift with her
to America, to our family and our home.
During her imprisonment, my mother suffered many injuries, indignities, and
illnesses, one of which was rheumatic fever, another tuberculosis. She
recovered, but not without scars. Her eardrums were permanently damaged,
eventually robbing her of most of her hearing. By the time I was born, my mother
could lip-read, but she was profoundly hard-of-hearing.
Ours was a strict Roman Catholic family, following the example of my father's
parents, but my mother was raised Romanian Orthodox. In her spiritual tradition,
church guidance and personal guidance were not in conflict -- they were two sides
of the same coin, so having personal contact with Heaven by means of psychic
ability was considered natural, and spirit guides were even part of her
religious practice. Therefore, even though I was raised in a Catholic
environment and went to St Joseph's Catholic School from the first to the ninth
grade, I never perceived any conflict between being psychic and being a good
Catholic girl. Talking to Heaven and getting personal answers through my vibes,
like my mom, was not only normal, it was expected.
My parents had seven children. The oldest was Cuky, named after the daughter
of a German woman who had been extremely kind to my mother when she was newly
freed from prison. The very next year Stefan was born, named after my mother's
father. Cuky and Stefan made up the first phase of our family because there were
no other children for the next six years.
After Cuky and Stefan came the rest of us, seven in a row, until the family
was complete. The second phase started with Neil, two years older than I; then
Bruce, a year older. Next came yours truly, Sonia, named after my mother (but
nicknamed "Sam" by Stefan when I was five for no particular reason and called
that by everyone except my teachers until I left home when I was 19). Then came
Noelle, one year later; twins, who were born prematurely and died, whom my
mother never talked about; and finally the baby, Soraya, six years younger than
I.
Most of my siblings spent their time and energy being American, doing their
best to fit in. I, on the other hand, resonated most with my mother and was
drawn to my roots, my Romanian background, the world she came from. I wanted to
be like her.
Until they died, my grandparents lived on the second floor of our house, and
their apartment consisted of the front two rooms of the second floor, a combined
living room/bedroom with a big picture window overlooking the street, and a
small kitchen. I remember them somewhat, but not nearly as well as I'd like. In
fact, one of my very first psychic experiences was about my grandmother. I
recall coming home from kindergarten and entering the house only to feel a great
sense of dread, of sadness, and worrying that something was terribly wrong. Even
though there were no signs of trouble, I knew something wasn't quite right. That
evening my grandmother had a stroke in the backyard.
The first floor was laid out in a square, split down the middle, with equal
rooms on either side. On the right side of the house was our huge living room
and double parlor with a rounded archway between, with the dining room just
behind it separated by slatted folding doors from the parlor on one side and the
kitchen in the back. On the left side was a large entryway and hall with a
stairway leading to the second floor and a long corridor leading to the kitchen
in the back. Just behind the kitchen was a back porch leading to the basement,
where my father had built my mother (an artist, among other things) a
photographic studio and darkroom where she spent many long and creative hours.
The second floor, except for my grandparents' rooms, was converted into
bedrooms for all of us children. I shared a bedroom with Cuky from the time I
was out of a crib until she went away to college when I was ten. Our bedroom was
in the back right corner of the house, separated by an open archway from Neil
and Bruce's bedroom. My room, the old kitchen, used to have linoleum walls, but
when I was three or four, my parents covered the walls in beautiful, textured
white wallpaper that looked like a field of flowers; and placed large, orange
throw rugs on the floor to cover the linoleum. To the left of our bed against
the wall where the old kitchen sink used to be was a large built-in closet that
my dad made for us, with a two-foot space between the top of the closet and the
ceiling.
Neil and Bruce shared their room with Noelle. They had twin oak bunk beds
pushed against the far wall opposite the archway, and she had a very little
kid's bed just around the door. If I positioned myself just so at the end of my
bed, I could see her from my room.
Next to their room in the middle of the hallway was a very small room that
belonged to Stefan. He didn't have to share it with anyone and was the only one
of us with a door that locked. At first my parents' bedroom was downstairs in
the dining room, but after my grandparents died, they moved upstairs and put
Soraya and Noelle in what used to be Grandma's kitchen.
It was tight quarters, but we didn't mind. This was before the days when
everyone talked about "personal space and boundaries," so we never dreamed of
complaining.
My mother was an artist, seamstress, painter, and photographer, and my dad
was a salesman who worked in the farm-equipment department at Montgomery Ward.
He was also a master carpenter, electrician, painter, plumber, and all-purpose
handyman. Between my mother's aesthetic requirements and creative impulses and
my father's practical skills in implementing them, the two of them were
constantly reinventing our decor. They worked as a team -- wallpapering,
carpeting, refinishing the basement, the kitchen, even the backyard -- so we
lived in a simple, but beautiful, ever-changing home.
My mother was also very glamorous. She wore her black hair in a French twist,
exotic cat's-eye makeup, and sexy dresses with shoes that had stiletto heels and
pointed toes. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Despite
our limited means, my mother strove to create the best for all of us, and it
showed in our home and in our clothes.
My mother sewed everything she wore, as well as beautiful outfits for all of
us, which were hand-tailored, elegant, and made of fine fabrics and beautiful
textures. She introduced us to beauty, sensuality, and sophistication that had
no doubt been passed down from her own childhood. We all spent huge amounts of
time in her sewing room, taking turns helping her, depending upon which one of
us she was sewing for.
We lived in a changing neighborhood comprised of aging people and many
Hispanics. The entire area was made up of large Victorian homes with little
lawns, big porches, and no fences.
In the outside world, Nixon was President, and the Vietnam War was at its
height, which bothered a lot of people, but not me. No one in our family was
going to Vietnam, and Nixon had just normalized relations with Romania. My
mother could now travel home, something prohibited up until then, so as far as I
was concerned, he was a good President.
Also living in our home was a whole group of angels and spirit guides. Most
were from Heaven, but some were dead relatives from Romania who spoke to Mom.
They watched over us, protected us, helped us do our work, and sat with us when
we were sick. Most important, they brought messages to my mom about her
relatives back home because she had a very difficult time receiving news about
them. They also made sure my mother knew whenever we were in trouble or did
something rotten. Like extended family members without bodies, they camped out
in every nook and cranny of our house, feeling quite at home while keeping an
eye on us at all times.
The spirit guides mostly talked to my mother and were known to regularly
interrupt any conversation we had with her, dropping in with sort of a psychic
hot-off-the-press news flash about my dad being home late from work, a friend
preparing to call, or some other vibe they were getting.
Normally, the spirits spoke as a group, and although I didn't know exactly
how many there were, I knew there had to be a lot of them because they covered a
lot of territory -- from walking us home after school, to helping my father's
sales at work, to showing us where we should drive in the mountains for the
perfect picnic spot, to what to do for a sore throat in the middle of the night.
All-purpose, multitalented, and practical helpers, they worked for us day and
night. All we had to do was call on them and they were there.
My mother mostly referred to these out-of-body helpers as her "spirits," but
there were some she knew on a first-name basis. For example, there was Michael,
the family angel, gofer, and good sport, whom we summoned for everything from
finding things to sitting by our beds when we had the croup and went to the
hospital. Then there was Jolly Joe, the family clown, who popped in
unexpectedly, usually when things were tense in our home, or whenever one of us
was having a bad moment. He helped my mother develop a tremendous sense of humor
in difficult times and emphasized the "when life gives you lemons, make
lemonade" philosophy of life.
Then there was Henry, the large African chief, who sat at our door at night
and was our version of a burglar alarm. A little later, there was my mom's
mother after she passed, who kept my mother from missing her.
For me, having spirits run the house was perfectly natural, but sometimes I
had to admit they were annoying and definitely cramped my style. They said no
more than yes, and tattled on us to my mother whenever we were up to no good --
so we never got away with anything. I remember the time when Bruce and I stole
two red sodas off the soda truck in front of Mr. Prays' grocery store right
across the street from our house, sneaked into the alley, and chugged them so
fast I thought I'd burst from all the warm carbonation. Burping all the way
home, and feeling bloated with guilt, we were met by my mom at the door. She
displayed an "I know who you are and I saw what you did" look and said sternly,
"Do you have something to tell me, or shall I tell you what my spirits say?
Here's your chance to confess before your father comes home!"
It was useless to try to get anything past her, because she did know
everything we did. Those darn spirits were spying on us and reporting back to
her no matter how hard we tried to outsmart them. The spirits were also
extremely strict and made all the final decisions in our home.
I distinctly remember, for example, being five years old when my first best
friend, Vickie, the brown-haired, blue-eyed girl I'd just met who lived only
three blocks from us, asked me if I could sleep over at her house on Friday
night. It was an exciting and novel proposition and something I really, really
wanted to do.
I thought about it all week, preparing for the exact right moment to ask my
mother, because not only were the spirits strict, but my parents were, too, and
they kept all of us on a very short leash. I knew it would be a hard sell, but I
was determined to try. Only I needed a plan.
I had Vickie come home with me every day after school that week just so my
mother could see what a nice girl she was. I sang her praises at the top of my
lungs at dinner and even got my mother to agree that she was the "nicest friend"
I could ever have. I carefully laid the groundwork for Friday, deciding that it
would be best if Vickie and I asked her together, convinced that my mother
wouldn't have the heart to say no directly to Vickie's bright blue, pleading
eyes.
Right after school at 12:45, we skipped home hand-in-hand, positive that our
carefully laid-out plan would work. When we got to my house, still holding
hands, we tiptoed right up to my mom, giggling with nervous anticipation, and
then after a few moments of hemming and hawing, I posed the question: "Could I
sleep over at Vickie's?"
My mother listened, then shifted her attention to her guides. I could tell by
the way she turned her eyes up and to the left that they were having a
conference about this. She was quiet for a moment, shook her head, took a
breath, and then said, with an apologetic tone, "If it were up to me, I'd say
yes, because I know how much you want this. But my spirits say no for some
reason, so the word [always their word] is no. Sorry."
Devastated and really disgusted with the spirits, I threw myself at Mom's
mercy, launching into my best rendition of "Please! Please! Please! or I'll
suffer forever." With this, she turned to me with utter detachment, completely
unmoved by my performance, and very coolly repeated herself.
"I don't think you heard me," she said. "The spirits said no."
We were crushed. When I pleaded for a reason, she didn't have one to offer,
nor did she feel she had to give one.
"I don't know why," she said. "They didn't tell me. Vickie can stay here
tonight, though. We'd love to have her join us." So she did, although that was
not nearly as delicious as the privacy I had looked forward to at her house.
(Especially privacy from the spirits, I thought angrily, as we gave up.)
Years later, Vickie told me that her mother frequently left the house at
night after she went to sleep and went to the local bar to meet her friends.
Vickie spent a lot of nights home alone. When she told me this, I remembered
my mom's spirits refusing to let me spend the night. I wondered if this was why.
Having the spirits around was mostly a good thing, and I took great comfort
in knowing they were there. They seemed to wield so much executive power in our
house, though, that it soon got to the point where we didn't speak directly to
my mother at all. We asked to speak to her spirits instead, thereby saving a
step. I remember one time when our family was planning to go on a Fourth of July
picnic the next day, but rain threatened to cancel our plans. Worried sick that
we'd miss out on the fun, and watching the rain continue to pour down on us, I
couldn't take the stress anymore. "Mom," I said, "ask your spirits if we're
going to the picnic, because I'm worried that the rain will ruin it."
She paused, looked up to the left, listened, and then smiled. "Don't worry,"
she said, "we're going." Hearing a huge crack of thunder at just that moment, I
said, "Are they sure?"
She gave me a look as if I had just committed a huge faux pas. "The word is
yes," she said, "so relax."
Oops! I thought, embarrassed that I had questioned the spirits. Sorry.
I apologized to them. The next day the sun was blazing in the sky, and we had a
glorious time at the picnic.
In addition to spirit guides, my mother also had vibes, a running psychic
commentary on the unseen side of life. She had vibes about who was calling on
the phone, where we should park the car, what to have for dinner, whether
someone would visit, if the neighbors were feeling good (because so many were
older), and a million other things. They were feelings turned inside out about
how the world affected her and what she thought about it all. They were her
uncensored impressions of coming attractions and hidden events.
Following in her footsteps, I, too, paid attention to my vibes. That part was
easy because everyone in our family did that. If we had a feeling, we said so
without thinking about it, and many of them were about things to come. But that
wasn't enough for me. I wanted more.
When I was about six years old, I was sitting at the foot of my mom's sewing
machine, helping her remove a seam from some lime-green velveteen fabric that
she was using to make me a winter pantsuit. I was holding it for her as she
split the threads apart, and I asked her if only she was able to talk to the
family spirits.
"Of course not. You can, too, if you make the effort," she said, continuing
to split the seam.
I thought about her answer for several moments with intense curiosity.
Although the spirits annoyed me at times, especially when they said no to things
I wanted to do, they were mostly comforting and good to have around. Just
knowing they were there, I never felt lonely or alone. But I did want to talk to
them personally rather than having to always go through her.
"How do I do that? How can I hear them like you do?" I said. "I want to talk
to them myself."
She kept sewing, pondering my question, listening for the best answer. She
was silent for so long that I wondered if she'd heard me. After all, she was
nearly deaf. But she had definitely heard. She was just waiting to hear how the
spirits would answer instead of giving me her personal opinion. A very big
difference.
Then she said, "First of all, Sam, you can't hear the spirits unless you
agree to listen. If they tell you something and you don't listen, then they know
you aren't sincere and don't appreciate their help. So they'll go away. That's
the first thing they say." She fell silent again, obviously listening for more.
"Don't ask anything of the spirits you don't want to know," she resumed. "You
can't ask, then wish you hadn't. If your spirits give you direction, you have to
follow it." All the while, she was sewing.
Mom paused again, stopped sewing, and said, "And finally, you must turn your
attention completely inward, absolutely stop talking in your mind, and listen.
Just listen. And that's it. You will hear them."
I sat quietly, thinking about what she had said.
Mom continued. "Just one more thing, Sam, and this is now just my opinion.
Everything you hear from your spirits is far, far more accurate than what you'll
ever hear from the outside world." She went back to sewing, nodding her head as
if agreeing with herself.
She looked up. "I may be deaf, Sam, but I hear what matters."
Even though I was young, I knew that what I was asking for was serious and
that it would deeply impact my life. After all, having spirits tell me what to
do meant that I'd have to cooperate, and already I had moments when I didn't
like that. Because this was such a big challenge and would require discipline on
my part, I knew I shouldn't rush into anything. I realized that I should
probably think about it first. So I did, for all of about one minute.
"I want to talk to the spirits myself," I announced. "I'm going to do what
you said and hope I can hear them, too."
My mother was thrilled. "Good," she said. "That's a very wise decision, Sam.
I don't think you'll regret it. So go on. Give it a try."
I summoned my courage, desperately wanting to succeed, when suddenly my
favorite Saturday morning cartoon, Rocky and His Friends, popped into my
head. There was a sequence where Bullwinkle the moose sat with a turban on his
head at a table with a crystal ball, and Rocky, the flying squirrel, was by his
side. Then Bullwinkle said, staring into the crystal ball, "Eenie-beenie,
chili-weenie, the spirits are about to speak."
Rocky, excited and anxious, asked, "Spirits? But Bullwinkle, are they
friendly spirits?"
To which Bullwinkle replied, "Friendly? Just listen ..." Then it cut to a
commercial break.
For some reason, as I got ready to dial in to the spirits, I said to myself,
Eenie-Beenie, chili-weenie . . . then on a more serious note, Anyone
there? and I stopped talking in my head. Just to be sure, I even stopped
breathing. I listened with my whole heart, my whole soul, my entire being. I
waited. There was silence. I held my breath. Suddenly, I heard them in my head
just like my mother said I would. They didn't sound like human voices; they
sounded like the most beautiful, deep chorus of resonant voices, definitely not
my own, saying, "We are here. And we love you."
My back straightened, my eyes popped open, and I burst out laughing,
astonished that my psychic call had actually been answered.
"I heard them!" I cried excitedly, now laughing out of control from the
surprise and making my mom laugh, too. A mixture of delight, excitement,
accomplishment, and new possibility engulfed me. I knew I couldn't talk to them
anymore at that moment. Not until I calmed down.
"I did it!" I shrieked to my mom. "I . . . me . . . Sam . . . heard the
spirits!" Wanting to be absolutely certain she'd witnessed this, I repeated, "I
did it. Did you see that? I did it. Now I have spirits, too. Like you."
Laughing with me, she said, "I see that. It will take practice, but
eventually you'll hear them like you hear me. It takes time to do this
regularly. Just keep practicing, and be sure you listen. That's the important
thing."
My mom rolled up her sewing and sat face-to-face with me. "Always listen to
your spirits, Sam." They're closer to God than you or I, so they know better
than we do what's best for us. Besides, you'll soon see that they're good
company."
 This
article was excerpted from the book:
Diary of A Psychic: Shattering the Myths
by Sonia
Choquette.
Reprinted with permission of the publisher, Hay House Inc. ©2003. http://www.hayhouse.com
Info/Order this book.
About the Author
Sonia
Choquette is a world-renowned author, storyteller, spiritual teacher, and
psychic in international demand for her guidance, wisdom, and capacity to heal
the soul. In Diary of a Psychic, Sonia invites others to use her as an example
on how to move past the fear of being psychic and start reaping the rewards
today. In sharing her story and her gifts, Sonia hopes you will remember and
reclaim your own. She is also the author of
The Psychic Pathway and
Your Heart's Desire.
You can visit her website at
www.soniachoquette.com.
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