After what many have called the craziest Hamptons summer yet, there is a desire to escape to a peaceful place away from the maddening crowds. Or at least the crowds of the living. Lily Dale is my annual retreat, where the biggest chatterboxes are the dead.
This small spiritualist enclave in upstate New York, which dates to the 1800s, has an en“trance” gate and consists of a few blocks of old Victorian homes set on a beautiful lake and forest. People walk, slowly, and purposefully, and some with an unsteady gate. There are a few friendly dogs, some stray cats, and a single food shop called “Sacred Grounds” where you can trade your view on spirits for a free coffee. There are few cars, but I did pass by one with a “Heaven1” license plate. Its rear bumper was busted, just another example that even with watchful angels, you still can’t escape bad drivers.
I was on my own and met two lovely women who were also attending the Paranormal workshop. Each took care of a special needs child, provided for elderly parents, and held full-time jobs. Instead of being weighed down or resentful, they had the most amazing positive and generous spirit, and a wickedly good sense of humor. They shared pictures of a purple knitted penis, which accompanied them everywhere they traveled, including in church. These were my kind of ladies.
One man in the Paranormal presentation worked with objects that were thought to be possessed. There was one particular doll with energy so evil that, after his car broke down with it in the trunk, he decided to tie a rock around it and throw it off a nearby bridge. It was then that the police showed up (luckily, he sometimes helped in their investigations) to tell him to knock it off because someone thought he was throwing a baby off a bridge.
Many do come looking to connect with lost loved ones. At the “stump” sessions, literally a gathering in the forest where mediums would channel messages from the other side, I hung in the back. I was taking a break from the living and the dead. But when a gentleman said there was a small dog that used to love when its owner sang, “You are my sunshine,” the hairs went up on the back of my neck. I used to sing this to my dog Coco, who was mostly annoyed my tears were dampening her doggie blowout.
At the Sunday spiritual service, there were two incredible young men playing violin, a woman with a turtle, a greyhound rescue organization, and no preaching. Count me in. The woman in front of me looked concerned and explained that she didn’t know it was pet healing day, with a number of dogs there for the occasion. She was deathly afraid of dogs. I assured her I was good with dogs and turtles and had her back for protection.
On the night of the “ghost” hunt at the hotel where I was staying, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to have some protection for myself. The woman at the crystal shop suggested putting black obsidian in my bra. I bought extra for my two new friends, doing a handoff with a whisper, “Put this in your bra next to the penis.”
My favorite part of the weekend was the healing ceremonies. Just being able to sit in a safe space with people who are dedicated to others’ well-being was a balm. They are also happy to add anyone to a healing list (including pets) to send virtual positive energy. I decided to adopt this idea (if not a greyhound) and have now started my own healing list, a small step back here in the living crowds of the Hamptons to send out that positive energy.
