I was reading in Harvard brain surgeon Eben Alexander MD’s second book…. …about how, more and more, higher beings are using the new electronic devices, which run on pure energy to communicate directly with us. This eliminates the “human element” with all its flaws and distortions, and the problems with “channeling,” “automatic writing,” or “psychics.” (Remember the psychic played by Whoopi Goldberg in “Ghost”? LOL!)
It is actually much easier to use electronic energy than any human being, who may distort the wording, or charge money, etc. And it is instantaneous. Now that humans have the Internet, obviously it can be used by anyone, especially a higher person.
This can be both discarnate beings, such as deceased loved ones, and also higher beings living their lives in our universe.
One case Dr. Alexander cites is of a woman and mother of two whose husband died of cancer and was grieving.
She suddenly started getting, out of the blue, year-old text messages from him, expressing how much he loved and appreciated her, sent back then to her smartphone from his — a phone which is now long since switched off.
Well, here now are pages 74-82 from Living in a Mindful Universe, containing two anecdotes of electronic communication, the latter involving the great electronics genius Nikola Tesla.
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the reality of the spiritual world; witnessing his father’s experience convinced him of the falsehood of the model “brain creates consciousness.”
For me, of course, my NDE experience fell into the third category~extremely hidden phenomena—because I experienced it directly. But for others, they must choose to decide if my testimony is trustworthy. Unless you’ve had the experience yourself, you can’t know with certainty that it actually took place.
“When we touch upon the third category of phenomena—which is really extremely hidden and obscure—then for the time being, for the other people, there’s no real access, direct or inferential. So the only method that is left is to really rely on the testimony of the first-person experience of the person himself or herself,” His Holiness [the Dalai Lama] explained, with the help of his translator. “With respect to science and its scope for discovering knowledge, we need to make a distinction about the fact that there might be certain types of phenomena which are beyond the scope of scientific inquiry.”
Pointing at me, he finished, “At a deeper level, there [are] still more mysterious things.”
His Holiness acknowledged that my experience (and others like it) are not possible to fully explain using traditional scientific methods. But firsthand experiences are vital to our personal understanding. We can trust the experiences of others, or we can cultivate and trust our own.
And that is what I’m interested in: the mysteries of how consciousness interacts with the physical world and how each of us plays a role in that process. Mysterious phenomena are around every corner—we just need to pay attention to our experience. That sounds simple, but I’ve come to learn it’s easier said than done.
I first met [(((Michael Shermer]]]], publisher of Skeptic magazine, when we were both guests on Larry King Live in December 2013. Shermer posed as the “token skeptic” on a panel discussing my NDE. The panel also included spiritual activist Marianne Williamson and Rabbi Marvin Hier.
Shermer’s main role was to present the materialist argument in which he stated that I must have had a dream or hallucination. At the end of the discussion, he said he hoped I was right about the afterlife, but still maintained his posture of disbelieving and denying the medical evidence in my case. As we parted after the taping, he kindly gave me a personalized copy of his book, The Believing Brain. In it, he attempts to explain how
the brain forms beliefs by assigning meaning to patterns perceived in our surroundings.
Given his stance, I was impressed when a few months later, in October 2014, he wrote an article in his monthly column for Scientific American concerning a rather unusual and seemingly inexplicable personal story.
He and his wife, Jennifer, had gotten married in June of that year. Jennifer seemed a bit sad in the days leading up to the wedding and expressed her wish that her grandfather, who had served as a father figure to her until his passing when she was 16, could be there on her most special day.
All she had from him were a few inherited personal items, many of which had been damaged over the years. A few months before the wedding, Michael had tried to fix a broken radio, Jennifer’s grandfather’s prized 1978 Philips 070 [photo], with fresh batteries and some coaxing with a screwdriver, but alas, his efforts were to no avail—the radio refused to function at all and was relegated to the back of a desk drawer with other broken effects.
After exchanging vows at home in the presence of family members, the newlyweds stepped away for a private moment and soon realized there was unfamiliar music coming from their bedroom.
Following the sounds of a romantic love song, they discovered to their shock that the music was coming from that abandoned broken radio in the back of the desk drawer.
They were stunned to silence, until Jennifer, as much a skeptic as Michael about “paranormal and supernatural” phenomena, spoke up.
“My grandfather is here with us. I’m not alone,” Jennifer claimed through tears.
The music was heard by other family members and continued playing into the night. But by the next morning, it stopped. They could never get radio to work again. Shermer closed his article stating that the scientific credo is “to keep an open mind and remain agnostic when the evidence is indecisive or the riddle unsolved.”
l admired Michael’s courage in sharing a story of possible after-death communication in Scientific American, a bastion of materialist thinking. I was excited to talk to him about the article the next time we met, in August 2015, when we were interviewed together on the Ask Dr. Nandi television show. As he arrived with Jennifer, we greeted each other and I said:
“Well, we ended up understanding it had a perfectly natural explanation,” he replied, as Jennifer nodded in agreement.
“Oh, really? I’d love to hear about it,” I responded. “What happened?”
“Well, it obviously wasn’t a real communication from her grandfather’s ghost. It has a perfectly rational explanation.”
“Which is . . .?” I queried, surprised by this turnaround.
“Well, it could not have been supernatural, so there must be some logical explanation.”
I stared at them both, awaiting the “scientific” explanation.
“We don’t really know, but it must have some rational explanation,” Michael finished.
Hundreds have told me similar stories, many of whom had never considered after-death communication to be possible before their encounter.
Most of them have been forever changed by such an event and awakened to the spiritual nature of the universe. When a door opens, our free will allows us to walk through it—or to close it and retreat.
As I see it now, the rational explanation would be that Jennifer’s grandfather’s soul was offering his support and love from “the other side.”
Before my coma, I had heard many tales from my patients suggestive of after-death communication, but I had always filed them away as fantasies or wishful thinking. I had even had my own quite stunning personal encounter in 1994, although, like Michael and Jennifer, I had convinced myself over time that it was just some inexplicable fluke.
Stuart Massich (not his real name) was a close friend and colleague who followed a life path eerily similar to mine. Common features included (though five years behind me throughout) all of the following: Stuart grew up in Winston-Salem, attended the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, attended Duke University School of Medicine, served his neurosurgical residency years based at Duke, but with two years spent in the laboratory at Harvard Medical School, then went on to join the neurosurgical staff at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, a flagship among Harvard Medical School’s teaching hospitals. We had clearly shared many similar life experiences, more than most people.
Stuart was a close friend and confidant from our first meeting, when he started his surgical internship in 1985, destined for the neurosurgical resident training program at Duke. We enjoyed several overlaps in our
training, when we were on the same team. Stuart was my junior resident when I was chief resident at the Durham Veterans Administration hospital in late 1986.
I’ll never forget when he taught me how to tie a bow tie, a skill I was advised to learn after I had secured a job offer from Harvard Medical School. I had worn bow ties as a child, but always the clip-0n style. Stuart stood behind me, arms over my shoulders, as we stood in front of a mirror
and he passed that sacred knowledge on to me, given that bow ties were considered signature items for many of the academic doctors at Harvard.
Almost exclusively, I now prefer bow ties (or butterfly ties, as they are known in the Netherlands) to neckties.
When Stuart spent his two research years at Harvard, he was working closely with me in my research efforts evaluating receptor populations in the blood vessels that supply the brain, ultimately trying to treat a condition known as cerebral vasospasm, a very lethal and common complication of bleeding into the brain from aneurysms (discussed in Chapter 5). After he finished his Duke residency training in 1992, Stuart headed up to Boston to join our neurosurgical team at Brigham and Women’s Hospital as the main spine surgeon.
Stuart’s son was just a bit older than my oldest son, Eben IV, and we often spoke of the joys of fatherhood and shared some of the antics of our boys. Stuart had introduced me (for the benefit of Eben IV, obviously) to a computer game called Maelstrom that his son enjoyed. The player is a small cartoon spaceship shooting at passing rockets, asteroids, and comets. The space debris comes mostly in ones and twos, but the really fun part involves occasional small groups of comets that fly across the screen, briefly offering an opportunity for scoring significant points by shooting them out of the black sky.
When this happens, the game sound effects let out a big “yippee!” Our young boys spent hours playing Maelstrom, and we spent hours together playing with them and catching up with each other. I can still hear that silly “yippee!” 😉
Stuart took his oral neurosurgical board examination in November 1994. He and his wife, Wendy, had been planning a celebratory trip with their three young children to Florida in mid-November, immediately following that grueling trial by fire (as those examinations tend to be).
That’s when our similar life paths tragically diverged.
The morning of November 18 found me deeply involved in one of my
favorite kinds of neurosurgical cases. I was performing a retromastoid craniectomy for microvascular decompression of the trigeminal nerve, that is, opening a hole smaller than a 50 cent piece through the bone behind the patient’s ear, then, using an operating microscope, very carefully working my way down to her brain stem and dissecting an errant artery from pulsating against the main cranial nerve carrying sensory information from the face. Such patients present with severe facial pain, or tic douloureux, which can often be so severe as to induce them to commit suicide~hence such aggressive and major surgical management is warranted in patients who fail to respond to appropriate pain medications.
The most challenging part of such cases occurs in the dark because the operating room lights are off when the surgeon is using the operating microscope (which has its own very bright light source), a 7-foot-tall behemoth weighing more than 800 pounds, but so delicately balanced that the surgeon can move it into any desired position with the light touch of a finger.
During that part of the operation, the room is usually filled with the quiet background whispers of the ten or so people supporting the surgeon in the OR. I was deeply focused on the arduous dissection of delicate blood vessels and nerves tangled around the brain stem when I noticed, just barely, the main OR door opening as someone stepped in and whispered to one of the nurses circulating in the room. The soft whispers spread through the room over the next minute or so, followed by a deafening silence. I remained so focused on the task at hand that I barely noticed the silence, although it did register at some deep level.
“Hmm. I wonder …” curiosity flitted through my mind, but I continued my delicate work under the microscope until the offending artery had been carefully moved away behind a Teflon sponge blanket, protecting the injured nerve from further pain—inducing damage. Ten minutes after the dome of silence had invaded the room, I was satisfied with my surgical efforts and pulled the scope away from the operative field, declaring, “Lights up. It’s closing time.”
Only then did the main pod nurse explain the mysterious silence.
“Wendy Massich is on the phone. She needs to talk with you.”
I knew this had to be extremely important. I had never in my sixteen years spent in operating rooms been exposed to such a request in the middle of surgery.
“What in the world about?” I asked with some trepidation.
“It’s Dr. Massich,” she managed. Tears filled her eyes, and as I looked around the room, I saw that several other people were crying, too. They had heard the news while I was under the microscope, and they had wisely elected not to involve me until I had finished the toughest part of the operation.
I asked my resident to start closing the operative field as I removed my scrub gown and exited the OR for the adjacent head nurse’s office. Another nurse, her eyes brimming with tears, handed me the telephone.
“I lost him,” uttered Wendy’s voice over the line. “Stuart’s gone,” she said, simply. 
My head was swimming, trying to make any sense of it. She proceeded to explain how a hurricane had come through the Ft. Lauderdale area the day before, and how the weather had cleared that morning and they had taken the kids down to the beach. The water was still roiling after the passing storm, so there were red flags up to signal people away from the deceptively calm waters. Dangerous undercurrents still loomed.
Their 8-year-old son had picked up a boogie board from one of the unmanned stands at the beach and taken it down to jump in the ocean.
By the time Stuart and Wendy noticed him, he was 50 feet out and being drawn seaward. Stuart raced down the beach and into the water to retrieve him. As he swam out, his son chucked the boogie board and hugged his arms around Stuart’s head.
Wendy soon noticed that Stuart’s head was no longer above the water. She cried out for help, at which point two men swam out 100 feet or so to where the son was crouched on the water, supported by his father’s floating body. They rescued the son unharmed and brought Stuart’s lifeless body back to the beach, where an unsuccessful attempt at resuscitation followed.
Our small neurosurgical family at Brigham and Women’s and Children’s Hospitals was crushed by the loss. Everyone loved Stuart. We arranged for the staff neurosurgeons and residents, all but a skeleton crew, to fly to Winston—Salem, North Carolina, for Stuart’s funeral.
Wendy and the kids would fly directly to North Carolina from Florida, and she asked me to go by their home just off Route 9 outside of Boston to pick up a few items to bring to the funeral.
My eyes were misting with tears as I pulled into their driveway and entered their home. Sadness overwhelmed me as I gathered the items Wendy had requested, and I thought back on the wonderful times I had shared with Stuart. It was such a tragic loss of a brilliant surgeon, colleague, and great friend.
As I was preparing to leave, I noticed that Stuart’s desktop Macintosh computer was still on. There on the screen was the welcome to play Maelstrom. Somehow, it felt like an invitation. I sat down at his desk.
“Okay, Stuart. One last game. Just for you,” I muttered softly.
I started to play, shooting at passing objects and racking up points. I was almost in a trance, overwhelmed by the ugly finality of Stuart’s absence and the list of practical tasks I had to do to help Wendy get through the next few days. I was just mindlessly playing along, with some vague sense of honoring his memory and our wonderful times together.
Just as I was feeling the depths of tragedy around losing Stuart, a steadily growing storm of comets flew by on the computer screen. The accompanying “yippee!” sound of the comets grew rapidly into a cacophony of sounds far beyond anything I had ever experienced in previous
games.
The largest group of comets I had ever scored on before was around ten, yet what I saw on the screen now was a blizzard of thousands of comets, with their joint “yippee!” sounds coming out of the speakers in a storm of points that rapidly built to twenty times the highest score I had ever seen in the game.
What in the world just happened? The software seemed to have totally violated all its prior rules. What had changed? Why had it happened in this moment?
Some part of me—the same part that had felt a wordless invitation to sit down and play—knew the answer. I felt that such an extraordinary display must have been instigated by Stuart’s still-present spirit. It gave me some sense of relief, feeling that somehow it was Stuart’s spirit showing me he wasn’t gone. But the rational neurosurgeon in me had no room for such thinking. I sternly admonished myself for feeling anything like comfort from the experience and refiled this event away under “unknown,” mentioning it to no one. It was just too weird, and it made
me feel too vulnerable. The professional side of me was not ready to admit the possible reality of communication from the spirit world.
This is a perfect example of how “the other side” can contact us through the world of microelectronics.
From those who study after-death communications, it is quite common to hear about contact made through electronic devices. For example, the night that Karen’s stepfather died, her mother reported that all the ceiling fans in the house came on by themselves. I’ve heard many similar stories about house lights or televisions turning on or off, or even inexplicable phone calls and text messages related to their communication with departed loved ones.
It is the very ephemeral nature of conscious awareness itself interacting with the physical world that allows for such obvious examples of physical effects due to spiritual influence. The 1987 book Margins of Reality by Robert Jahn and Brenda Dunne from the Princeton Engineering Anomalies Research (PEAR) laboratory reveals the commonality of psychic influence on microelectronics.
They have amassed an extensive body of data correlating human influence of a specialized microelectronic random-number generator, a device that generates sequences of zeros and ones. In these experiments, participants have shown that their minds can significantly influence what numbers will appear. In a meta-analysis performed by Dean Radin, citing 490 studies, he identified odds against chance for such results were 3,050 to 1.
These data clearly demonstrate the active participation of consciousness to be affecting the behavior of physical systems. Although this example is one of living minds influencing the quantum realm of microelectronics, the broader implications include interactions of minds who are no longer entangled with physical brains (i.e., the deceased) in our earthly realm.
Brilliant minds wrestling with some of the deepest mysteries of science are often challenged to reckon with unexpected anomalies in their personal lives. Nikola Tesla is widely regarded as one of the most brilliant scientific thinkers of the 20th century. Much of our modern electrically powered world is thanks to his brilliant scientific insights, and some of his more advanced ideas concerning the “harnessing of free cosmic energy” might still indicate ideas destined for fruition in the future.
Pulitzer Prize—winning biographer John J. O’Neill’s beautifully wrought biography of Tesla‘ is all the more valuable owing to the very close personal relationship that O’Neill and Tesla shared.
Tesla had DARK-blue eyes, btw (see below)
In that biography, O’Neill writes that Tesla professed to having endeavored to solve the enigma of death, but that he could claim only one event in his life that he interpreted as a supernatural experience.
This event was deeply personal, and concerned an awareness that occurred around the time of his mother’s death.
A few months before, Tesla had visited his friend Sir William Crookes, whose “epochal work on radiant matter” had engendered Tesla’s embrace of a career steeped in the study of electricity. However, during that recent visit to London, it was Crookes’s interest in spiritualism that had dominated their conversation. Those discussions were much on his mind when Tesla was called back to New York due to his mother‘s failing health. He was intermittently present at her bedside during her last days, but became so exhausted during the prolonged vigilance that he had to be physically carried to his home one particular evening. As much as he regretted having to be away from his mother during that critical phase in her potentially leaving this world, he sensed all would be okay.
Early the next morning he dreamed a fantastic vision in which he saw
“a cloud carrying angelic figures of marvelous beauty, one of whom gazed upon me lovingly and gradually assumed the features of my mother. The apparition slowly floated across the room and vanished and l was awakened by an indescribably sweet song of many voices. In that instant a certitude, which no words can express, came upon me that my mother had just died. And that was true.”
In the months after he recovered from that loss, Tesla tended to default to his “rational beliefs,” in some effort to explain his extraordinary knowing, of his mother’s passing, and attributed his vision to a painting he had seen before her death. But his biographer calls him out on his most unscientific attempts to be “scientific” in his explanation, reminding us of the “certitude” that Tesla felt at the time, and the fact that his extraordinary vision occurred at the same time his mother actually died.
Personal experiences outside the “normal” range are often dismissed when they can’t be fully integrated into our current understanding or belief system. I thought my experience with Stuart’s computer would sound crazy to others and never shared it with anyone until after my coma. I have become much more open to accepting such after—death experiences. [end of passage]
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The Truth About Occult Powers, What They Don’t Want You To Know
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6l3YlzHvzU