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 It’s just like heaven . . . Being here with you . . . You’re like an Angel . . Too good to be true. When You are near me.  My heart skips a beat.  I can hardly stand on. My own two feet.  Because I Love You; I Love You, I Do.  ‘Angel Baby’. My ‘Angel Baby’. Oh, Ooh, I Love You, Oh, Ooh, I Do . . .  No One Could Love You . . .  Like I Do!

                                                   — Rosie & the Originals

     Angels appeared to me through a synchronicity of dreams and later, a conscious meditation, where I realized that certain people that I had met in my life served as agents of change, directing me through the hills and valleys of my present journey. Yes, I call these “messengers” angels, thank you, Dr. Carl G Jung. And you will see why!

     First, let me tell you about the dream. A white-haired man dressed in a three-piece suit spoke with another man also dressed in a suit.  They stood in an aisle of a train, near the seats where I sat, along with another man and a young woman.

No one appeared to know the other, but the seated passengers, myself included, were deeply engrossed in the conversation the two standing men were having. “Don’t you know me?” the taller man spoke to the white-haired, older man, who had identified himself as Socrates. I forgot if he mentioned his last name.

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     “I’m sure you will recognize me,” the second man, who called himself Plato, added. This man was slightly bald and started challenging the elder speaker to recall an earlier time the two spent long hours together. I don’t remember any details of their discussions, but they were profound, enlightening, and mesmerizing.

     The men looked toward us, the seated passengers, as if they had interrupted some activity, but I spoke for the three of us, stating that we were keenly interested in what they had to say, and to please continue with their discourse.

     Moments later, I was alone with the white-haired man. I noticed that he had a slight beard, trimmed neatly, and had a cherub-round face. Was the face German? Nordic? Or was he from some other nearby European country that provided red cheeks and a rugged look among its dwellers, I thought. He told me he had finished one book and was writing a second. He seemed cautious and concerned about my reaction when he told me about the first one, claiming some people would not warm to the subject matter or believe in its content.

     “What’s the name of the book?” I asked, curious and interested in his story as I looked into his eyes to get a clearer view of this man. “The book is about Angels,” he said, initially glancing to the floor and then directly towards me, his eyes lighting up. “Those I Know, have Known, and will be Knowing,” he added with a smile.

• Before I had a chance to ask him more, whether that was the name of the title or something else related to the writing, the scene had shifted, and we were near the front of a bus, not a train, and I was getting up to exit the front door where Mr. Socrates and his fellow conversationalist continued their discussion. I nodded goodbye to all, stepped off the bus, and only realized hours later that the white-haired man was some sort of messenger, perhaps the real Socrates, and his sidekick was none other than another philosopher from 500 to 400 BC. But I wasn’t sure of his name. Until days later!

(See Part II at Angels 2)