There is a Path by Donald Hatch

7/29/2019 There is a Path by Donald Hatch

http://slidepdf.com/reader/full/there-is-a-path-by-donald-hatch 1/15



T h e r e i s a P a t h



For much of my life, I have looked within and paused to seek the

truth. I have wondered why there is so much greed. What is in the

mind of the dictator? Why are there not more people working for

peace and caring and sharing? Then I saw the path.



D o n a l d H a t c h

T h e r e i s a P a t h



Copyright © D o n a l d H a t c h

The right of Donald Hatch to be identified as author of

this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,

recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the

publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 9781849632874

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2013)

Austin & Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf LondonE14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain



CHAPTER ONE

The First Steps

“Don I‟m here.” The voice rang out loud and clear. There was

no doubt in my mind, it came from someone or something

present with me in the bedroom. I was startled, I knew therewas „someone‟ present. I blew out the candle, jumped into bed

and pulled the sheets over my head. Whatever it was I prayedit would go away, and indeed I heard no more that night.

To set the scene, I was seventeen years old and had just

changed into my pyjamas. As the lighting in my parents‟ homewas by gas, and that on the ground floor only, candles were

used upstairs after dark.

I was serving an apprenticeship as a joiner in Tilbury

docks and the following day, when I arrived at work, I

explained what had happened to the man I was working with.He was a kind and loveable man named Bill Wilson. He had

part of one leg missing, yet I never heard him complain; I held

him in great affection. He listened quietly to what I had to say,then told me to repeat my story to the man at the far end of the

workshop. When the opportunity came, the foreman being outof sight, I approached this man and told him of my experience.

He said, quite matter of factly, “It was a spirit trying to contact

you.” I had met my first Spiritualist and although I dare not say

so, I did not think much of his opinion.Some days passed, I can no longer remember how many,

when arriving home from work one evening my mother metme as I opened the door. Tears were streaming down her



cheeks and when I saw my father in the same state, I felt that

terrible sensation of loss that comes when we discover for the

first time that our parents are also vulnerable and weak. She

held out a telegram for me to read and as I looked down Iunderstood the horror felt by so many at that time.

„We regret to inform you…‟

My brother Charlie had been killed in action on the 23rd

March 1942, three days before his twentieth birthday.

My parents‟ hearts were shattered. They had prayed in

vain, yet their second son was dead. My oldest brother wasalso in the services, having joined the Royal Navy before war started. Charlie had been a member of the Territorial Army and

was called to active service as soon as war was declared.

It is only with the maturing of the years and taking some of

life‟s hard knocks that has made it possible for me to

understand what my parents went through. My dad took part in

some of the terrible battles of the 1914-18 war and was himself wounded. I am sure he must have had many thoughts of horror

of what could happen to his sons. Mum, with that great inner strength possessed by so many women in those and similar

circumstances, must nevertheless have been torn apart as shewatched her sons go to war. For myself, I just could not

believe I would not see Charlie again. He was talented, had a

good singing voice and was quite an athlete; everything a

younger brother could look up to. I thought the world of myoldest brother too but he was just as tough as the Rock of Gibraltar.

Life carried on, as it has to, as we struggled to come to

terms with our loss in our different ways. Millions of coursewere going through similar experiences. What a waste, the

darkest of shadows on the humanity of humankind. I did not

grieve so much, I just felt numb, with a sense of disbelief thatlasted a very long time.



Often my thoughts went back to the voice that called my

name. Could it have been my brother? Was Reg Rowthorn, the

man who told me it was a spirit, right? As a youngster I was

brought up in the Church of England but talk of an afterlife, asI remember it, had been quite vague and wrapped up in a lot of conditions. I had, however, heard a voice, of that I had no

doubt at all. But was it really Charlie? If it was, how could he

speak to me?

I had, the morning following my experience, told my

parents what I had heard but they appeared uncertain and made

little comment. However, after the news of my brother‟s deaththey asked me to tell them again and we talked of the

possibility of life after death. Could it have been him? It wasvery difficult to be objective as grief clouded our thoughts.

Some weeks later, certainly within two months of my

brother‟s passing, events took a more dramatic turn. Mum anddad were in the habit, usually several times a week, of going

out for an evening walk; often down to the River Thames, lessthan a mile away. I normally spent my evenings at home, I was

an avid reader at the time, with Marx my Alsatian dog sitting

quietly by my side. On one such occasion I heard theunmistakeable sound of crockery rattling in the adjoining

kitchen. I put down my book and listened, thinking it might

have been caused by a low flying aircraft, but I heard nothing.I got up and crossed to the kitchen door. As I opened it there

was a loud clatter from the open dresser immediately to myright, which certainly made me jump. I turned the light on,

stared at the dresser and looked around the room but

everything appeared normal. There was no further disturbancethat evening and after my initial curiosity I dismissed it from

my mind.

From that moment on, however, whenever I was alone

under similar circumstances, the pattern would be repeated. If Iopened the kitchen door it would stop. If I ignored it andcarried on reading the clattering would sometimes last as long

as twenty minutes. I noticed too, immediately before anything



started to happen, Marx would sit up with the hackles rising on

the back of his neck. I was becoming unnerved and the

reaction of my dog, who was supposed to be the fearless one,

did not help at all.

I had told my dad what was happening but he, being verydown to earth, decided that there was a perfectly normal

explanation. I suspect he also thought I had too vivid an

imagination. Whatever he thought, there was soon reason for him to think again for they walked in one evening right in the

middle of the disturbance. The sound stopped as I said, “Dad

it‟s been happening again.” Without a word he crossed to thekitchen door, opened it, and stepped back in surprise as there

was a great burst of sound from the crockery on the shelves.

From that moment something within my parents began to

change. No other would have detected it but I sensed a feeling

of hope; rather like a drowning man who had given up tryingto save himself, seeing someone hurrying down the bank

towards him. I think we all began to feel something veryimportant had started to happen in our lives, that something

outside of ourselves had taken a hand in our affairs. My

mother was a lapsed Roman Catholic and my father a lapsedsocialist. I believe they considered religion surplus to

requirements, certainly as having no practical value, especially

as they had brought up three children in the „twenties‟ whenthe nation was rich and the workers were poor.



THOUGHTS ON A LAKESIDE HILL

I wandered looking for a sign cross fell and dale

Formed long before all mortal time,Of first the path I started on this climb.

For knowing then from whence I came

I might in thought retrace my steps againAnd find in this fair solitude

The reason why this interlude in time

Had brought me here.

And knowing perchance the reason of my being,

What hand divine or fate had been my beginning,I might find another mind that drew the map,

Greater still than mine, that conceives,

Gives birth and forms the destiny of man.Or but the echo of my footsteps that follow me,

No destiny, no mind, no plan

But the aimless wandering that began as these hills began.

But if this, why the dancing gill,

The bird, the hill and even the man I loveFor oft selfish in his love he be,

As selfish I, in need of harmony?

But a finer thought be father to my thought,My love from greater love doth flow,

I walk with purpose on this path,But how I long to know.

If I the beginning of my path could see

The end I might conceive

And like the majesty of hill,Fulfil my destiny.



CHAPTER TWO

My Search Begins

I wondered if my local library had any books that would throw

some light on the strange events that had come into my life. Onthe following Saturday I made my way to the library feelingvery unsure of myself. I was helped by the person in charge

after a rather confused, but obviously not too confusing,statement. I was led to a particular section and found there

were just a few books that might be of use and soon saw a

book written by Sir Oliver Lodge. It was titled Raymond andtold the story of this scientist‟s investigations after the death of

his son who was killed in the 1914-18 war.

I took the book home and settled down to a serious read

and in the following days went over some statements a number

of times. The author, as an eminent scientist, stated that he hadhad communication from his deceased son. He had sat with

and tested a number of prominent mediums and was convinced

of Raymond‟s intelligent survival of death. There was no

question of my respect for this great man but I found it verydifficult to believe, even after my own experiences, thatfollowing death we lived in another world and could

communicate with those we had left behind.

I discovered there was a church, The Grays ChristianSpiritualist Church, several miles from where I lived and

started attending the Sunday evening services.

On occasions I received a message from the visitingmedium but there was never any mention of my brother.

However, I well remember when I was told of a Jewish personI had known. I denied the statement several times until the



demonstrator leaned forward towards me and said, “Joey the

Jew.” I was astounded. I had forgotten the boyhood friend I

had lived next to many years earlier in Dagenham. He had died

in an accident but I was unaware of this fact until my oldest brother Arthur visited the family some time later. There wereother similar incidents, which, as they accumulated and I kept

notes of them, began to turn my mind to a possible acceptance

of what I was being told. How could a medium, a stranger tome, know about my personal life, about relatives and friends,

some passed and unknown to me? My parents were often able

to verify these statements and so of course they too began towonder.

It is strange how what we often call coincidence occursand makes someone wonder or perhaps take a second look.

Mum and dad were returning home from London by train and

were having a conversation with a man sharing their compartment. They told him they had lost a son in the war and

he promptly gave them some facts that he could not have

known and which touched them deeply. He also advised themto contact a medium in London whose name was Ronald

Strong and told them his address.

They made an appointment to see Mr Strong as soon as

they could and were quite excited about the prospect. When

the day came to travel to London I told them to give him noinformation whatsoever, not even the purpose of their visit and

to take notes of what they were told.

When they returned home that evening I could see by their

faces how wonderful the sitting had been for them. We were to

learn later how respected Ronald Strong was as a medium and

how he helped and comforted so many people. He made the

following statements: “You have had son killed, he is telling

me his name is Charlie. I see a bomb hitting a ship. He is

holding up a pocket watch and saying how sorry he is that it is broken. He speaks of a brother who has something to do withaircraft. Also of a younger brother who is aware of his



presence. As he stands before me he is smiling and I can see a

tooth missing in the front of his mouth.”

Many other things were said of course but it was thestatements concerning my brother that really mattered to us

and they were amazingly accurate. The name was correct.Charlie was an anti-aircraft gunner in the Royal Artillery and

with a comrade manned a gun on the stern of a merchant ship.

My father had given him a present of a pocket watch. I wascertainly aware of the presence that made itself from time to

time. Regarding the other items, confirmation came in due

course. I was no longer at home when my brother‟s fellowgunner, who had survived, came to visit my parents. He told of

how their ship, the Clan Campbell , which was in a convoycrossing the Mediterranean Sea, was sunk by enemy aircraft.

Also that he had lost a tooth whilst in Alexandria just before

they sailed on that last fateful voyage. My oldest brother,Arthur, as they learned later, had been posted to an aircraft

carrier and had duties on the flight deck.

If it is appreciated that the sitting my parents had with

Ronald Strong took place during the war and he could not

possibly have got the information from any other source, itadds up to good evidence of the survival of the human

personality after death. But what form did that survival take,

was the personality and intelligence a permanent part of thatexistence?

My journey had only just begun but a framework appearedto be emerging, a standard against which I could measure my

experiences and possible evidence. Most Saturday afternoons I

would walk to Tilbury Riverside Station and catch the ferry to

Gravesend, a town I loved to visit and wander around. It

became a fairly common occurrence, whilst I was changing to

go out, to mentally see someone I knew at a particular spot on

the journey I would be taking. I was amazed and amused tomeet this person exactly where I had seen them; it seemedsome psychic ability was unfolding within me.



I made the decision to change the physical direction of my

life and volunteered to join the Royal Marines; I was accepted

and it was not long before I was posted to Lympstone barracks

in Devon. After basic training I was sent to a camp on DalditchCommon.

During the war years the Psychic News, the weekly

Spiritualist newspaper founded and edited by Maurice

Barbanell, would send, on request, to service personnel a parcel of psychic books. I duly applied and when they arrived I

was overjoyed at the generosity. If I remember correctly I

received eight books. I passed them around among my pals andthey caused many a lively discussion. Many years later I had

the pleasure of meeting Mr Barbanell. He opened the newGrays Spiritualist Centre in 1971 and I was able to remind him

and thank him for that wonderful act. He himself was touched

by the link it formed.

There were occasions when I was serving overseas that I

was able to describe places before we arrived at them. Iremember walking with a friend along the main street in

Kowloon, the mainland part of Hong Kong. The war of course

had ended by then. I described to him what we would seearound the corner when we arrived at the next turning and on

the right and so it was. He used to call me an old witch,

something I greatly resented as I was only twenty.

With the passage of time and by the grace of someone or other my „demob‟ number came up and I sailed for England,home and a civilian life, which for a time was quite difficult to

come to terms with.



Bird, bee, majestic tree,

What formed your sinless symmetry?

Is your purpose less than mine,Is your creator less divine?Is your expression less than mans,

Or a different part of the same great plan?

If the thought that gave you lifeGave form to man, why the strife?

Why the guilt, why the greed,

Did not the creator create the need?In planning did he not provide,

That all needs should be satisfied?

What then separates you from me?

But a thought born of disharmony.

Born in pride, born in fear, Never when the mind is clear.

Ego demanding I want to be,There the first loss of liberty.

One day struggling man will see

Deep within the golden key.Beyond the thought, beyond the mind,

Beyond the striving the voice divine

Will speak, “Be still, be free,

You already possess your harmony.“If I am perfection why pray to me To change divine man‟s destiny?

How can you serve if you know not the plan?

Lest your service be from the outward man.Look within, and you will see

My form, as in bird, bee, majestic tree.”

Documents

There is a Path by Donald Hatch