My Path to Radionics

The room I entered was dark, but there was enough light for me to see that I was in the presence of a tall lady in a white coat. She was standing, but at once indicated that I should sit on a stool in front of her and with my back towards her. Slowly she passed her hands, without once touching me, down the entire length of my spine. After a few minutes she spoke, with a slightly foreign accent.

“You have injured the base of your spine, you have duodenal I roubles and you have haemorroids.”

Startled by the accuracy of the diagnosis, I thought … “How can she tell? Nobody here knows anything about me. Nobody knew even that I was coming, and I have not spoken a word. What sort of place am I in?”

The lady spoke again, “You have been a long time coming, but we will cure you.”

I could hardly believe my ears. The whole thing must be a dream.

I sat amazed and bewildered while the lady called a man in from the hall and gave him instructions. Finally she turned to me … “Go with Mr Harris,” she said, “lie will treat you.” That was the end of the most iislonishing l ive minutes that altered the whole course of my life.

Mr Harris led me to his cubicle. His approach was reassuringly matter-of-fact and workmanlike.

“Please take off your coat and lie on the couch.”

It might have been in an ordinary surgery or hospital. He placed his right hand under the small of my back and his left hand on my stomach. I had no idea what to expect, but immediately I felt a comforting warm glow spreading through my body. In minutes the acute duodenal pain disappeared.

Wonderful I thought, but I don’t suppose it will last, and what about my back? When the half-hour’s treatment was over, I was asked to return once a week, and to this I faithfully adhered for three months. At the end of that time a wonderful day dawned for me. I realised that I had lived through a whole twenty-four hours without once being conscious that I even had a body, let alone a grumbling one.

On my next visit to Mr Harris, I asked if I needed to come any more. His reply was illuminating and I have made use of the advice he gave me many times with my own patients. What he said was simple and to the point.

“Most people stay away when their pain has gone, but the cellular structure of the body has not been recreated. If you are wise you will stay with us until you are told that treatment is finished.”

Accepting this advice I continued to visit the clinic for six more months, during which time I was able to discuss many things with Mr Harris, including the Spiritualist teachings. In particular I vividly remember this reply to my question … “What do you want me to believe?”

“All I ask,” he told me, “is that you treat anything I say with your most critical faculty.”

At the end of nine months, and on the day of my last treatment lie said, “You are going to do this work.”

I replied that insurance was my line not healing. However, time proved that he was right.

Long before my final visit I had, of course, found out the name of the lady who originally diagnosed my case. It was that of the famous Spiritualist Teacher and Medium, Ursula Roberts, and to her, to Mr Harris and to all who helped me my grateful thanks go out.

Up to the time I visited Russell Square I had never heard of let alone been interested in Spiritualism. I was told that Miss Roberts was in trance while she diagnosed, and that her ‘Guide’ had told her what my troubles were. My curiosity having been thoroughly aroused, I set about reading everything I could on the subject during the time I was visiting the centre. However, 1 never became a Spiritualist because I felt that I must also study a number of other philosophies. Then came a sequence of events that read like a fairy story, so interwoven were they that I became convinced they simply had to take place.

One day I was visiting a local garden nursery to buy some vegetables. The lady who owned it was tall, six feet in height, and at the time I got there, she was half-standing, half-sitting up against a bench obviously in pain.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s my ankle,” she replied.

I remembered Mr Harris’ words, “You are going to do this work,” and in a flash something inside me said, “Here’s your first case.” Instinctively I tried to reject the idea. “No, not me.” I argued with myself, “Yes … No … Yes,” and even while I did so, I knew that sooner or later I would have to accept the challenge and obey.

“Take off your shoe,” I said in my most convincing insurance voice. Then I held her ankle in my right hand for several minutes. I hadn’t the faintest idea that anything was happening but I heard myself say, “You’ll be alright now,” and overcome by my boldness I fled. She had not said a word.

Next morning I plucked up courage and returned to the nursery, only to find that she would not speak to me. But I persisted, and on the second day, in great trepidation, I called again and asked, “How is your ankle today?” To my supreme relief she actually smiled.

“Yesterday my ankle was much worse, but today I have no pain in it at all.”

I asked her to tell me her story. “Two years ago,” she said, “I fell heavily and since that day I haven’t had a good night’s sleep, in spite of all kinds of medical treatment.”

Six months later I made a point of checking with the lady and she told me that after my treatment her ankle had given her no more pain. In fact, until I reminded her, she had forgotten all about it.

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