Sample article from the July 2001 Star Beacon


by Lilian Mustelier

Lilian Mustelier

Here is the second part of the crazy story that is my life. Those of you who know me have never known me to tell a story from beginning to end, and in that order. I will not disappoint you, I assure you. If ever there was a time for me to be grateful not to be "normal," this is the time.

You see, a normal person would not be able to find a way through this madness of having become an "insurance baby." Only a crazy person, or in my case a person a high strangeness.

Surviving the 6.8 earthquake on Feb. 28, 2001 was the easy part. Walking away from my house in the sinkhole was also easy, compared with what was to follow.

The nice insurance adjuster who had told me I was about to travel through a dark tunnel and he was there to guide me to the other end was transferred, and the fallout from the other end of the tunnel was about to choke the crap out of me. It had taken six weeks for the insurance company to realize that there was no easy way to resolve my problems, so within two days the new person in charge dumped everything into my lap, with a smile, I might add.

I think he thought I was a normal person. He handed me a check to move my house and wished me well. Before departing, he entered my house and took pictures of all my possessions, which were sitting right where they had been for 16 years. All nice and orderly, covered with the strangest-looking brown dust that must have come from the center of the earth.

I asked him who would repair or replace my belongings, including the trailer after we pulled it out of the hole. He gave me a blank look and when I asked if he would do that, he said, "No, it all looks OK." There was nothing else to do, according to him.

Do I look like I am normal?

It is said that when we come to this life, we have agreed to do certain things. I do not remember having agreed to all of this, but in case I did, please take heed. I would not like having done this for nothing. There will be other earthquakes. Olympia is sinking. You see, what happened is, we all were affected by this. In the beginning we were all glad to have survived this. We then went into denial and pretended all was well. FEMA extended the deadline for filing claims. That should have been a clue. After three days of my dilemma, I became a regular homeless person and all concern faded.

I think that when people ask if you have insurance, and you answer yes, in their mind they think all is well and that you are OK. In essence, what really happens is that because of the insurance, you are totally at their mercy and so you become an "insurance baby." Only my name remained Lilian and it was not changed to State Farm.

After the agent handed me a check for $14,458 to have my trailer moved, my life changed on a daily basis. I set out to fix what they had not been able to do for six weeks. I called every trailer park to see if they would rent me a space. That was impossible, because my home has a metal roof and, according to new regulations, parks are not able to accept these trailers.

The city said I could try to go in and get some of my things, and we attempted that. It was a very dangerous undertaking, because when you sit on a sinkhole and the weight shifts, it is dangerous. So I only got a few things and abandoned that plan. Everything was contaminated from the brown sod and I coughed for a week.

I got three small storage rooms from U-Haul for a while and thought I could wait things out. After 30 days, the prize almost doubled, and because I have no money, it presented another problem. The guys there are actually really nice people and listen to my ever-changing stories. Nothing is to be done about the prize of the unit.

I was evicted from Emergency Housing because the insurance did not pay the bills, so I had to find a home for the few things I had managed to collect since living there. At the last minute, the rent got paid and I remained there for two more weeks. Having to sleep on the floor upset my back condition, and I was unable to walk for a week.

Apartment living is just not for me. The friends told me that my experience is not normal, so let me explain. The insurance rented the apartment for six months. It was understood that in the event I was to leave earlier, all deposits were to be forfeited. The deposit for Ms. ET, the cat, was non-refundable.

I moved in on March 26. I was so grateful and fixed everything up to the point that I felt safe and comfortable, and started to relax and do my work.

On April 10 I was asked to give a 20-day notice to vacate on May 1. It was at that time that my security, if you will, went out the window. I need a home base, a place where I can create my TV shows and relax and meditate. A solution for my problem was so far out of reach that the moon felt like it was a spit away.

Knowing I would not solve the almost impossible task of relocating in the time allowed me, I went into fear. Not a good thing, but the human mind is a funny creature with a mind of its own. The apartment I was living in was rented to the next person, and I felt like I was just a homeless person hanging out. It soon became apparent that I was not able to find a place to live, so I demanded the insurance company pay for another month of lodging. Reluctantly they agreed to two weeks. They had chosen the apartment and it was too expensive for my budget, but I did manage to raise the money for the two weeks of rent.

My nerves had a little "shaker" of their own. When I thought things could not get any worse, I felt like I did when I was stuck between the buildings in Nashville, Tenn. I was driving down the road when my trunk popped open. I secured it, and two blocks later it popped open again. I said to Universe, "That needs some Firefly People." I found myself on a little country road, not really knowing what I was doing there. I called my brother, a Realtor, just to chat, and he notified me that there was a mobile home for sale right up the street from there. He arranged for me to look at it.

When we arrived a few minutes later, we knocked at the door. A Native American lady answered and I told her I was looking for the Firefly People. She smiled and asked if I would settle for a Dragonfly. I loved the place and made a deal with her to buy the place. We also thought it would be great to tape a couple of TV shows, which we did: "Sacred Lands, Sacred People." It was during that interview that I found out her husband was actually Standing Elkís nephew -- a Firefly person from the Lakota Nation.

Some people think that psychics are wealthy people. Some of us are. However, most of us are struggling in the three-dimensional world and have very little. Some of us have little attachment to material things and there are others -- like myself -- who are disabled in some form or another. Some disabled persons qualify to get a housing subsidy and help with their rent and medication. I was one of those people, and grandfathered in a mobile home program. Because I was unable to move the home itself, those guidelines no longer applied.

The place I thought would be my new home was located in a park that took government vouchers. Life looked pretty good. I made new friends and looked forward to living in the wonderful energy that the place projected. However, at the last minute, the landlord (owner of the land) changed his mind, and after a lot of emotional struggle, that move was no longer possible.

We had prayed so hard and had done ceremony, because the new friends needed the money to go to Big Mountain and work with the people and the grandmothers. But for some reason Universe had other plans for all of us at this time. The reason is still not known to us. I am sure we will know in time.

I knew there was no way to move my home and I got such mixed messages as to what I should do. I looked at every mobile home for sale in the county. Nothing felt right. Back at the apartment, my days were counting down. The manager brought me an eviction notice because the insurance company did not pay their part of the rent.

I called a friend to get some of the things I had accumulated since I moved there. The manager asked why I was moving. I am glad I am not normal. Just as I was almost all moved, the check arrived and I had a place to stay for 15 more days.

To get my mind off things, my friend, Martha, and I went for a drive. We spotted a mobile home that looked like it was unoccupied. There was a "for sale" sign in the window and it was in a park run by a friend. The next morning, a Sunday, we called the U-Save agent, and she told me she had found the perfect place. To my surprise, she took us -- my daughter and some of her children -- to the place we had found the night before. It never had a "for sale" sign! Of course, we thought it was a gift from heaven. It was so much bigger than the one before, and I would not even miss the Glass Room, a room for readings was right there. The yard is big and perfect for the grandkids, and it takes away some of the sadness I felt when I was unable to live in the Indian place. I signed the papers and was told I could move in on the 25th. I can do this, I can do this!

The landlord agreed to take a government voucher, Section 8, and all the lease papers were filled out. My mind was at peace. My back said, "Good! My turn!" And with that, I was laid up for four days. It was like a big toothache was in my back and I was not moving. I couldnít, so I kept on the tight jeans that I had on for whatever reason. First time I wore jeans in three years.

The lady from housing called and asked me to come to the office. With my walker, my Higher Self and I went to town. It took an hour for me to drive eight miles, I had so much pain.

She told me that I was no longer eligible for housing. I was only allowed to spend 30 percent of my net income on rent. I was over by just a few dollars. And with that, things looked really hopeless. It is hard for the average person to understand how the government guidelines are arrived at. I can be poor, but if I am poorer than that, I no longer qualify for help. I am glad I am not normal!

It took me a very long time to get back to the apartment, because I inched my way back, unable to move very much. All the friends were at work and there was no one to come and drive my car home for me. Give me some codeine, NOW!

I knew the ladies felt so bad, so I wrote them a thank you card for having tried so hard to help me. They had tears in their eyes when they hugged me.

I have since learned that because of what happened to me, and they did not want to give up, this is being looked at again, and a survey was ordered by HUD to see why rents are so high in the parks. I am very happy about that.

I am dealing with the reality that I cannot afford to live anywhere without the help of my Creator, and take that plunge without a parachute and TRUST. The only thing that was organized in my life were the shows, and I taped a two-part series on Cover-up in Oklahoma, a news expose.

At least twice a week, the apartment manager sent a note to request a pre-moveout inspection. A pre-moveout interview. So many pre-movement things that I feel like I have no home at all. I am glad I am not normal!

I can do this!

By the 23rd I realized that closing was not taking place on the 25th. I am psychic, you know. So I canceled the moving truck and tried to get this burning pain out of my head -- itís what we -- my therapist and I -- nicknamed my "Hot Head Syndome."

I pulled a card last night and it informed me that everything that happens to me serves as a lesson for someone else. It gives me comfort and knowing that Universe is again using me as a tool for others. Pay heed, there will be more quakes and more challenges for all of us. I have no animosity about being a casualty. I have no attachment to my loss. Universe provided me with everything I need to do my work.

I resent being an "insurance baby." It saddens me to see how people behave. I miss the friend I lost along the way. I am glad some people might benefit from this. I am healthy, not living in a toxic home any longer. I am grateful for not being normal. I am learning that Universe and I are not on the same time line -- thatís what I get for losing my dual-time watch!

It is way past the 25th, and all my things are packed, and I am ready for the next part of my journey. I am now homeless.

Till the next time, in Love and Light...

Lilian Mustelier, a person of High Strangeness, is the author of The Moral of the Story Is... One Person at a Time, available for $20 postpaid, by writing to her at P.O. Box 8821, Lacey, WA 98509. The above article was received on May 30. As of presstime I have not heard anything more about her situation, which would cause most people to be panic-stricken and driven over the edge. If you can find it in your heart to help Lilian with a monetary donation, please send it directly to her at the above address. I know she will be eternally grateful. (Editor)

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