“WHY ARE THERE MONKEYS? (and other questions for God)” is the absolutely TRUE, deeply INSPIRATIONAL, laugh-out-loud FUNNY story of one woman’s Near-Death Question and Answer Session with God (and there’s UNDENIABLE PROOF that IT REALLY HAPPENED!) If you think a conversation with God could not possibly be FUNNY, you’re in for a BIG surprises!
Targeted Age Group:: 25 – 105
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
In 1975, at the tender (and utterly ignorant) age of 25, I died. (drugs can do that to a girl!) Eight minutes passed here on Earth while I was busy being dead, but I wasn't 'on Earth' — I was at Heaven's Front Door, having a Question and Answer Session with God! When, eight minutes later, I was returned to the "Land of the Living", I was confused about many of the things I had just seen and heard, but of one thing I was absolutely certain: If I could find proof that my 'Divine Experience' had actually happened, I would have to share it with the world. Four months later, that proof was given to me, in a form that I could not possibly deny, thus was born my Memoir, 'WHY ARE THERE MONKEYS? (and other questions for God)" — the word-for-word account of, as it turns out, the most unusual Near-Death Experience ever reported!
It started with drugs. I'm a child of the Sixties so for me, everything started with drugs! It was just another in a long line of sad, sorry, self-indulgent nights, no different than any other, until…
They say they struggled to bring me back. They did everything they knew how to do. They held me under a cold shower. They slapped me. Then they slapped me again. They said they slapped, and they slapped, and then they slapped some more. At some point, they were slapping me primarily to vent their rage at my stupidity. It made them feel a bit better, but it didn't do a thing for me because I was beyond their rage — I was DEAD.
One minute I was alive. The next minute I was dead. Drugs can do that to you — but I'm getting ahead of myself…
IT WAS 1950. HARRY TRUMAN WAS PRESIDENT. EVERYONE WORE HATS
I was born into a Jewish family. Jewish families come in three varieties. There are Reform Jews, Conservative Jews and Orthodox Jews. My family was of the Reform persuasion. Reform Jews are people who cling to a Tribal identity, while knowing precious little about their Tribal history.
For Jews of all persuasions, Yom Kippur is the holiest day of the year. It's the day set aside for what is officially referred to as The Atonement of Sin (and unofficially recognized as a sacred excuse to visit the Golf Course). Every year, on that day, the Reform Jews of my community, dressed to impress, attended Worship Services not in the tony local temple, but at the Westchester Community Center just down the road — a place more often used by Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus, and the Harlem Globetrotters. (the temple was just too small to hold all those mink coats).
There I would sit, hands folded in lap, dutifully watching the Rabbi and listening to the Cantor. Unfortunately, no matter how hard I tried to focus on them, all I could see were dancing elephants and all I could hear were dribbling basketballs. By the time I was eight years old, I had concluded that if there were such a thing as The Holy Trinity (one of my closest friends was a devout Catholic), it must consist of God, Celina The Elephant Girl, and Meadowlark Lemon.
IT WAS 1969. RICHARD NIXON WAS PRESIDENT. EVERYONE WORE HAIR.
I experimented with sex, drugs, Rock 'n Roll and religion. In college, I majored in three of the four. At various times, and for various lengths of time, I was an Agnostic; an Atheist; a Rosicrucian; an Existentialist (mandatory for all freshman English Lit students); a Nihilist (mandatory for all sophomore philosophy students), and a Buddhist (mandatory for nothing, and preferred by two out of three Flower Children).
I practiced Yoga, religiously, so to speak. Twice a day, I would contort myself into positions I can only fantasize about now. I treated my body like a temple, ingesting only natural products like brown rice, mushrooms and…heroin.
IT WAS 1975. JERRY FORD WAS PRESIDENT. EVERYONE WORE HEELS.
Was it too much of a good thing, or was it just enough of a decidedly bad thing? Either way, I was overdosing. As I lay dying, I prayed to every diety I had ever heard of, read about, or studied. I meditated on a framed picture of Swami Satchidananda. I chanted. I envisioned several Hollywood actors who had portrayed Jesus. I did everything I could think of. Then, I died.
I had never heard of "Near-Death Experiences". For me, born and raised in and around New York City, bright lights and tunnels were nothing more than the basic ingredients of traffic jams. Imagine my surprise when I found myself floating in a gossamer tunnel that seemed to be made of light — a three-dimensional, pulsing, white light. A warm, three-dimensional, pulsing, white light. A warm, three-dimensional, pulsing, white light that felt…alive!
It's amazing what a dead girl can do in eight minutes. Take me, for example. I met God. I spoke to God. God spoke to me, and these are the words we shared…
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