The Medium, the Song, and the Letter

As a medium, my life is lived in the subtle. I don’t always hear the other side with my physical ears; it’s more of a subconscious hum, a frequency I tune into like a vintage radio. And if there is one thing I’ve learned about the universe, it’s that it is relentlessly playful.

I was preparing for a Sunday morning service for a Spiritualist Church in Lake Pleasant, Massachusetts. When my creative well runs dry, I walk. Walking is how I pull magical cards out of the ether. I was just strolling, minding my own business, when a song started looping in my head. Not a hymn. Not a prayer.

It was the 1973 hit by Three Dog Night: Shambala.

I asked Spirit if they were serious because this didn't exactly scream church vibe. But I have a rule: when a magic card falls out of the deck and hits you in the face, you don’t ignore it. You pick it up. You look at it. You say thank you.

I went home puzzled, but the curiosity was itching at my soul. I put on my detective cap and sat in silence. Why this song? Why this church? Why now? And then, like a bolt of lightning through a dark room, the realization hit: This song didn't just find me; it started here.

I began to dig, guided by the very spirit who had hummed the tune in my ear. And there it was, the shining light of Shambala, hidden in the archives of history.

Back in the seventies, there was a medium named Dorothy Begg who lived right there in Lake Pleasant. She was the kind of soul who operated on pure, ego-less grace. She ran tiny ads in The Star magazine offering personal readings for the price of a self-addressed stamped envelope. No fee. Just a stamp and a heart full of questions.

A man named Matthew Moore sent her a letter asking about his past lives. Dorothy wrote back and ended the letter with a sentence that would change music history: “My messenger tells me to tell you to let your light shine in the halls of Shambala.”

When Matthew told his brother, musician Daniel Moore, those words, something ignited. Daniel felt the magic in that word, Shambala. He wrote the lyrics and the melody in ten minutes while driving. He got home. Grabbed his guitar and five minutes later he had the completed song. It was a channeled miracle, sparked by a woman in a small Massachusetts town who was just trying to be helpful.

I served that Sunday with a secret burning in my heart, information that I truly believe Dorothy Begg wanted her community to finally know. I was more than happy to be her mouthpiece, to stand up and shout it out: You, with no ego, changed the world. How many lives did she touch? Not just through the countless letters she wrote for the price of a postage stamp, but through her unintended contribution to a song that has become a global anthem of light. That song has touched millions, and it all started with one woman’s quiet devotion to the subtle.

And we cannot forget the other half of that divine spark. Daniel Moore, that giftedly open musician: thank you for your willingness to see the magic in a single word and simply write it. It takes a special kind of bravery to stay that open, to hear a word like Shambala and trust the impulse enough to turn it into a melody.

This is why I love and cherish my mediumship. I am deeply honored to give a voice to those who have passed on, bridging the gap between a forgotten letter in 1973 and a lecture hall in the present day.

The pieces came together and formed a song that carried its vibration across decades. All it took was a medium, a letter, and a song.

Here’s to you, Dorothy Begg. I have no doubt your light is shining blindingly bright in the halls of Shambala.