By Christine Schultz
It was December 2000 when I landed in Los Angeles from Milwaukee. Tom was in the terminal waiting with a wine bag over his shoulder. He greeted me warmly, we sat, and he poured the chilled champagne into two crystal flutes. After excitedly chatting and drinking champagne, we walked to his car and jumped into the midnight blue ‘68 GTO (top down). Kennedy was etched into the side wing-windows. “Maybe this was Bobby Kennedy’s car?” I thought. The white leather, patina-tinged, left me wondering who had sat in it before. Camelot, an Arthurian fantasy, what was this? I felt like a 1960’s movie star as we drove across L.A., and then up to the top of Adam’s Hill on its winding streets. I was in sunny California in December, and adored by a handsome, successful TV producer. Life was good.
A pagoda bridge led us inside the house on top of Adam’s Hill. The westward facing balcony stretched its length overlooking Los Angeles and beyond to the Pacific. Tom loved the house; he felt like he could see out over the whole city. It was quite a bird’s eye view.
Downstairs was the media room and the jaw-dropping wine cellar with Bordeaux, Burgundy and other bottles from Napa, Argentina, Italy and Australia. Some were dusty old and some were new. On New Year’s Eve, 2001, Tom’s chef friend from Spago cooked dishes to match some of Tom’s wine collection. On January first, we had breakfast with more champagne as we laughed about all the raucous moments of the night before. Over the next years, dinner parties continued and chefs from other famous restaurants, including the Playboy mansion, came to prepare gourmet several-course meals paired with Tom’s wines. Life was good -- until it wasn’t.
Excess and addiction had taken the reins, and they were charging ahead and out of control. I left him. Things continued to spiral for Tom, and even though I had left, we were inexplicably connected. I kept trying to “save” him.
It was October 2006, I was in a parking garage walking to a day conference when I got the call. Screaming, “NO!”, I jumped into my Saab and sped up the winding road to the house on top of Adam’s Hill. I rushed past the police and ambulance vehicles and over the pagoda bridge to the front door where the Spago chef caught me and said, “Don’t go in, you don’t want to see him like this.” Tom was wheeled past me on a gurney, inside a body bag.
A year after that fateful day at the house on top of Adam’s Hill, I awoke to the sound of an eagle screaming. I had had a vision, and I saw Tom in a place that was other-wordly. We spoke, he assured me that he was free, ecstatic, and in bliss. He was in and out of dimensions, and the eagle was his way of meeting with me in the 3D. Tom relieved my grief and guilt by explaining that I never did have the power to change what was happening.
After that, I attended shamanic energy circles, sought healers, studied, and traveled the world. The experiences were transformative and mystical. I became devoted to wisdom studies. I integrated what I was learning and developed a practice. This attracted people who sought my guidance. I found working with others to be a natural extension of my personal practice. Now, when I look at things, I try to see them from the perspective of being at the top of Adam’s Hill, with clarity and eagle’s vision.