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Growing up psychic with the oddest ability of being able to see the future…
…among other things.
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The Good Gift. A spellbinding coming of age true story about a young girl with an extraordinary ability, and her journey towards becoming one of the world’s top psychics and mediums.
At the age of 3 Margaret Solis has a face-to-face conversation with her Scottish grandmother. This may not seem out of the ordinary in itself, but her grandmother has been dead for 5 years.
As she gets older, Margaret struggles more and more with an ability that seems to continually grow in power and strength. In an attempt to live the ‘normal’ life of a teenager, and a young woman, she tries to ignore and suppress her psychic visions. This is easier thought than done however, as she gradually comes to understand the truth and that the gift is not something you can simply just switch off.
The Good Gift is a memoir with a difference. At its heart, it is an intimate and revealing account of the struggle for self-discovery. Yet it is also much more; a spiritual coming-of-age tale of family bonds, of love and romance, of loss and grief, of eternal friendships, of old traditions and new beginnings.
With amazing insight Margaret gives an inspiring, revealing, and sometimes dark and unbelievable account of living and coping with an unusual gift. Pulling back a veil of secrets, this biography uncovers the power of personal transformation and the inevitability and magic of destiny, and how that impacts all of our lives.
“You are tuning into your psychic channelling—your third eye as some call it. If you can eventually do this at will, you will then get to know the feeling of being truly psychic.”
MARGARET SOLIS
“Life goes on, even after death.”
MARGARET SOLIS
“The impact that using my psychic ability would have on me personally from that day onwards, and the many souls that I would meet, is something that still amazes me to this day.”
MARGARET SOLIS
“I work through the light of positive energy that surrounds and permeates everything. The light that makes the universe whole and absolute.”
MARGARET SOLIS
“There is much we have yet to learn. And to learn to understand.”
MARGARET SOLIS
10% of all profits from sales of this book goes to charity, including; the International Huntington’s Association, Scottish Huntington’s Association, MacMillan Cancer Support and Cancer Research UK
~ in support of the fight against cancer and Huntington’s disease.
Please view the charity section on Margaret’s about page for more information.
“I loved this book and read it in a single evening. Margaret has had an amazing life and this book contains many life stories related to her psychic ability. Fascinating!”
“I was hooked from the first chapter, in the Black Isle, the energy and the emotion is tangible. I couldn’t put the book down. Throughout the journey, you can feel the fun, kindness, but most of all the love of family and importance of good friends.”
“I really enjoyed reading about Margaret’s fascinating life and her amazing psychic gift. It really is a great book which I highly recommend!”
As a writer, Margaret draws on a lifetime lived as a natural psychic and recounts her personal story and experiences. Straight-talking and to the point, she goes into unprecedented detail on living with the gift of being psychic. Sharing unflinching knowledge and wisdom through reader-friendly words, you’ll find she doesn’t disappoint.
Growing up psychic with the oddest ability of being able to see the future… …among other things.
As we rumbled our way over the Kessock Bridge towards the Black Isle on that crisp, cold, November morning, we could see that it was almost entirely shrouded by a thick blanket of heavy mist.
This was my first return to the Isle since my last visit thirty-two years before. Then, I had been just thirteen years old.
As our car drew closer to the place where my grandmother was born—a small, picture-postcard, Scottish coastal village called Avoch—I could now feel my psychic senses starting to spring to life.
The hairs on my arms and the back of my neck were suddenly standing on end, along with the goosebumps that were coursing through my whole body. Completely aware of myself, I instantly began to experience that unmistakable feeling of a familiar electric-like energy that always accompanies my transition into a heightened psychic state. This was all telling me there was another palpable energy in the air. A special energy.
I knew I would begin to see things. Things that others could not see. Things that seem strange and unbelievable to most people, but natural to me.
Accompanied on this visit to the Isle by a photographer and a journalist from one of Scotland’s most popular newspapers—The Sunday Mail—I had recently been offered the position of resident psychic by the editorial team at the newspaper. If I agreed, I would be inheriting the mantle from the wonderful Darlinda, who had written for them for over twenty years.
Sadly, she’d passed away a few months earlier. A first rate psychic, Darlinda had been a good and kind friend to me. It was a sad day for many, the day she passed into spirit.
As one of Scotland’s leading psychics, the newspaper now asked me if I would continue their featured weekly stars and horoscopes. It was a big decision for me. It would be a big step into the limelight, and I was thinking about whether I should do it, or not. The role came with a fair amount of public exposure, and being (for the most part) a very private person, I had to seriously think about how this might impact my life.
I’d already talked to the editor at the newspaper and found out more about the role. In turn, their journalistic team asked me their own questions for a possible feature article—wanting to find out more about what being a psychic entailed, and what it meant to experience my psychic ‘gift’ at a personal level and on a day-to-day basis.
They wanted more of an insight and to share the story about what it means to be part of a family that, for generations, have been gifted with second sight.
And so, in search of answers, along with a reporter and a photographer from the newspaper, I travelled north from Glasgow to the Scottish Highlands. To my ancestral home. To the Black Isle, and the village of Avoch.
As the three of us arrived at the outskirts of the village, I asked for us to stop at the base of a hill that I recognised. I was sure this was the hill where, as a teenager, I had spent most of my care-free spring holiday so many years before. We all got out of the car, and as we did so, the pure and crisp Highland air assaulted our senses. And even though the thickness of the grey mist was limiting what we could see, I followed my psychic instincts and led our small group to the top of that hill. It wasn’t long before we reached the summit and as we did so, almost eerily and on cue, the mist began to clear and the stunning views across the Moray Firth opened up before us. My companions laughed nervously, looking at me with a freaked out look on their faces. A look that I have seen on many an occasion.
I had been hesitant about coming back to the Isle. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Or, what would be expected of me. I knew now that I had nothing to worry about.
As the mist melted away, so did my nerves. We now stood looking out over the incredible views to the Moray Firth from that scenic Avoch hill. I felt I was home again. And, as my nerves started to ease and I relaxed, so did my two companions.
“Can I take a few shots for the feature article Margaret?” asked the photographer.
“Sure, not a problem.” I answered.
And what a perfect place to do so. The camera clicked away, and as we stood in awe of the natural beauty of the Isle, they began asking me questions about my background and what my life was like being a psychic.
I answered their questions as best as I could, and after a short while the journalist turned to me and said:
“Perfect, Margaret, I think we have just about everything we need for the feature.”
“What a magical, breathtaking place this is.”
“Yes it is.” I replied. “The energy here is very special. It is unique.”
Every passing moment we were being deeply touched by the energy of the magical land that surrounded us. I could feel it. I could see it. The energy was there, and it was there in abundance. You could not help but be affected by it in a positive way, and in a way that was good for the soul.
As we made our way back down the hill, I could see that my companions had also been touched by that special energy. They now seemed more aware of who they were, what they were, and why they were. They had been touched by the natural energy of the Isle—whether they knew it or not. As was I.
Before we got back to the car, I had one of my psychic intuitions. And boy, was it strong. Immediately, I indicated to my companions to turn left and walk down towards the village.
Something had tugged at my psychic instinct, telling me to go towards the houses on Avoch’s shorefront.
It had been over three decades since my last visit to Avoch—I wasn’t sure where any of my family lived, or even if any of my relatives still lived here. I decided to trust my psychic instincts, this psychic ‘tug’, and led the way.
We passed dozens of little cottages and detached houses along the shorefront. Then, as we crossed over a small stone bridge, I knew we had arrived. Excitedly, I hurried ahead, and instantly pointed out my grandmother’s old house. I somehow knew that my uncle Tommy’s house was also nearby. We walked six houses down, and before I realised what I was doing, I knocked on the door.
The door was almost instantly swung open by my second cousin, Helen. Looking somewhat shocked to see me, and with a broad Highland accent, she bellowed out my name;
“Maaargaret!”
“Oh my, it is you!”
“Daaaad!… It’s Margaret…” she called behind her to within the house, letting him know they had visitors.
Pleased as punch to see me, my uncle Tommy gallantly introduced himself to my companions. Then, and in his own unique Highland style, promptly began to regale them with the history of Avoch. He wasn’t two minutes into his first story, before he exclaimed:
“Margaret has the gift you know!”
“Aye, she sees those in spirit, she does. And, she can tell you a thing or two about your future. If you care to pay her any heed.”
Uncle Tommy then went on to inform us that my mother and grandmother were also blessed with the gift. My two companions were completely stunned. We hadn’t yet managed to get a word in edgeways, or gotten around to telling my uncle and cousin the reason for our trip up to the Isle.
We continued to enjoy my uncle Tommy and cousin Helen’s hospitality for the rest of that afternoon. As well as copious cups of tea and biscuits.
Conscious of the journey that awaited us to get back to Glasgow, we reluctantly started to say our goodbyes, and just as we were about to leave, I experienced a strong psychic feeling. A psychic lightning bolt you could say. It stopped me in my tracks, but I knew what it was. My cousin and I looked at each other in such a way that I immediately knew she had Huntington’s disease—there was no need for words. She could see it in my eyes. I knew what it meant. Years later, my fears would be sadly confirmed.
It had been a long day, and as we walked back to the car, we decided that we still had enough time to stop off at a local pub in the nearby village of Fortrose for dinner. We took a seat at an old table in the middle of the pub, and just as we were about to order, I spotted an old man sitting in the corner. He winked at me, and as he did so, I laughed and said to the waitress:
“That’s a cheeky wee man with the bunnet in the corner… imagine winking at me at his age!”
The photographer glanced over to where I was indicating. Looking puzzled, he asked me: “What wee man?”
The journalist also glanced over and said: “What man, Margaret? There’s nobody one sitting at that table.”
The waitress, setting another table nearby, heard our conversation and quickly told us that the old man I could see was probably the old ghost of a one-time regular of the former 17th century inn. She explained that the current pub was built on the foundations of that site and over the centuries a ghost-like figure had been seen on occasion in and around the hotel by locals and visitors alike.
As he continued to grin the most mischievous of grins whilst sitting on, what I could tell was his most favourite old rickety chair, no one else seemed to be able to see the cheeky old man. The waitress went about her business as if it was the most normal thing in the world. I took it all in my stride and smiled to myself. I was accustomed to seeing spirit, and it was certainly nothing out of the ordinary for me. Unperturbed, I started to glance over the dinner menu as the old man looked on, his playful grin turning into a warm smile.
My companions, on the other hand, could not believe how casually the people they had so far met on the Isle seemed to easily accept that spirits do, actually, exist.
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Why not tell your friends all about it:
(And remember to rub that Crystal Ball for luck! :)If you haven't already done so, all you need to do now is check your inbox, so jump on over to your emails and look out for an email from me.
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