near death experience – Noreen Lace

Every now and then, someone comes into your life who shifts the way you see the world—quietly, profoundly, and permanently. For me, that person is my dear friend Jo Rousseau. Today, I’m overjoyed to celebrate the publication of her astonishing new book, Translations from the Lost Language of the Universe. You can find it here.

Jo’s story isn’t just remarkable—it’s extraordinary. In 2006, she experienced what doctors call “sudden death,” a moment that cracked open everything she thought she knew. But unlike so many accounts we hear, there was no glowing tunnel, no welcoming light waiting for her. Instead, she felt an expansive sensation—as if she were floating through space itself, untethered and observing existence from a vast, cosmic distance. That experience transformed her, deepened her awareness, and reshaped the way she understands language, connection, and the invisible forces that guide us.

Translations from the Lost Language of the Universe emerges from that shift. It’s a book that lives at the intersection of poetry and revelation—haunting, luminous, and deeply human. Jo writes as if she carries messages back from somewhere most of us have never touched, and the result is a work that feels both intimate and otherworldly.

I am so proud to know her. So grateful that our paths crossed. So lucky to call this marvelous, amazing, truly special woman my friend. Watching her bring this book into the world fills me with joy and awe.

Please join me in celebrating Jo Rousseau and the incredible gift she has given us. Her voice—shaped by experience, resilience, and cosmic wonder—is one we are fortunate to have on this planet.

Some years ago, a lovely new writer appeared one Saturday at the wooden kitchen table of our host’s home where we met regularly for critique group. A woman with long, blonde hair, beautiful blue eyes, who shared that she’d almost drowned.

Being washed into the Pacific undercurrent and sinking down, down, down, in this near death experience, she began to relive certain events in her life, but not from her point of view. She became her mother dealing with a rebellious teenage daughter; she landed in her lover torn to shreds and heartbroken.

She relived the emotions of those whom she had caused pain.

What a gift! Or, maybe, a curse.

This inspired me to wonder if we die the way we live. Death and karma. Was that lovely woman a selfish, thoughtless human, and her experience was to feel that pain she’d caused others?

If you’re a horrible human being, do you die a slow painful death? If you allowed kittens to suffocate, do you die gasping for breath?

I know someone who caused a lot of pain to others and he developed a disorder, later in life, in which every little bump would bruise and swell in painful edemas. A callous could glow into an infection. He spent the last years of his life in more pain that he might of caused.

However, I know plenty of lovely humans who have died in unfavorable circumstances. Certainly, that wasn’t karma.

I choose to move through this life causing as little pain and unhappiness as possible.

But it’s not because of the fear of death. It’s not even the fear of karma. There is so much pain and vexation in this world already – I don’t need to add any more to anyone’s life. I’d rather add laughter, happiness, joy. Not that I always succeed. This still is life.

I remember that woman from our critique group, her story, her presence because she yelled at me. Upon reading my story, the group began to respond. She became outraged and began gesticulating wildly. “You can’t write this. This will hurt people. You will pay for this. You can’t write this.”

I reflected on this and asked the group – after she was removed by our host – does my story lack empathy?

I attempt to create characters and stories that express the range of human emotions, the best of which teeter on the axis of sympathy and empathy. My writing partners and my readers believe I’ve achieved that.

I believe in karma in some sense. I believe what we put out there, we receive back in one way or another. Maybe death is random. Maybe not.