nonfiction – Page 3 – One Woman's Quest

One Thing

Sipping my second cup of morning tea, I breathe in the solitude that nature dropped on my doorstep overnight: great mounds of white, silently commanding the world to a halt. The tea is extra sweet and warming when accompanied by the luxury of leisure time.

Shaking off the frayed edges of yesterday’s insanity, I contemplate a more relaxed day – some laundry that has needed tending to all week, a few hours of schoolwork, and maybe even an apple crumble.

The snow continues to fall outside my window, softly, without a sign of letting up and I rise from my last sip and stretch, lingering to revel in the majestic beauty of the landscape before me.

Yesterday, everything was chaos, or so it seemed. The wind was howling and a cold sleet constantly beat against the windows, and indoors, the students were restless, hyper, inattentive, and I was short on patience. There is always a multitude of things happening at any time in my room: students writing tests, students working on past due assignments, students looking for refuge from out of control classrooms, and, of course, my own class. My own class, who would not settle; could not settle, as it was Friday, and the weather report promised snow, and it is only a month to Christmas, and Do we really have to read?! And as I hushed them for the third or fourth time, all hell broke loose as a face pressed up against our classroom window: the face of a missing member of my flock, not warm and contained in my room, but running wild outside with two other truants.

I sigh, and glance outside again at the marvel that is the first snowfall. Untouched purity. And I cozy inside.

The laundry is scattered about the house in various stages of completion. Some sorted and ready for washing, some wrinkled in the dryer awaiting rescue, and some folded in baskets wishing to be put away. It is symbolic of my life, I realize, that nothing ever really gets completed. The too many demands of my job eat away at my attention until there is nothing left to offer any one task, and so none of it is done properly, and I am left exhausted, and discontented, wondering if anything I do is of value.

Today, I will finish the laundry, and not leave any remnants, and I will clean up the kitchen, and bake that crumble, and get work done, because I can. And I will feel the satisfaction that comes with being able to do one thing at a time: the satisfaction of completing a task.

Thank goodness for Mother Nature’s intervention, and the subtle reminder to value the simple times.

If only I could bring this serenity into my everyday life.

Choosing Self Love

The day was sickly hot, and my allergies were bugging me. I just wanted to hunker down in the corner of my room and lose myself in a good book, but when I tried the back door, it was locked. I knocked. No response. I knocked harder and longer.

The door swung open angrily, and my oldest sister yelled for me to get lost, slamming it in my face.

I knocked again, more persistently.

She opened again hissing at me: “Seriously, V.J.! You need to stay away, or Mom will kill herself.”

“But it’s hot and I don’t feel well. Please let me come in.”

“No way! Mom can’t handle anything else.” She slammed the door again. I heard the lock slide into place. I slumped down on the step, thinking over what she had said. Was it really possible for me to be the cause of my mother’s suicide? The rest of the family, save for my Dad, were inside. I was the only one locked out. Was I really that bad of a kid?

That was the day I learned that I could be responsible for another person’s well-being. I wasn’t yet eight years of age.

* * *

“I am not a very good daughter,” I explained to the therapist I had been seeing. I was thirty-seven and having difficulty with my own daughter, so I sought help.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, I upset my mother and she hasn’t spoken to me for a week.”

“You think you are that powerful?”

“Pardon me?”

“You actually believe that you can influence how someone feels?”

I hadn’t thought of it that way. “You mean, my mother’s reaction is out of my control?”

“Exactly.”

* * *

“My husband tends not to look after himself when I am away.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

Eighteen years later and I am back in therapy again. Situational anxiety and depression is the diagnosis. I feel like I have regressed.

“Guilty.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, if I was home I know he would be cared for.”

“So you are responsible for his choices?”

“No….well…..I guess that is what I am saying. Shit! How do I let this go?!”

“You will not always agree with the choices that your husband makes, but you can at least let him have responsibility for them.”

“That makes sense, so why is it so difficult for me?”

“It’s really about control. Somehow you believe that if you can control the other person’s behaviour, then everything will be all right. It never works, of course, but it’s a product of growing up in an out-of-control family environment. It’s part of being a people pleaser.”

I thought I had dealt with all this years ago, and said so.

“The subconscious tries to heal those parts of self that are still wounded, so it repeats patterns. The secret is in re-parenting yourself. This need for control is a reflection of a childhood need that wasn’t met.”

“Like the part of me that thought she was responsible for my mother’s suffering?”

“Yes. As an adult now, you need to offer that little person a different perspective. What would you tell that little girl now?”

“Well, I would sit down on that porch step with her and explain that whatever her mother was going through was not her fault. I would tell her that her sister was coping with a bad situation, and that it was not related to her behaviour. None of it was her fault.”

“That is a good start. Can you see anything else that the child might be missing in this scenario?”

“Caring for. I was hot and tired and needed shelter. I probably needed some comfort too.”

“So how will you give that to her?”

I think this over. Am I good at looking after myself? Occasionally, but not always. “Why is looking after myself so difficult?”

“You tell me.”

I look back at the little girl locked out of her house, and I suddenly know.

“She doesn’t think she deserves to have her needs met,” I realize. “I still don’t think my needs matter. Others are always more important.”

“So who should you be responsible for?” the therapist asks gently.

“Me. And her. She needs me to take care of us.”

“Can you do that?”

“It’s the only choice that makes sense.”

(Image: hdimagelib.com)

Bathroom Inspirations

“Meditation will open whole new worlds for you,” the psychic proclaimed.

“I know nothing about it. How do I start?” I was really just being polite. Dragged to this session unwittingly – I thought we were going to be playing euchre – I didn’t want to burst my friends’ bubbles by telling them how skeptical I was.

“It’s really very simple. Find a place and time where you know you won’t be interrupted, clear your mind, and focus on the center of your being.”

Really simple. I decided to try it, since the woman had said a few things that hit home. Maybe she was right about this too.

Step one turned out to be a problem. I was twenty-eight years old, and pregnant with baby number three. Finding a consistent time and place to practice meditation was a challenge. If and when the girls did nap at the same time, I would use those moments to do laundry, prepare a meal, or try to catch a few winks myself.

“Make time,” she had insisted when I told her about my busy schedule. “It is up to you.”

I felt so inadequate as a spiritual being, and at the same time driven to prove I could do it. I grabbed every minute of solitude that I could find. I would learn to practice the art at the drop of a hat. I would become super meditator.

The psychic was right. I had profound revelations, and discovered a new source of wisdom from within. It was amazing.

“Doing it in the same place, and at the same time, communicates your intent to the subconscious, unleashing the inner wisdom,” she had explained.

It was true. With practice, every time I went to my meditation place I would experience that connection, and sometimes even without seeking it, insights would flow.

Then one day, an amazing thing happened. I was out for lunch with a business associate and we were trying to figure out a mutual problem. Neither one of us could find a solution, until I excused myself and went to the Ladies’ room.

Clarity overcame me before I could even flush the toilet, and as I excitedly revealed the answer to my colleague, I marveled at how easily the idea came to me……in the bathroom…..the same place where I practiced meditation at home.

It seems that my subconscious mind is not particular about which bathroom I use. Now I experience inspiration when nature calls.

Synchronicity

Daylight had just begun to creep into the night sky when an insistent tapping woke me. Fighting against the fog of sleep, my mind struggled to identify the source of the sound. It was coming from a window, across the room. A small bird was tapping frantically on the windowsill. Silly bird, I thought. You don’t want in here.

Awake now, I decided to start my day. In two weeks I would be going away on a much anticipated retreat. I had things to do. As it was a Sunday, I would have several hours to myself before the kids awoke and the day got underway. Thanks, little bird, I thought.

The next day, I was already waking up by the time my little friend arrived, tapping once again on the same window. He flew into a nearby bush as I made my way to my car a little later, and when I started the engine, he flew onto my side mirror and cocked his head at me. I laughed out loud. “You can’t stay there,” I scolded. “I have to drive to work.” Stubbornly, he rode down the driveway with me and then flew away as I turned onto the street.

We were to become best buddies for the next two weeks, he greeting me every morning, then riding with me on the car. When I’d return in the late afternoon, he’d be back to greet me again. Mom’s friend, the kids called him. “Why is he doing that?” they’d ask. “I have no idea.” I’d respond, but I had a feeling I’d find out soon enough.

* * * * *

Time came to set out for the retreat. Three of us were traveling together and stopping for the night on the way. We chose a cute little town with a promising looking little restaurant where we could get a gourmet meal. I chose the Duck. Never having had duck before, I didn’t know what to expect. The grease from the bird kept me up all night with stomach pains, and prompted a number of jokes about sitting ducks, and Duck! and so on, all night.

We arrived at the retreat center just before dinner the next day. The cabins were rustic, but the setting was idyllic. Our cabin was set back in the woods, not far from a stream with a waterfall. The beauty and serenity of the setting instantly filled me with calm.

The bell for dinner sounded, and my friends and I made our way to the dining hall. A line had formed along the entrance way, which doubled as a book store. “Oh good,” my friend Sandy exclaimed. “I want to shop for books.”

I was not as interested. I’d spent all my money getting here, so I would practice some restraint. I turned my back on the books to avoid temptation, but just as I did, someone tried to pass, and I knocked a shelf. I caught a book mid tumble. It was open, and as I glanced at the page, I was startled to see the picture of my little bird looking back up at me. I gasped.

“Remember the bird I told you about?” I exclaimed to my friends. “This is it.”

“What does it say?”

The caption read: “If this bird has shown up in your life, it is bringing you the message of…….”

Shaken, I put the book back. The message I just read was no coincidence. I couldn’t concentrate all through dinner. I had to know the rest.

The book, Animal Speak, by Ted Andrews, said that the bird that had been following me was a cowbird, and that cowbirds speak to the issue of abandonment in childhood. Andrews said if this bird had shown up in your life, it was time to deal with those issues. I was dumbfounded, and trembling, but at the same time, there was no better place for healing.

* * *

I awoke the next morning before sunrise, and slipped out of the cabin quietly. There was just enough light to see the outline of a path. A movement in the brush alarmed me, until I saw that it was a bird that flew just ahead of me. I followed. The bird flew ahead a bit further. I continued on the same route. The bird settled on a branch of a tree, and I approached it as if being beckoned. The tree stood on the bank of a stream. Without daylight, everything was imbued with an eerie light, almost other worldly. I decided this was as a good a place as any to meditate on my findings from the day before.

Taking a few deep cleansing breaths, I opened my awareness to the beauty of my surroundings. Immediately, I became aware of another presence; a presence I had not felt for many years: the divine feminine. My heart filled with deep longing, and sorrow, as tears rushed down my cheeks. My issue of abandonment.

Why did you abandon me? my heart cried.

I did not abandon you, the voice was gentle, loving. It was you who abandoned me.

It was true. I had become so entrenched in the pursuit of material happiness, I had neglected my spiritual roots.

I never left you. I felt myself surrounded in a warm embrace, and sobbed. I cried for all the years lived in a vacuum, striving to please others, and be good enough, yet lonely, incomplete. I cried for the arrogance that made me think I didn’t need this connection, and for the ingratitude that I had shown.

Mother, I had called her as a child. She was a loving, patient presence that was always there for me: her voice the subtle changes of the wind, her essence a sudden release of fragrance. She spoke to me through signs and omens, but mostly through birds.

Birds. Birds had brought me back to her.

Hope, renewal, rejuvenation, and love filled me. My feet barely touched the ground as I skipped back to the cabin, daylight just starting to greet the day.

“Tell your bird friend we don’t need the wake up call,” one roommate grumbled at me as I opened the door. “She’s been tapping at the window since 6.”

Sure enough, she was there again as we made our way to breakfast, following along and finding a perch just outside our window. Then, as if she had waited, she followed us across the grounds to the gathering place, where we would be studying for the day with Delores Krieger.

Synchronicity is the Universe’s way of telling you, you are on the right track, Delores offered.

At lunch, I looked up the species of bird: catbird.

” The presence of a catbird as a totem indicates you will be encountering a wider range of people than you are normally in contact with …..With the catbird as a totem, look for new people coming into your life that will teach you lessons in your ability to communicate.”

It made sense. The focus of the retreat was how to teach therapeutic touch, and it appeared that I was renewing old forms of communication as extracurricular.

I was feeling the synchronicity.

(Image: abundanthope.net)

Questioning

Every Sunday, dressed in our church clothes (matching dresses that mom had sewn herself) we girls were ushered off to service. Dad rushed us so that he could get a decent parking spot – one that would permit a hasty exit when it was all over. He didn’t want to waste his day hanging around that place any longer than he had to.

At eight years of age, I marvelled at how different everyone was on this day. The crabby old lady from next door, who spent all week terrorizing the children of the neighbourhood, arrived in formal attire, with her little pillbox hat and matching gloves, and sweetness plastered across her face. Another neighbour, who everyone knew drank too much and beat his children, was greeted as if he himself was free of sin. On Sundays, I observed, we all became new people.

I chose to sit in the main church for the sermon as I never quite got the concept of Sunday School. Seemed to me we never learned anything, and most days we just coloured pictures related to some story that made no sense. That’s not to say I understood the sermon either. The minister kept referring to God as He, which would set my mind to wondering. My experience of God existed right back to my earliest memories, and that being was more feminine than masculine. I could not relate to the He the minister kept talking about. Could I have been so wrong? Is it possible that the minister had it wrong?

“What is the point of church, anyway?” I asked my parents one day. “Seems to me it is hypocritical.”

“Sunday is the day that we worship our Lord,” my mother said. “We dress up and show respect in His name.”

“Well, what about the rest of the week? Is it okay to be nasty the rest of the week? Doesn’t God watch us then? Shouldn’t we be living in respect of God all week long?” I didn’t mention the gender thing.

“She makes a good point,” my father added.

“That’s the way it’s always been done,” my mother shrugged.

We stopped going to church, but my quest for spiritual understanding didn’t stop there. I invited myself to my friend’s churches, and discovered stricter creeds, and attitudes of superiority and exclusiveness.

Organized religion, from my perspective, tells one what to believe, rather than encouraging one’s own relationship with the divine. As a child, I had a deep and very real connection with something that was beyond the ordinary – a loving, yet omnipotent power.

Now, I seek a return to the sense of wonder of life, to the simplicity of knowing that there is a presence or meaning that transcends the mundane, and the security of believing in that force. I crave goodness, and a harmonious state of being. I want to know inner peace.

Criticism Be Gone!

I was forty before I could finally ask my mother about her constant criticism of me growing up. We were alone together, in the car, driving out of town. I had her undivided attention.

th-4 “Help me to understand, something,” I prefaced the conversation. “When I was young, you always told me no one would ever love me. What was that about?”

“I didn’t say it to be mean,” she explained and I believed her. My mother was not typically a malicious person. “It’s just that you were so different from your sisters, and I was afraid for you. I thought I was helping you by preparing you for the inevitable.”

“But why, Mom? What was it about me that you thought was unloveable?”

“You were just so smart, and independent minded……” she trailed off. “I guess I thought that men don’t like smart women.”

“Do you understand that I heard what you said to mean that I was impossible to love?”

“Oh my God, that is not what I intended at all! Of course you are loveable. You are compassionate and kind, and you deserve to be loved. I thought I was preparing you, that’s all. You were just so different, and I thought I had to protect you. I never meant for you to think you weren’t loveable.”

She paused in reflection.

“When the school came to us and told us they had done some testing and wanted to send you to a special school for the gifted, I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle it. Your father was all for it, but all I could think about was how would you fit in, and who would ever love you. I guess I thought I was helping. You were an enigma to me.”

Mother’s criticism of me was born out of fear and ignorance; my acceptance of her harsh words was a reflection of my need for her approval.

I understood. Within the context of my mother’s upbringing and beliefs, I did not fit the mold. She was merely expressing fear related to her own limitations. Unfortunately, for the first forty years of my life, I lived out my mother’s legacy, choosing partners who were incapable of loving me.

My mother was not the only one to be critical of my intellectual abilities. “Everyone hated you,” a drunken cousin once confessed to me, then added, “but I don’t know why – you’re so nice.” Classmates called me Browner, implying that I only got good grades because I ‘kissed up’ to the teachers. Even close friends have commented that I’m not really that smart.

By listening to the criticism, I began to devalue myself. Driven by a need to be accepted, I started to act dumb. Better to deny self than to be criticized, right?

Wrong!

Embracing criticism and taking it to heart is ultimately a sin against the self. We are each uniquely created, and destined, and it is only through accepting our differences, and nurturing them, that we can truly be fulfilled.

th-3 Rejecting criticism is the first step to living authentically, and the only hope for living purposefully and to full potential.

Armed with this new understanding, I will stop apologizing for who I am. I will let go of the need for praise from others, and recognize that their criticism is more about their process than mine, and let it be. I will celebrate who I am by committing to my own process, and focusing on my goals and gifts.

I will finally start living.

Whale Dreaming

I dream:

We are in an open row boat, crossing a river, when I see a dark shape in the water below. “That looks like a whale” I say. “But how can it be?” Yet as I watch the figure pass and emerge from the water, my suspicions are confirmed: it is a whale. It breaks free of the water and appears like a cartoon of a whale hovering over the river. “We are on the St Lawrence” Ric offers, and I understand, but how did we get here?

Back home, my cousin drops by. “I have rented a cottage in PEI, and I’m looking for someone to join me,” she says. “I’ll put the word out,” I respond before realizing that I could join her. Why not? “I was hoping for that,” she smiles. We make our plans – whether to go by car or fly. I am excited. “You can see whales from the shore,” I exclaim.

Well, whales are different from snakes, and hopefully, an improvement. We have been whale-watching twice, and both times it has been incredible, and awe-inspiring. Whales are gentle creatures, despite their size. To be close to a whale is to marvel at the power and grace of Nature.

So why whales?

Dreams bring us symbols and metaphors that speak to what lies below our conscious, ego, selves. For the past seven months, my husband has been battling cancer as well as trying to heal from two accidents, and now four surgeries. Up until a few weeks ago, we have both attempted to keep up with the normal pace of life, but the pressure has broken me, and I have succumbed to the stress. I am exhausted by the emotional and psychological strain, physically incapable of keeping up.

It is as if we are crossing a wide river in an open row boat – crossing a wide, unknown river, with little protection from the elements – yes, that is how it feels. We keep going even though we feel inadequate and we aren’t quite sure we know where this is leading us.

It is as if a large creature lurks in the water below us. That large creature could be cancer, loss of life, or healing and renewal. We have no way of knowing right now. In the dream, it looks like a whale, but it ends up being a cartoon caricature of a whale. Does that mean that my imagination has got the better of me, or that what appears to be so overwhelming will, in the end, seem trivial?

It is as if I have an opportunity to travel to P.E.I. with my cousin. The cousin in my dream was one I looked up to and admired. She suffered ill health for much of her life, but maintained an attitude of quiet acceptance until her death at the age of 53. To have the chance to spend some time with her would give me new perspective and understanding. P.E.I is not a place I have ever visited, but have been interested in. It exemplifies simplicity and rural peacefulness, although my brother says it is too commercial. He thwarted my one attempt to visit P.E.I. by rerouting me to Grand Manan, an island in the Bay of Fundy. I definitely watched whales off the coast of this tiny island, and they accompanied our ferry ride to and fro. It was the highlight of my trip.

So how does this dream apply to my life right now? In the dream, I seem to lack clarity, not picking up on the signals and opportunities. I am not aware of where I am, and question what I see, and when opportunity does come my way, I am slow on the uptake.

I do feel confused, and lacking clarity right now. I worry that I am not taking the right course of action, and that I might be missing out on important opportunities. While my husband seems to know where we are, I do not have my bearings.

In the dream, I am hoping to see whales. How is this a metaphor for my life? I want to experience the numinous – I want to feel the presence of something larger than life, something so magnificent that it will make me stop in awe and believe again.

I need a sign or an omen that will waken me from this nightmare of survival and remind me once again, that while this is one ‘whale of a tale’ that we are living, it only a moment in the greater scheme of things. I need to be reminded of the miracle of Nature.

I need to remove myself from the constant churning of fear and anxiety and retreat to a place where time stands still and simplicity is the norm. I need to slow down and let my heart calm.

(Image: sam1311415102.blogspot.com)

Mastery

“Why can’t I play hockey, Mom?”

John and I were watching boy after boy try to shoot a puck through a hole punched out of the middle of a cardboard goalie. It was a fundraising event for his older sisters’ school.

Truth was, I didn’t have a good answer; I just didn’t like the violence that playing hockey entailed. How could I tell him that? At four-years-old, John was already demonstrating a natural athletic talent. Did I have a right to choose sports for him?

“Tell you what,” I offered, “If you can hit a puck through that hole, I’ll let you play hockey.”

The odds were in my favour. So far no one had been able to do it.

John shot four out of five.

As a goalie, he excelled at shutouts. His quick reflexes and ability to anticipate his opponents moves served him well.

My fears about hockey were never founded. John himself dropped out once body contact became part of the sport. He had found a new passion to focus on: skateboarding.

For fifteen years now, John has practiced diligently, pushing himself through the fear and pain, to become an accomplished skateboarder. To onlookers he is “The King”, gliding through any course with grace and ease. He makes it look so simple.

Only John knows how hard he has worked to hone this skill: hour upon hour, overcoming disappointment and frustration, always willing to try again. He talks about a ‘zone’ – a state of mind – that he strives for, which helps him maintain balance and focus. His art is very disciplined.

When John rides the board, he is free. A freedom only someone who has mastered the art of movement can understand.

Best Laid Plans

The man seated across the table pried me with questions.

“Who played Wendy?” he asked. “Was it you?”

I nodded.

“And who played the Hooker?”

“Also me.”

“Really,” he drew the word out as if chewing on it. “Both you?”

We were celebrating closing night at a local eatery. My questioner was not a familiar face amongst our usual theatre crowd, but I could tell by the way others were addressing him that he held some position of esteem.

“Have you done a lot of acting?” he persisted.

“High school, mostly.” I loved acting, and had contemplated pursuing it at University. Just recently, I had purchased a ticket to travel to Great Britain. It was my plan to investigate theatre school there, hopefully Shakespearean.

“I am currently writing a play that you would be perfect for, if you are interested. You have heard of me?”

I recognized him now – playwright and critic. He was well-known in our area, although this was my first meeting.

“I’m flattered,” and I was. “I am leaving for England shortly.”

“Of course you are. It would be a shame to waste that talent locally. If you have a change of mind, look me up, will you?”

The play had gone well. Even though I had bit parts, apparently I had made an impression. Maybe there was hope for me. I looked forward to the future.

The date of my departure was fast approaching. Disillusioned with life in my hometown, I was anxious to explore the world and embrace adventure. To celebrate my move, my sisters threw a party.

Seven years older than me, Mae is a classic beauty with dark eyes, and a perfectly sculpted face draped with beautiful flowing brunette hair. She stands 5′ 8″ and has curves in all the right places. I was used to being eclipsed by Mae’s presence, but she made up for it in sweetness.

My other sister, Lily, was eleven years my senior. Also a brunette, she was a fireball, who commanded attention and rivaled Mae for attention.

I shrank into a corner and disappeared into my dreams. This was not my crowd. Apart from a fellow I had been casually dating and a mutual friend of my sisters, I really didn’t know these people. Just when I thought the night was a total loss, I heard a knock at the door.

I opened it to find Stewart at the door. Stewart was one of Mae’s many suitors, and I knew he’d be disappointed. Mae’s current boyfriend was also here. I offered him a drink and some friendly conversation. I felt bad for him.

“I’m headed to England,” I offered. Stewart had a very distinct British accent.

“When?”

“In three weeks.”

“Really? I’m headed to England in three weeks. Where are you flying into?”

“Heathrow.”

“Me too!”

“What date?”

“What date are you going?”

“The 19th.”

“Me too!”

“No way! You are flying to England on the 19th!”

“Yes, I am. We might be on the same flight.”

I have to admit, he had me going. Turned out he was just playing with me. Always fun to tease the little sister.

I busied myself in the kitchen, playing hostess. Stewart made his move on Mae.

Last to arrive was the last to leave. Mae had already left with her beau, and Lily was nowhere in sight. I escorted Stewart to the door, where he paused before stepping out and turning around to face me, leaning in for a kiss.

“Good night,” he whispered leaving me alone and slightly stunned.

What had just happened?

“Don’t pay it any mind,” Mae told me the next day. “He has a crush on me.”

I knew she was right, but it was me that Stewart invited out later that day.

Our courtship was a whirlwind race against the ticking of the clock and my imminent departure. Stewart made me laugh, and caused my heart to flutter. I couldn’t sleep, didn’t care to eat, and was certain that this was love.

He was all I could think of while in England, and I wrote to him everyday – long, lengthy letters oozing with mush. When I’d received no reply, I finally called him. He hadn’t received one letter. I had sent them care of Mae, and she had forgotten to check the mail. I couldn’t stand the emotional turmoil.

I came home.

Stewart and I would later marry and have three children, ending a seventeen year relationship in a bitter divorce.

I always wonder what might have happened, had I stayed in Britain, but I have never regretted the gift of my three children.

Isn’t it miraculous that life turns out the way it does, despite our plans to the contrary?

(Image: afadedromantic.wordpress.com)

Dragon Energy

Referred by her priest, a young woman made an appointment to see me.

“It’s urgent!”

She arrived the next day, and I could see by her movements that she was in distress. No more than thirty, the woman looked tired, and something else – afraid?

In keeping with my preferred practice, I had requested that she not reveal any details of her situation to me in advance. I prefer to start with a clean slate, no expectations or assumptions to confuse me.

I asked her if she had ever had energy work done before. She had not.

“I’ll explain as I go along,” I suggested. “First, make yourself comfortable.”

She chose to lay face down on the treatment table, and I began my preliminary assessment. There was clearly a barrier of some sort in the field. If you meet with resistance, it is usually yours, Delores Krieger’s words echoed in my mind. I started again, this time moving my hands further from the surface of her body. No change. Maybe I am too forceful, I thought. Intentionally, I focused on being whisper gentle. The energy bounced back at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But this does not seem to be working. Are you open to trying a different approach?” I had just studied third degree Reiki, and while my experiences with it were limited, I didn’t know what else to do.

I moved her to a chair, and explained that whatever was happening was between herself and whatever she deemed God to be. “The process which I am about to do, will help you make that connection, so that you can ask for what you need. Are you okay with this?”

She nodded ‘yes’ and I instructed her further as to how we would proceed. I invited her to close her eyes and breathe deeply as she concentrated on what she needed. Then I began.

The ritual doesn’t take longer than fifteen minutes, and when I indicated that we were finished, she opened her eyes clearly revealing that she wasn’t convinced.

I didn’t know what else to say.

Two weeks later, she called again. “That thing that you did, how often can you do it? Is it too soon to have another?”

When she arrived this time, she was animated, almost excited. With no preliminaries needed, we moved right into the treatment. This time she had tears in her eyes at the end.

“I felt it!” she said quietly. She asked to come back in two weeks.

“I can feel it wearing off days before I come,” she told me on her next arrival.

“How does it feel?” I was curious. This was fairly new to me too.

“It’s hard to describe, but I somehow feel more vital, alive, and then I feel myself becoming tired again just before I’m due to come back.”

Then she really caught my attention.

“I was supposed to be dead by now.”

The woman explained that she had been diagnosed with a rare terminal ailment, and given two weeks to live. A single mother and business owner, she wasn’t ready to give up, so she visited her priest, who then referred her to me as a last resort.

“The treatment for my disorder takes a month to work, and I was too far gone, so I needed a miracle.”

Reiki employs symbols that access different forces, one of which is the dragon. I have never really been able to define what this energy is other than to note that is often connected to breakthroughs.

Last time I saw her, my client continues to run her business and enjoys watching her own daughter blossom into a young lady.