Returning to OZ

This post is a continuation from the last one I wrote, so in case you’d like the back story, you’ll find it here.

I’d considered enrolling on a course to find out all about radionics – the mysterious alternative therapy my grandfather OZ had practised, before I was born.  But that would mean waiting until the autumn, and my curiosity had been stirred…

‘Just by chance’ (regular readers of this blog will know I consider all events to be meaningful and never random coincidences!) these thoughts coincided with a particularly nasty flare-up of the IBS that has plagued me on and off for the last ten years.  So why not find myself a radionics practitioner and try it out for myself?

I’ll preface this by saying that I am NOT going to become all evangelical about this treatment.  I’m aware that it has been banned in the United States, will be considered pure rubbish by many and could well not suit others.  All I know is that my grandfather, some 50 years deceased, had seen fit to reach out to me to make me aware of this modality.  No doubt he has many other important things to do in spirit, therefore I’m aware that he must have a very good reason to alert me to its existence and value to me and our family.

I sat with the list of accredited practitioners before me.  As it’s a remote treatment, it didn’t matter where they were geographically, so who to choose?

Prompted by the website, I dowsed over the list, to find the right person for me.  Sure enough, one name jumped out.  I emailed the lady and, a few days later, we were in contact and working together.

Was she the right choice for me?  Absolutely.  A down-to-earth, plain-speaking, no-nonsense lady with a background in alopathic and psychological healing who turned to radionics because it did what – in her opinion – other treatments didn’t.

She was clearly used to some initial scepticism in her clients.  “I work with the subtle bodies as well as the physical,” she told me.  “Does that mean anything to you?”

I assured her that it did, and I was delighted to hear it.  The more she told me, the more convinced I became that this had been a great choice.  I also kept thinking, ‘OZ knew all this.  He believed in all the things I believe in.’  It made me feel so close to him.

I’ve had four sessions with my practitioner now.  She’s working in subtle ways to fine-tune and help my body to heal.  One one hand she’s telling me she has sent healing to strengthen the connection between my etheric and astral bodies, on the other, she’s telling me to avoid the brand of soya milk I’d been using because she’d dowsed that it contained GM soya which was irritating my intestinal tract.  (I hadn’t told her the brand I used, but when I checked, she was right!  The company had recently reversed their policy of only using non GM products.  I swapped to a still non-GM brand and within two days felt much better.)

I tried to get a dear friend, with some severe mental health challenges to try radionics, but he didn’t feel it was right for him at this point.  My daughter, though, is very eager to see whether it will help her to deal with the PTSD which still causes problems for her, and so it moves on down the family line.

Interestingly, when she and my grandchildren came to stay with me last week, the children both commented – for the first time ever – on OZ’s portrait.
“Who is that man?” asked the 7 year old. “I like him. Sometimes he smiles at me.”
“Yes, he’s nice,” agreed the 4 year old. “He winked at me yesterday.”

Neither of them saw anything strange in that and although when you look at the drawing ‘logically’, his eyes are staring to the right, we only need a slight shift in focus to connect with this ancestor who has stepped in for a while to connect with, and help heal his family.

 

 

 

It’s All Electric…

Yes, I’ve had conversations with ‘dead’ people from time to time.  I certainly don’t seek them out, but there are times they need to share information, and the fact that we are currently on opposite sides of the veil doesn’t seem to matter much in my case.  I’ve never heard from OZ before, though, so the fact that he’s now keen to chat is rather intriguing.

I call him OZ because those were his initials.  In life (well, his most recent one) we didn’t see much of each other, despite the fact that he was my paternal grandfather.  He is a shadowy figure in my memory.  I have one clear image of him bending down, laughing and holding out his arms to welcome me into his home as a very small child.  I hear a soft, gentle voice with a mid-European accent.  I have old black and white photos of him cradling an infant me in his arms or standing proudly in family photos.  I have his writing desk and a much-loved pastel portrait of him as a young man, which hangs in my living room, but that’s about it.

His origins were shadowy, too.  He was a barber-surgeon (amongst the tools of his trade was an amputation saw, which my ex-husband now uses for joinery!) and as far as I know, he grew up in Bohemia, or modern day Czechia/Czech Republic in a small mountain town very close to the German border.  As a young man, he emigrated to London and married a policeman’s daughter.

When I was a child we visited his home often enough, but my brother and I were always left outside in the car, as apparently OZ was too ill to cope with children.  I often wondered whether he wanted to see us as much as I wanted to see him.  The snippets of his life I managed to pick up fascinated me.  I heard how he’d take my dad and his brothers foraging in Epping Forest, always knowing which mushrooms were safe and delicious.  I learned from Dad his way of using hands-on healing to cure migraines.  In fact, I learned so well, that I was one of the few people Dad would trust to touch him when he was suffering from one.  Apparently I ‘had the touch’.

My mother once told me of a strange healing machine she’d seen OZ use.  She said he would turn lots of dials and knobs on some electrical contraption and could even cure people at a distance.

Oz died when I was 8 or 9.  I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral.

I’ve always felt we’d have got along well.  Like him, I’m the family weirdo – a bit of an embarassment to the rest with my interests in all things numinous and metaphysical.  Maybe they kept us apart for a reason…

 

So anyway, last week I received an email from a friend who is deeply interested in diet and its effects on the body at all levels.  One phrase in the email stuck in my mind: “It’s all electric – PH.”  I thought I’d written back, asking for clarification, but apparently the message wasn’t sent.

A few days later I was listening to an hour-long video talk from an American sound healer.  It was basically a sales pitch for an upcoming course she’ll be running; the usual stuff, with long, rambling introduction and minimal amounts about the modality itself, because she wants you to buy into the course.  There were nuggets of information in there, though.  She was talking about subtly altering the resonance of the electrical field around the body.  “It’s all electrical,” she said, pointing out that we even use electricity to jump-start a body after a heart attack.

‘So THAT explains the tingling/fizzing I get in my hands when I practice distant or hands-on healing,’ I thought to myself.

I don’t use a tuning fork or Reiki symbols.  I just feel into that elecrical field and let the fizzing pour into it from my hands until it feels right.  Sometimes it feels too ‘acid’.  Sometimes it’s very weak.  I don’t do much.  I just let it flow until things feel like they’ve stabilised.

Recently my daughter, who is a relaxation and massage therapist, has found that many of her clients ask if she’s doing Reiki on them, because the energy she sends out through her hands feels therapeutic.  I laughed when she told me and said she must have inherited her great-grandfather’s healing hands.

 

Well it seems I was right.  Just as I’d had that mental jolt of the phrase ‘It’s all electric’ being given to me twice in a week and had that thought that it connected to the healing my daughter and I can do, I found my head moving until I was eyeball-to-eyeball with OZ’s portrait on my wall.  He was looking at me.  He was saying into my head, “Yes.  That’s it.  That’s exactly how it works.”

The next day, he gave me the name of his mysterious healing method with the machine: radionics.

I checked it out.  No idea how the machine itself works, but the concept and methodology sound ridiculously familiar.  The UK association offers two-day courses explaining the basics of radionics.  But, warned the site, you can’t attend unless you are an experienced dowser.  Well that won’t be a problem!  I’m off to book myself a place on the next course, and I can be sure OZ will be there with me.

 

My left knee – part 1 of a journey into alternate communication

English: Front side of the left knee. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The time has come to tell a very strange story.

The only reason I haven’t shared it widely before is that I was pretty sure most people wouldn’t believe me, but now perhaps you will.  I’ll tell it exactly as it happened and you can decide what you think – or maybe share your own stories, because I’m sure there must be others who have had similar experiences.

About 12 years ago my friend Nina died.  It was cancer.  It was desperately sad – especially so as she had two young children and had just started her own business, doing something she’d always wanted to do, and it had all been going so well.

I was, as far as I can work out, just about the last of the visitors at the hospice who managed to have a lucid conversation with her.  Certainly by the following evening she’d closed her eyes, was apparently unresponsive and a couple of days later she died.

Our conversation was, as you can imagine, very strange.  We chatted about her funeral arrangements the way we’d once have discussed holiday plans.  It was all very low-key and matter-of-fact.  That was how she wanted to play it, and who was I to stir things up?

By now I knew she had no belief in any kind of afterlife, and although she insisted that she would miss her son’s smile and cuddling the dog, she also insisted she’d just go to sleep and cease to be.  I told her I didn’t agree, but she brushed my ideas aside and gave me instructions on how to help her husband out with the kids.

Now the story jumps a few years.

I’d been feeling very tired and low, and – for the first time ever, with great trepidation – I went to see a spiritual healer.  No idea what to expect, but he was kind, friendly and put me at ease.  I laid on his couch and he played quiet, ambient music.  I was supposed to drift off into an altered state while he performed the healing.

That was the idea, but it didn’t work out that way.

Almost as soon as he started, I felt the most agonising pain coursing through my knee. My whole body jerked with the spasm and it took all my willpower to stop myself yelling out.  These jolts of pain – as if I were being gripped by some kind of mechanical vice – continued until he’d finished ‘healing’ me.  The pain only began to subside once he stopped and I could sit up.

The poor man could offer no explanation for what had happened.  He mumbled something about me perhaps having a fear of moving forward on my feminine side, but without much conviction.

I hobbled from the treatment room, but before I’d reached the end of his road, all trace of discomfort had vanished.

Glutton for punishment, perhaps, but I booked another appointment the following week.  Yes, it happened again.  I was fine until the spiritual healing began and fine afterwards, but during the session I writhed and squirmed and was unable to get any relief.

At that point I gave up on spiritual healing for a while. (Although in all fairness, I must add that once the mystery had been solved, I returned to that healer and had some excellent treatment from him.)

My left knee behaved itself perfectly until a few weeks later when I happened to be listening to a radio programme about spiritual mediums.  Slowly at first, the gripping pain started, gradually becoming more insistent and less bearable.  It continued until the programme finished, then stopped completely.

Hmm.

The next day I had time to think things through.  Slowly it dawned on me that on each of the three occasions, there had been a connection to things spiritual and ‘beyond the veil’.  As if in answer to my thoughts, I felt a light but distinct twinge in the knee.

“Keep going,” it seemed to be saying. “You’re getting there.”

Then I had a truly creepy thought.  Was someone trying to reach me from the other side?

The answering twinge was there again.

I tried to keep calm.  It was fine.  Someone ‘over there’ was mistaking me for some kind of Doris Stokes person because I’d very occasionally taken an interest in things of a spiritual nature.  It was obviously a wrong number.  After all, who did I know who had passed over and would have any reason to contact me?

Nina?

NI???

Once more the squeeze, but gentle this time – almost a playful nudge.

Nina – known to friends and family by the first syllable of her name – was contacting me.

Knee!  Better yet, LEFT knee!!

Marx Brothers, head-and-shoulders portrait, facing front. Top to bottom: Chico, Harpo, Groucho and Zeppo. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Oh yes, even the sense of humour fitted.  She’d been a great Marx Brothers fan…

Ni might have ‘left’ a few years earlier, but she’d clearly discovered that she was by no means lost in that dreamless sleep she’d been expecting.  Our conversation was far from over – it was just beginning.

I quickly learned how to hold a conversation with her, and discovered why she had been so insistent on contacting me.  That, too, is an amazing story, but it will have to wait for another post.

I’d be fascinated to hear from anyone who has had a similar experience.