Trying to Re-Member

There’s a group I attend from time to time here in my town.  Each week they provide cups of every kind of herbal tea you can imagine, biscuits or cake, and a speaker.  The talks range over many areas and subjects, but they must always be positive.  That seems to be the only rule.

Abstract, Background, Pattern, ArtisticI’d never heard of that night’s speaker, but his subject was ‘The Eight Elements’ and partly because I’d been pondering on elements for quite a while and partly because he was speaking as a follower of Krishna – a Truth quite new to me – I decided to go along.

The gentleman stood calmly before us, looked around the room at the sea of faces and announced, with total certainty, “I’m not the only person in this room who has been to the breaking point.  I’m not alone in having reached a point in my life where everything I lived for, everything I believed, everything I cared about was swept away, leaving me lost, broken and utterly alone.”

All around the room, heads nodded slowly, solemnly, mine included.

The talk was excellent.  Krishna’s take on the elements was oddly familiar and linked in well with the Egyptian, Greek, Shamanic, Medieval and alchemical ideas I’d been reading and thinking about.  What I was left with above all, though, was that idea of the breaking point – the need to go through what feels at the time to be a crisis, a disaster, a destruction of all you’ve held dear.  It is the tower card in the tarot – the card I used to fear above all others, back in the days when my life was settled and sorted (although very far from perfect).

I thought of the many friends and family members I’ve seen hit that point, whether through a sudden incapacitating illness, a financial meltdown, a job loss, a relationship breakup or what’s commonly called a nervous breakdown.  Often – as in my own case – it’s a mixture of several of these.  Like the body of Osiris, we are broken up, hacked into pieces and scattered in the waters of Life.

Shell, Broken, Empty, Close, LeaveThere follows a time of the most awe-ful emptiness.  We shut down.  We exist from moment to moment, day to day, with no clear idea of how or why we are still functioning.  This is the time we need to hide away, to withdraw from everyone and everything, knowing at some instinctive level that we require peace, and that healing will eventually flow from this.

Despite the kindness and ministrations of others, there’s ultimately only one place that healing can come from.  It comes from within.  It comes from our soul-selves – the part of us that is, and has always been, whole and complete.  Slowly and painfully, we begin to re-member ourselves – to put ourselves back together.  This time, though, we will be different.  We will have shed the limiting beliefs that we are not complete without money/ health/ family/ possessions/ career/ home/ friends or whatever we relied upon for stability and identity in the past.  That’s not to say we won’t regain or rediscover some of these, but they will no longer take centre stage.

Now we will have re-membered who we truly are.  We will recognise that we are whole and complete in ourselves.  We are not – primarily – parent or employee, partner or owner.  We are infinite aspects of the great I AM and as such, we have no limits.

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding. It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self. Therefore, trust the physician and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.”

Kahlil Gibran: The Prophet

 

When Worlds Collide

People, Bus, Commuting, Public TransportA three hour coach ride passes so much better when you find yourself seated next to someone interesting to chat to.

My neighbour yesterday was, it emerged, travelling to London for a brief, bittersweet half day with her daughter.  It was the girl’s birthday.  She’d booked herself into a posh hotel in the West End.  They were to have champagne, then lunch somewhere luxurious.  The daughter would unwrap her presents then – ‘a comfort sack’ with such items as a thick duvet, pillow and covers, hand warmers, hot chocolate mix…  Tomorrow the young lady will take all her spoils and return to Greece, where she works for the UN, caring for the refugees.
“It’s so desperately cold there, Mum,” she’d told her mother. “Just so desperate”.

Lesvos, Island, Mytilini, GreeceI wondered how it felt for that young woman to move between those two quite different worlds – her opulent English lifestyle and the squalor and tragedy of the transit camps.  How must the smells, the sounds, the sickness and pain feel to someone who has grown up in such a different culture?  How, indeed, must it feel for the inhabitants of the camps, wrenched from their lives in such violence and terror?

 

“And you?” my neighbour enquired.  “Why are you going to London?”

“Oh,” I said, with a slight smile, “I’m probably going to enjoy a few hours in the British Museum.  And I might be meeting a friend.”

Well it was a long journey, so gradually my story came out too.  If we did meet, it would be no less shocking and difficult a transition for my friend than her daughter’s move to Greece had been.

Sport, Exhausting, To Clench TeethJust as the refugee camps would seem overwhelmingly disgusting and sickening to us – their sights, smells and emotional charge far beyond what we feel able to cope with – so our world is, for people like my friend.  For him, and so many other super-sensitive people who live with autistic spectrum perception in its many and amazing forms, our world – in all its raw, visceral physicality can be almost too much to cope with.  Their senses are easily overwhelmed by what, to us, would seem trivial.  Their anxiety never sleeps.  Their fears grapple constantly at their throats with sharp, threatening fingers.  Small wonder so many would prefer to remain in the insular, relatively safe surroundings of the worlds they have built for themselves.  Why – given the choice – would they venture out into the uncertainties of our unfamiliar and terrifying world?

The answer is the same as for the young lady working for the UN – compassion, humanity, generosity of spirit.  They want to help us.  They want to build bridges.  They want to reach into our world and show us their perspectives.  If they manage it, we will be so much richer for it, but if they don’t, we have no right to criticise them.  Every single day, they struggle to do what they can to reach into our world.  And there will be days they just can’t.

When I reached London, he was still at home, holed up in an agony of indecision.  If he managed a meeting, it would be the first for many years.  The least I could do was to make it as easy as possible for him.
‘No rush,’ I messaged.  ‘I’ll head for the museum. Text me later if you feel able to meet somewhere.’

An hour later I was a stranger wandering in the world of the Abyssinians: huge bas-reliefs of Kings and courtiers.  ‘Spirit helpers’ with the heads of eagles and small handbags held objects like oversized pine cones against the backs of the humans’ heads.  Why?  Pineal gland connection perhaps?  What was in the bags?  What favoured realm had these beings descended from, to help their human counterparts?

Then my phone pinged.

‘I’m going to come.  I’m in central London.  Shall I meet you at the British Museum or elsewhere?’

‘The museum’s crammed with people,’ I told him, when I’d had a moment.  ‘Let’s meet in one of the squares nearby.’

On my way out I paused to stare in awe once again at the Rosetta stone, that magical jigsaw piece that had given the modern world a way into the world of other races at other times.  For me, at that moment, the stone became a talisman, allowing my world and my friend’s to come together for a short while.

Seat, Iron, Metal, Bench, Seat BenchBloomsbury, like much of London, has many lovely, peaceful squares – small oases of calm and greenery amidst the hubbub of traffic and commerce.  I selected a calm, pleasant open space where I felt he’d be most comfortable, sat on a bench and waited.  I sat at one end and placed my bags beside me, knowing he’d need more body space than most would consider normal for lifelong friends.  I remained seated when he arrived.  No exclamation of delight, no bear hugs or grasping of hands.
“Alright?” he said simply.
“Yes,” I said quietly.  “And well done.”

Old friends.  Old friends.  Sat on a park bench like bookends.
Paul Simon’s song echoed in my mind from another of my distant worlds.

I’d written much of what I wanted to say on paper.  He finds the written word easier to handle than speech – less unpredictable.  So for the first few minutes he sat and read in silence.  Then we talked.  He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead; body language and facial expression are confusing for him, so it’s easier if he cuts them out.  Still there were deep discussions and moments of humour, with both of us laughing out loud.  There were connections and shared memories of times when we’d spent so many days and hours together.  It was wonderful.

And because I know he finds transitions difficult, I made the decision on when to leave.  Or perhaps the weather did, as the rain that had been threatening all afternoon eventually began to fall.

Neither of us said, “See you soon.”  Who knows?   And what does it matter?  Our worlds had come together for that short while without any explosions or disasters and we are closer for that experience.

Not very

Mural, Girl, Balloon, Heart, GraffitiI can’t remember when our last meeting was.  If you don’t know it’s going to be the last time, you don’t take particular note of it, I suppose.

I remember my last meeting with his mother.  It was in the hospice.  That meeting is easy to recall, because we were both all too aware that she’d have moved beyond her body within a few days.  We had a rather surreal conversation about this and that – mostly her plans for the funeral and what she wanted me to do to help care for her little boy.  I kept asking whether she was tired and would prefer me to leave and she kept saying, ‘No.  I don’t want you to go yet.’  But eventually she was tired and she did need to sleep and we hugged and cried a bit and said none of the things people usually say when they are parting: ‘See you soon’, ‘Keep in touch’, ‘Take care of yourself’.  It was an adieu moment, not an au revoir.

When I last saw her son – the little boy who had grown up to be a man and who had become just like one of my own children to me – he DID say, ‘See you soon.’  I distinctly remember that part, although I can’t quite remember where we were.  He was waving me off on a bus or a train or something.  He’d been anxious, awkward, twitchy – more so that I’d seen him before.  He’d kept wheeling around and looking suspiciously about him, as if he expected an assassin to come lurching out of the crowd.  He’d looked awful.  There was an unhealthy pallor to his skin and much of his hair had fallen out in untidy clumps.  Alopecia, he told me.  Stress, the doctor had told him.  It might grow back or it might not.

He didn’t see me soon, nor I him.  The months became years – probably six or seven.  I feel I should be able to remember.  Each time I suggested meeting, there was a flat ‘No.’  If I pestered for a reason, I’d get, ‘Can’t do it’ or ‘Too stressful.’

Last week, I suggested it again.  He’s been coming out, I feel, agonisingly slowly, of the deepest slough of despair, social anxiety and depression.  His texts and emails have been far more chatty and even shown flashes of the old sense of humour.  He accused me of being paranoid about something, adding, ‘And yes, I know that’s rich, coming from me.’

He didn’t say ‘No’.

True, he didn’t come anywhere close to saying ‘Yes’, but he was far more concerned that he wouldn’t be able to commit to a meeting until the day itself, and that as we live far apart, I might have a wasted journey to London.

I told him I love London – in small doses – and that I’d enjoy a day trip there in any case.  I told him I’d plan a trip to the British Museum, another old and much-loved friend.  I told him that if he felt able to join me, that would be great, but I’d have a great day in any case.

You don’t get sighs in texts, unless they’re intentionally written in those silly little arrow things (<sighs>) but I could feel his as he replied, ‘That’s up to you but I don’t want to get your hopes up.’
London, Lantern, Big Ben, RiverSo my coach ticket is booked.  Next Saturday I’ll begin the 3 hour trek to London.  I’ll be caught (as happened so often, when his mental state waxed and waned throughout his teens) somewhere between assuring myself that he’ll be there, in order to manifest the reality, and stoically preparing for a pleasant day wandering through the delights of the museum, just in case.

Whatever happens, though, I’m jubilant.  When I asked how likely he was to be there, he replied, ‘Not very.’  That’s a long way past ‘Not at all’.  There will be other chances, other days.  Just as his mother begged me, all those years ago, I’ve never given up on him, never thrown in the towel, and nor has he.  I’m proud of us both for that.

Cold

Forgive the brevity (cough, wheeeeze, blow nose repeatedly) of this post. And the typos (sneeze, sneeze, cough, blow nose).  And the total lack of any literary merit (cough again, search for new box of tissues, blow nose, blow nose, blow nose).

Time and space distort wildly (sneeze) with a cold.  The head expands to many times its normal size.  The sinuses alone become a labyrinthine maze, awesome in their hugeness and beset with painful pressure changes.  A night can last for an eternity and the physical becomes all-encompassing.  Breathing alone requires a herculean effort and endless small, painful adjustments.

I bless and comfort the body, offer it endless drinks of peppermint tea, honey and lemon and cold, clear water and thank it for the monumental effort it makes to expel the invading army.  I refuse to take tablets to lower my temperature, knowing my body is doing its best to roast the virus causing my discomfort.

I ask why, this once, my body has accepted the virus, given that despite frequently being exposed to colds, I haven’t had one in years.  My body replies that it needed time to shut down, to be left alone and to allow assimilation of all that is going on around it. ‘A bit of breathing space,’ it says and I give a hollow laugh (cough, sneeze) – if only.

And so (cough, cough, COUGH, wheeze, wheeze)  I will accept its wisdom and crawl back to the sofa with yet another box of tissues and another peppermint tea… and hope that assimilation happens soon, whenever ‘soon’ may be.

 

Dear Self…

I have a friend who is experiencing the most terrible of times.  She is heartbroken, flat, without hope, overwhelmed and filled with grief.  Her pain and suffering are not illusory (despite my continuing belief that life is a game – it’s real enough while we are playing it) and the problems seem insurmountable.

I considered writing a letter to this friend, suggesting how she might help herself emerge from these black times, but that feels wrong.  I haven’t walked in her shoes.  I can’t tell her what steps she should take.

So instead, I’ll write my letter to my Self – the Self I was in 2008: the year I had left my teaching career, my painful, trustless, crumbling marriage, my beloved grown-up children, my home and friends, and moved to London to care for my mother.  Woman, Old, Face, Portrait, White

She couldn’t acknowledge her dementia, couldn’t see why life was becoming uncomfortable and confusing, so directed all her anger, fear and spite towards me.

I’ll write to the Self who lay shaking and crying on the spare room bed, after dodging most of the vicious blows and scratches for barring the front door at 3am and not allowing Mum to ‘go to the hairdressers’.  The Self who had turned the gas tap off on the hob again, after finding it hissing, and was wondering how long before the house would explode.  The self who knew that – one way or another, even if she didn’t blow us up – we both had to be out of that house within the next three months because there was no money left.  The Self who had nowhere to go and no one to turn to.  Those are shoes I’ve walked in.

Dear Self,

I know how black it feels.  I know how heavy all those fears and injustices are.  I know it’s 3.30 in the morning and you’re at the darkest hour – in every way.

You’re asking yourself what you have done to deserve this.  The answer is: you have grown strong.  This isn’t retribution; it’s a rite of passage.  You have given yourself the opportunity to be tested as never before – and to overcome each and every difficulty, to emerge stronger and more confident.

You’re protesting that you didn’t want this ‘test’ – you want to go back to when things were easier: not great, perhaps, but easier than this.

It doesn’t work that way.  Your life has been moving towards this point for quite a time now.  It’s here, and I’m here to help you through it.

Me?  Yes, I’m yourself – one of the millions of Selves you create with your every thought and emotion.  The me who is writing this lives eight years in your future.  She’s happy, comfortable and lives a full and independent life, surrounded by like-minded friends, with a pretty home of her own, inspiring children to teach and learn from and a garden to tend.  She has all you now dream of and more.  I don’t expect you to be able to imagine that life yet, but it’s waiting for you, dear Self, once you get through this time.

You think you’re alone.  You’re not.  All your past and future Selves are there with you.  They send you exFace, Soul, Head, Smoke, Light, Sadperience, wisdom and inspiration.  They are as real as the Self you are, lying on that bed.  You are – how can I explain ideas you haven’t yet encountered? – ‘entangled’ with more other Selves than you can imagine.  Everyone you have cared for and loved, shared with and learned from is there with you.  Just like those little sub-atomic quantum whatsits you’ve read of in science books, you and those people – the ones you see as ‘living’ and the ones you think of as ‘dead’ – become forever entangled.  That means you only have to lie there in the night asking for support and comfort, and they will come flocking to you.  You know, already, that we are more than our bodies.  You know we are also spirit.  That is how they reach you, care for you and hold you up, if you can just allow them in.

Dad’s there – of course he is.  He knows exactly what you’re enduring.  Grandma, too.  She’s barely left your side.  Trust that they are with you.

Now I want you to look into your life.  Yes, I know, the one that totally sucks.  Only it doesn’t – not TOTALLY.  I want you to find something in there – and it can be a tiny, seemingly insignificant something – that is better-than-awful.

Park, Hirsch, Enclosure, Animals, AntlerYour body, for example – it’s working pretty well, isn’t it?  Certainly the sleepless, interrupted nights aren’t helping and the IBS has flared again, but your senses work, your legs, your arms…  Take that body tomorrow – once Mum’s gone to the daycare centre – and give it a treat.  Take it to the park.  Leave the sack of worries at the gates.  Stroll in the sunshine and watch the squirrels and deer, the movement of the trees and grass, the ripples in the river.  Listen and smell and immerse yourself in nature and don’t allow yourself to give a single thought to the worries or fears.  This is your healing time.

When you get back to the gates – yes – the problems will still be waiting for you.  There will be a difference, though.  You’ll have created a piece of your Self they can’t get to.  Nurture that ‘safe’ fragment of you; spoil her rotten!  She deserves it – YOU deserve it.

You don’t need others advising you about what to do, or telling you how much you matter to them or protecting you.  You’re very slowly and wonderfully growing into the Self you can be – that strong, independent woman you were born to become.

It will keep hurting for a while, and there will be problems to overcome, but trust.  You’re going to come out of all this just fine – and it will be you (with a million Selves to back you up) who does it.

Love

Your Self   (please…)

A Small Step for Me-kind

English: Tibetan endless knot Nederlands: Tibe...

What is me-kind?  Well in my philosophy – gleaned mainly from the Seth Materials and backed up by the intuitiony bit inside that says, ‘Yeah, that feels right,’ – the overarching personality that I understand as ‘me’ has had/ is having/ will have many lives or incarnations.  These all, obviously, take place in different historical times and geographical locations.  I’m reasonably sure I have, for example, had ‘past’ lives in Egypt as a slave girl, Europe as a survivor of a Viking raid, Atlantis as a teacher and Glastonbury as a mage and Ice Age chieftain’s daughter.

I’ve encountered these alternative ‘me’s in dreams, past life regressions and psychic readings.  I’ve discovered individuals who play key parts in my present life cropping up in those lives too.  All this is fairly standard reincarnational theory as it tends to be interpreted here in the West, in metaphysical circles, at any rate.

Seth takes it further though.  From a vantage point beyond physical existence, Seth takes time out of the equation.  Past, present and future lives, from that perspective, not only happen in the one, unfolding eternal moment beyond our Earthly concept of time, but affect one another.  A discovery in one life can and will affect what happens in another.  An intractable problem may cause us – with help from our soul family – to set up another life, with the express purpose of finding a solution.  Slightly mind-bending, I’ll grant you, but worth considering.

Auguste Rodin: L'Âge d'airain (The Age of Bron...

Auguste Rodin: L’Âge d’airain (The Age of Bronze), life-sized plaster cast, c. 1876.

Take my feet, for example.  Well don’t.  You wouldn’t want them – honestly.  They have been causing me grief and problems for many years.  There’s nothing physically wrong with them, but they’ve usually felt numb and icy cold, or they could ache and burn and the skin just felt too tight.  In recent years I haven’t been a confident walker.  I’m scared of slipping or falling on uneven ground; I tend to shuffle rather than stride.  Most of all – and this sounds terribly strange, I know – they just haven’t felt as if they belong to me.

 

This image depicts a Reiki treatment in progre...

Now over the last few weeks, I’ve been attending Reiki healing sessions with a lady who wanted case studies for her Reiki 2 training.  I’ve had some strange experiences during Reiki sessions in the past, so I wasn’t altogether surprised when she asked whether I’d ever broken any bones in my foot.  I hadn’t.

“It’s odd then,” she said.  “I had this very clear image of just about every bone in your left foot being smashed and broken.  Horrible.”

In the time between that and my next healing, she’d been back and discussed this with her teacher.  He’d told her not to share random visions and images with clients, as all sorts of things could enter the mind whilst giving Reiki.  He instructed her only to talk about them if they kept reappearing throughout the session and were particularly strong and persistent.

“But this one WAS,” she explained to me, at the end of our next session.  “This time I saw your feet bound – really tightly.  It was like those poor Chinese women, you know?”

The so-called "Lily feet" (right) co...

I shuddered.  Yes, that would explain every one of the painful and uncomfortable sensations I’d had in my feet.  It would explain my difficulties with walking and my fear of falling.  ‘Past life?’ we both wondered.  It seemed very likely.  Seth talks about ‘bleed-throughs’ from one of our lives to another.  I needed more information.

As usual, I went to discuss it with Koimul, my ever present and patient Guide, whom I can reach via dowsing over a keyboard.  Here’s the discussion we had, partly dowsed and partly received telepathically:

Do I have a ‘past’ life in which my feet are bound, as in Chinese culture?

YES

That explains so much about the way they sometimes feel, but why are those pains bleeding through into this life? I’m assuming it has something to do with being controlled and dominated?

NO YOUR FOCUS IN THIS LIFE WAS TO BREAK FREE

And I’ve done it, yes?

YES

So why does the foot pain persist?

SO THAT YOU COULD RECOGNISE THE GREAT STEP YOU TOOK

And now I have done so…

YOUR FEET WILL BE FREE

Was D my husband in that life?

YES

Hmm. It explains so much. Can what I’ve done in this life help the ‘me’ in that other life?

NOT PHYSICALLY

But in her dreams she can know freedom and walk in my feet?

YOU HAVE UNDERSTOOD PERFECTLY

May I know her name?

XANG

Interesting, eh?  One final synchronicity:

I went to bed that night wondering about Xang and her life.  Just before I feel asleep, I saw a very clear image of a building with a low stone wall in front and a small dog running along outside.  It was so vivid, I was fully awake and wondering what it meant.  I immediately saw the same vision again.  The next day, I decided to Google bound feet.  The first link I clicked on was a video made by a lady who had travelled to China and found some elderly women whose feet had been bound as children.  The opening scene of the film was exactly the image I’d seen the night before.

And yes, my feet are feeling much better now.

 

 

 

 

The Kiddie Roundabout and …

A busker playing at Pike Place Market in June 2008

Yesterday in my town it was the Frost Fair.  Not that it was frosty – in fact it was sunny and unseasonably mild, so that the street performer singing beautiful carols seemed less in tune with the event than the guitarist doing a cover of the Kink’s Lazy Sunday Afternoon. (He was singing ‘sunny’ instead, given that it was a Saturday.)

At the top of the town were the children’s rides.  There was a small kiddie merry-go-round with Thomas the Tank Engine, motor bikes, horses and so forth.  One lone toddler was riding on this as we passed, clearly finding its modest speed and motion quite exciting enough at her tender age.

The other ride was one of those hand-cranked affairs where children sit on swing seats attached by chains which swing out as the handle is turned – a scaled-down version of the one shown here.  This one was filled with excited little people.
“FasTER! FasTER! FasTER!” they were chanting.
The operator obediently turned his handle for all he was worth and the children squealed with delight as they flew out over the watching families and friends.  Not for them the safe, slow roundabout.  They wanted danger and excitement.  One or two though, looked less certain.  Their eyes were wild and the smiles were fixed into grimaces.  Maybe they were having second thoughts …

I used this idea once to help a young girl who was experiencing some difficult times in her life.
“When we select the Life we want to live this time around,” I told her, “most of us (our eternal, soul selves) avoid the unadventurous kiddie roundabout and opt for the white-knuckle ride. That way there’s more experience, more challenge, more fun.”

The trouble is, when we’re actually taking part in the Life we’d so recklessly chosen for ourselves, the ride doesn’t always feel like fun.  The metal bars dig into us.  Our stomachs are heaving.  We feel sick and dizzy.  There are times when we’d quite like to slow down.  Too late for that, though; it’s careering out of control and we just have to hang on grimly and wait for the ride to stop.

Quite a few of my friends, including a few of my fellow WordPress bloggers, are currently going through some difficult, painful and frightening parts of their lives.  They are – all of them – wise and brave souls who understand the growth and experience the current problems are giving them, but that doesn’t make it easier to cope with, so I’m sending love and care to each of them, and to anyone else who shouted ‘fasTER, fasTER’ but is regretting it right at the moment.

The ride will slow down again in time, and you’ll be proud that you sat it out.

More About Tuesday’s Tale

http://www.gofundme.com/c6erv4

IMG_3085As promised a few weeks back, here is an update on the story of T – the little ballet star I work with whose father has untreatable cancer.

You can find my original post here.

Firstly, I want to send a huge, massive, heartfelt THANK YOU to all the kind and caring people who donated to my original appeal for help for Tuesday and her family.  As you will see, if you go to the ‘Go Fund Me’ site, your donations have already made a massive impact and T’s Mum and Dad would like me to pass on their gratitude and wonder that people who have never met them can be so kind.

If – understandably! – you felt uncomfortable sending a donation via my PayPal account, you’ll be pleased to know that there is now a proper funding site set up.  You’ll find details, and T’s own version of her story here.

I’m very much aware that being asked for money dredges up all kinds of resistance in all of us.

I can’t speak for others, but the kind of thoughts that go through my mind are:
“Hey, I’m on a really limited income.  Is it reasonable to expect me to give some of my money to someone I don’t even know?”
or “The world is full of deserving cases.  Why should I give to this one?  How on earth do I choose?”
or “I can only afford to give £x (or even x pence) and people will think I’m really mean if I only give that much.”
When we’re made to feel uncomfortable by thoughts like that, the easiest way out is to put the whole thing aside and move on.
I’m not great at this fundraising lark, but these are people I know and care about, so I’d love to see them fulfil their dream, whatever adventures and wonders this new phase of their life will bring them.
If it helps, you can donate via Go Fund Me keeping your identity anonymous if you wish, so if you only feel comfortable giving 50 pence or 50 cents, that’s just fine.  All the money and the energy of kind, caring people will build up and help this family to move forwards.

Thanks again to everyone who has already donated, shared the link and sent healing energy to T’s family.

The Face of Pain

I very rarely do automatic writing.  When I do, it tends to be around 3 am, when I finally give in to that insistent voice-in-my-head that nags me to grab the pen and pad I keep beside the bed.

I don’t bother to turn the light on, as I won’t be watching what I write anyhow.  I keep my eyes shut and focus on feeling for when I get to the end of a line and need to start back again at the other side.  I am aware of each word as I write it, but it’s very much ‘in the now’, so I don’t link it to those that come before or after and have no sense of the meaning of what is on the page until I turn on the light after the message has stopped.

Strangely, the writing very rarely runs together.  Instead it comes in graceful arcs across the page.

I thought you might like to take a look at a meditation I was sent in this way one day recently, when pain was preventing me from sleeping:

English: Waves in the sea at Misquamicut Beach...

Listen to the waves

They will tell you more than you can know in other ways.

They ebb and flow; the pain is the same.

The way your pain is displayed is like the waves – today a storm; later it will lay and calm.

Be not afraid of the pain.  It has a point to make.

It tells you where you are in space.  But that is not your only place.

In other ways you are letting go of space and places.

Drift into the no-space between places and time.

Here you will find the face of pain.

It has a kind face.

It lets you delve into the grace of every gesture and experience.

You will sway with the rays of a sun.

Gather the rays and spread them over your pain.  They will calm and soothe it.

Sink into the way of being kind to your state.

Take time from time to play at being blessed.

You are cared for.

Be aware.

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Dis-Easy

Tropical Storm Yagi in the North Pacific Ocean

“Try to stay at the eye of the storm” a wise friend once commented, when we were discussing those times when everyone and everything around you starts typhooning.

I’ve become rather good at that now.  In fact, for the week or so leading up to this weekend, I was very aware that every friend who contacted me had a problem.  People they’d trusted had let them down, finances had suddenly become a nightmare, relationships had fractured, illness or physical pain was afflicting them.

I listened to each of them with compassion and care.  I echoed back their statements, to allow them to find answers or ways forward where I could, and I tried very hard not to offer solutions or to drift into monologues about similar situations of my own, because I’ve learned that neither of those is particularly helpful.

You see, the Janonlife belief system is that each of us creates our own reality – and that includes any difficulties and problems – in order to gain the most experience possible from this short and tricky lifetime we are currently playing out, and to bring as much light as possible from our expanded, multi-dimensional selves into the existence of the Humans we are Being at this particular point.

I take full responsibility for what happened next, because I actually remember the thought that triggered it.

“This eye-of-the-storm bit is all well and good,” I commented to what I call my God-Self (also variously known as Soul, Spirit, Higher-Self, Essence, God, Goddess or what you will).  “Trouble is, this life has been going along smoothly for such a long time now.  I think I could do with a slight tweak, just to throw me a wake-up call.”

Oh be careful what you ask for, my friends!  By the end of the week, I was laid out by a physical meltdown.  All energy evaporated.  My skin became hypersensitive – to the point that even turning over in bed was agony.  My digestive system seemed to have temporarily been replaced by a particularly bad-tempered nest of vipers.  Strange swooshing noises swirled between my ears at every attempt to move about and waves dizziness overtook me even when I stayed still.

“OK.  Right.  Fine.  Got it,” I told the G-S.  “I take to my bed, drink water, stop eating and wait to see what comes in terms of experience from this lot.  Got it.  And could you ease up slightly on the stomach cramps please?”

So that’s how I spent the next few days.  I’ve had enough similar episodes in my life to recognise that – just as the New Agey lot say – physical illness is, quite literally, dis-ease.  This time, I’d even noticed beforehand that something inside me needed a hiatus – a cessation of everyday activities to give it the time and space to shift.

I didn’t force it.  I felt way too ill to do so, in any case.  I knew that something would come of this.  It always does.

Anger

Anger (Photo credit: ZORIN DENU)

On Sunday night, the something arrived.  Just as the physical symptoms were beginning to subside and I was ready for a relatively normal night’s sleep, huge tidal waves of anger swept through me.

Shaken but not altogether surprised, I grabbed a notepad and allowed a storm of fury against situations, individuals and events – recent and far in the past – to flow through the pen.  Whoa!  Can’t remember the last time I did anger.  I was amazed how much I’d been bottling up.

Did I feel any better for expressing it?

No.

I now had a list of people and events that I felt totally, utterly, mind-numbingly furious about.  I sat back exhausted for a few minutes and asked the G-S to remind me what came next.

“Er, mirrors?” the G-S hinted.

Oh yes.   Of course – I knew that.  Each of them was mirroring something inside my self – showing me aspects of my Being Human self that I was ready to change.

I returned to the list and worked my way through each situation.  None of these people was intentionally angering me.  Each was mirroring behaviour or attitudes I wanted to alter in myself.  Some took a bit of ferreting out.  One remained stubbornly insoluble, so I decide to sleep on it.

On Monday morning I woke feeling extremely weak, but physically fine.  All trace of anger and spite had evaporated along with the mysterious illness.  The elusive answer arrived as I relaxed in a fragrant bubbly bath and I knew the dis-ease had done its work well.

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