Being Grommit

Image result for wallace and gromit imagesI hesitate to write this, because there are so many people out there much better qualified to talk about it.  Still, it’s come into my head and it’s lodged there like an ear worm and won’t go away until I write it, So I suppose I’d better write…

There’s a huge amount of non-sense spoken about sensitivity and highly sensitive people, so perhaps I can add a modicum of sense, or maybe just more nonsense.

I wouldn’t generally count myself among these people (which is why I don’t feel particularly qualified to write about them) but I seem to have some kind of magnetic attraction to them.  They keep showing up in my life.  Once they are there, they tend to stick around.  Whenever that happens with people in our lives, it means we have something to teach or learn from each other – probably both.

So let me give you a very personal, no-holds-barred snapshot of how it feels to be a neuro-typical individual, living and working amongst highly-sensitive people.

They’d like to fit in with the rest of us.  They really would.  It would make their lives so much easier and they know this.  Some of them elect to go down the route of medication aimed at suppressing their sensitivity, dulling their responses and turning them into rather sad but apparently average people.  Many, many more prefer to self-medicate, using recreational drugs and/or a mixture of caffeine and alcohol to render their daily lives (or at least parts of them) more manageable.  Both of these seem to me a tragic waste – partly because of the unpleasant side-effects and partly because all these substances mask the true essence of who they really are.  Nevertheless, I understand the reasons behind the choices.  For those of us living and interacting with these people, we’re faced with a double problem of trying to understand their innate differences from our way of being and to deal with the challenges faced when dealing with anyone who is drugged up.

I frequently feel hurt, offended, rejected and dismissed by those I care about and love who live within this spectrum of being.  As a ‘typical’ person I crave affection – and some occasional expression of this, attention – such as responses to messages or to be looked at once in a while, reassurance that I’m getting things right, and trust.  I’ve discovered, slowly and painfully, that I will only get any of these by explaining my needs very carefully, providing detailed instructions on how I would like the person to react and then being satisfied with what they are able to provide, even if it does feel more like a rehearsed trick than a genuine, spontaneous action on their part.

Does that sound terribly harsh?

If we look at it from their perspective, they do NOT lack emotions and feelings.  They have them in such abundance that their fragile human bodies are just about incapable of containing them.  They probably dealt with this as newborns by screaming endlessly, as children by throwing tantrums or head-banging, as adolescents by almost total withdrawal from society and family and immersion in music, video games or self-harm.  During that long, painful process, they have learned to suppress almost all emotion, except fear and anxiety, which just won’t go away.  They care and want to please as much as anyone, but it’s deeply scary for them, and any tiny steps they can take should be welcomed with deep gratitude by those of us who can’t even imagine what it is costing them.

They know and feel and see things we don’t.  They’ve learned that in our society, people who know more than others are usually considered clever, so they can easily become so supercilious and self-opinionated that I want to punch them.  They’re frustrated when we don’t get what seems ludicrously obvious to them.  I find myself thinking, ‘Good grief, here you are, treating me like a five year old, when you can’t even walk into a shop and buy a pack of underwear.’

So why is it like this?

In my opinion, all of us are – first and foremost – pure consciousness.  You can call it soul or spirit if that works for you.  We have all chosen to bring a portion of this pure, rarefied consciousness into physical bodies – to be born as humans.  It involves a fair bit of give and take to do that.  If you think of the consciousness as Light, there is only so much we can squeeze into a human body.  Most of us have been happy with that trade-off as it means we can experience physical existence and use this unique way of (human) being to grow in a way that can’t be achieved otherwise.  Image result for wallace and gromit images

Now think of the way consciousness works.  There is an innate wish to push the boundaries – to go farther, faster, higher than anyone else has done.  Consequently, ever-growing numbers of conscious beings are trying to squeeze more and more Light into the frail, delicate human bodies they are being born into.

It means the fit is not great.  They can’t bed down into their bodies so easily and some of the Light isn’t properly held in.  I keep getting this mental image of Wallace frantically screaming, “Grommit – these are the Wrong Trousers!” in the wonderful Aardman animated film!

Image result for wallace and gromit imagesAnd I often feel like poor old Grommit, frantically trying to avert disasters and melt-downs, and help my enLightened friends, students, relatives and acquaintances to fit into the crazy trousers-of-life they’ve entered, while assisting them to understand that yes, the world DOES need the Light they’ve brought with them and that their brilliance is an absolute gift to all of us.

So stay with us, all you wonderful Wallaces.  Try your best to function in those trousers.  We Grommits will keep trying to help you in every way we can – because that’s why WE incarnated.

 

 

Didn’t know I had a petard, and here I am hoist with it

Grenade, Bomb, War, Weapon, DangerI had to look petard up: a small bomb apparently.  As for being hoist on/by/with it, we have Shakespeare to thank for that one.  All I knew was that it meant, roughly, to fall into one’s own trap, and that I’ve certainly done this week.

Embarrassed, but trying hard to be authentic, so…

Allow me to explain.

A few weeks ago I was asked to take on a pair of new students – young brothers who shared a genetic condition with their mother.  “Multi-systemic” I was told, so the effects of this syndrome involve skin, joints, brain and just about any part of the body you can think of.  The words ‘complex learning difficulties’ were also mentioned.

To be honest, I was almost at full stretch before these lads appeared on the scene.  Planning two lots of lessons in maths and English tailored to their particular mix of strengths (very high intelligence) and challenges, as well as homework each week would, I knew, take at least an entire day.  Then there was the teaching itself, which I could only just slot in amongst my other young pupils.  Everything logical in my mind was screaming, “No, don’t do it!  What about that work/life balance you wanted?  You are past retirement age, you know.  And this lady wants you to work on right through the summer holidays.  When will you get to see the family?”

But the kids were lovely.  Finding ways of working around their difficulties would be fascinating – previously uncharted territory, the type of challenge I thrive on.  They weren’t fitting into schools.  Their constant pain and exhaustion, as a result of the syndrome, was too much for them when combined with a normal school day.  The mother, though, was being threatened by the authorities for not providing sufficient education.

I said, ‘Yes’.

Of course I did.

Writing, Boy, Child, Student, KidFor a couple of weeks it went fine.  Yes, I did end up doing lesson prep all through the weekends but they seemed to be progressing well and I was enjoying working with them.  Then this week they appeared full of smiles but without homework.  A casual ‘lost it somewhere in my room’ from one and ‘I didn’t realise you wanted me to do that’ from the other.

Inwardly I was irritated.  The homework sheets had taken me ages to prepare.  The work I’d planned for this week followed on from what they were meant to have done.  Their mother had particularly requested homework.  It was meant to protect her from being taken to court… and blah, blah, blah.

Outwardly, I smiled, suggested mildly that maybe they could try to get it done for the following week and carried on.  The lessons went fine and I went to bed that night feeling very happy.

Oh I know at least one of my readers knows exactly what’s coming!

I woke up the next morning to a text from the children’s mother.  Both of them had told her I was ‘grumpy’ during their lessons.  She wondered what was wrong.

I was mortified.  The lessons had (I thought) been lovely – lots of laughter and progress.  Was I just a delusional old bat?  Had I ended up like those elderly lady teachers I remembered from my own school days – miserable and past it?  Was it time to stop and give up – to sit in a rocking chair knitting all day?

I flashed a quick message back, saying I had been disappointed that they’d not bothered with the homework, but wasn’t aware of being grumpy about it; that I’d tried hard to keep the work lively and enjoyable and so forth.

Then I sat and thought.

Why was I choosing to be so upset by this?  Why had this incident shown up in my life?  What did it have to teach me?

The reply came almost at once, in a further message from the children’s mum.  She hadn’t wanted to upset me.  She just felt she had to be authentic and tell me their reaction.  It wasn’t my words or actions they had reacted to, it was my feelings.  They were, she added, extremely sensitive and picked up on the energy people projected.

Heart, Love, Idea, Light BulbAh.

Got it.

That heart-based telepathy thing.

So I thanked her – and the universe – for providing me with that reminder.  I told her about my last blog post, on exactly this subject, and promised to attempt to be more open and authentic in future.

See what I mean about being hoist with my own petard?  This communicating-from-the-heart business is not easy.  I’m glad to have these two young teachers.  Like all good teachers, they’ve appeared just as the student is ready 🙂

 

Sense and Sensitivities

Solitude, Outdoors, Dark, Gloomy, ManThey’ve been showing up in my life far more than usual in the past week – the uber-sensitive young people who sometimes struggle to get along smoothly in this 3D world of ours.

The normally calm, cheerful and sorted 12-year-old arrives for her lesson clutching a cuddly toy, her face set and expressionless, her answers monosyllabic and robotic.  A mother of another child texts to say her daughter won’t be coming; she can’t face leaving her room today.  A teenager tells me how, when stimuli and situations become too overpowering, he climbs into his bed, pulls over the covers and dons a World War II gas mask – his own home-made isolation chamber.  “It’s the only thing that helps.”

Yes, all three have a tendency towards social isolation, anxiety and a certain rigidity of outlook.  Many home-educated children do – that often being their principle reason, of course, for coming out of school in the first place.  Why all of them together though, this week?

First week back to studies after the Easter break?  Possibly…  The obvious answer, though, from my perspective, is that they – collectively – have something to teach me, particularly since the ‘Version 2.0 kids’ have been on my mind recently, with regard to the ‘Deep Dimension’ I wrote about in my previous post.

So what is the lesson?  I sit quietly and wait until the nub of truth that these lovely kids have so painfully been leading me towards surfaces.  Something the sixteen-year-old said…

Display Dummy, Doll, Human, Man, Face“When I’m stressed, all my emotions shut down completely.”

That was exactly what the girl had been showing me – no expression, no visible emotions.  I’d seen her do this a few times before.  I’d seen it in other sensitive young people, struggling to hold themselves together as they experienced sensory overload.  Change their routine, their environment or their situation and this is how they cope.

As I’ve mentioned before, Seth states that our thoughts and emotions create our Earthly experience.  For me, this connects closely to the Akashic Dimension proposed by Ervin Laszlo, as described in the previous post.  True, Laszlo has not suggested that emotions play a part, but he does describe it as a ‘Self-Actualising Cosmos’ and points out that we can consciously link to this hidden realm by entering ‘non-ordinary’ or altered states – the hypnagogic (between waking and sleeping), meditative or trance states, for example.

I was curious.

“When you engage in remote viewing [surely as non-local a link to the Akashic Dimension  as one could wish for],” I said to my friend William, “Would you say you enter any sort of altered state?”

He was quite definite that he didn’t.  He merely focused on the target, and it appeared within his consciousness.

That was what I’d suspected.

Could it be that our highly sensitive Version 2.0 people, whom we know to be ‘wired’ somewhat differently to the neurotypical population, do not – as Laszlo asserted – selectively filter out the quantum-level signals containing information which “for most people… is unfamiliar, esoteric, and vaguely threatening”.

Archery, Concentration, Aim, Goal, Target, ArrowImagine, for a moment, that each of us arrives in the physical 3D environment with a ‘filter’ which not only allows us to block out unwanted sensory stimuli (background noise or distracting sights when we need to focus) but also – once we have been culturally influenced by our society – those ‘vaguely threatening’ other-dimensional stimuli.  In psychic circles, this filter is known as ‘the veil’.  Small children and pets, of course, often react to sights and sounds which most of us screen out.  Many of the children learn, within a few years which signals to respond to and which to ignore.  The imaginary friends and shadow people, the inexplicable fragments of knowledge and so forth become less frequent as they become immersed in the cultural values of their parents and peers.

Person, Man, Circle, Point Of ViewImagine now, a population of humans who are born with a considerably less dense filter – a kitchen sieve rather than a coffee filter, for example.  Not only do they resist adult intervention when told that they are ‘imagining things’, they often show unexpected and hard-to-explain skills and talents.  They are, I’d suggest, able to  tune consciously into a vast amount of the non-local, ‘esoteric’ information emanating from the Akashic Dimension.  These are the Version 2.0 people.

There is a downside, however.  They are also less able to filter out the everyday sensory information that the NT population can happily ignore.  A sudden unexpected sound, a smell of perfume from a shop doorway, flashing lights or even the strobing of a florescent tube can prove unbearable to them.  They pay a high price for this access to realms hidden from the majority of the population.

They become stressed.  And as my young students have been showing me, that makes them shut down their emotions.

Why?

I’d argue that it’s because our emotions are what create the world of matter around us.  They need ‘less world’ so they isolate themselves from the mechanism that creates it.  At an intuitive – maybe even a semi-conscious – level, they recognise the power they have over their surroundings.  We all possess that power, of course; we are all creators.  To be constantly aware of it, though, is quite a burden to carry.  What might they create, if they gave free rein to the emotions their stress could give rise to?

These words – an extract from The Words of William written when he was eleven – give some insight into the dilemma these very special young people face:

Tornado

I spin and destroy
Even though I don’t want to.
I see people become terrified in an instant from seeing me.
Maybe I should ignore my feelings
And destroy everything in my path
Using my spinning powers.

Guidance…

Well that was unexpected.

A request from a potential new Facebook friend.  The name’s distantly familiar.  So is the face, when I take a look at his profile, and those dim bells clanging at the very back of my mind are telling me he’s somehow connected to the school I worked at, before everything changed.  His profile says he’s from my old town.  Slightly bemused and curious, I press the Accept button.

An hour later, the young man messages me.  He’d been a student teacher at the school for a few weeks, it emerges, while I was working there.  We’d chatted several times in the staff room.  I feel slightly less embarrassed now that my recall was somewhat dim.  In the intervening years, he’s moved around the country, married, had children and is now back there and doing my old job – teaching Year 6 at the same Essex school.  Somewhat synchronous…

He tells me about life there these days.  Sounds ghastly – endless new initiatives imposed by clueless, reactionary politicians, ‘special measures’ imposed on the staff, ‘academy status’ whatever that is – more and more control from above, obviously – and packs of disaffected kids prowling the building and contemplating escape.  I suddenly feel very safe and cosseted by my present easy lifestyle.  Also mildly guilty for getting out when I did.

Then he totally amazes me.
“I read your book,” he says.

Available in paperback and Kindle editions

Really?  I can’t imagine anyone in Essex reading my book.  He tells me it inspired him and that he now has a totally new attitude towards education and is considering getting out of the crumbling system and educating in other ways.  He’s been on a Forest Schools course.  He’s thinking about working for a local wildlife trust and using that as a base for educating.

Good grief!  What did I write in that book?  It’s been a long while since I read it, so I take it off the shelf and have another look.

It most certainly isn’t about education, or how to educate.  It does have a rather teacherly style, though.  Re-reading it makes me wince slightly.  Did I really explain a multi-dimensional universe by instructing the reader on how to make a paper model?  It reads like the script of a 1980s episode of Blue Peter, for those who know what that is.  And yet it kind of works…

English: 42, The Answer to the Ultimate Questi...

What I was trying to do, when I put it together, was to write a book about the meaning and purpose of Life, the Universe and Everything which avoided all the wafty new-age psychobabble, mystical ramblings and cliches, (How DO you insert an acute accent on WordPress??) that were so prevalent when it was published in 2012.

The video game analogy is hopelessly overworked; the style (in an attempt to draw in a ‘youth’ audience) veers much closer to patronising than I’d now wish, yet it still has a sort of raw charm and honesty, I suppose, and a few ideas and insights which I haven’t seen expressed anywhere else.  Not a complete waste of time, then.

So how the young man discovered it and chose to read it, I’ll probably never know, but I’m all about encouraging everyone, myself included, to move out of the comfort zone and into newer and greater experience.  That appears to be – so early indications are suggesting – what 2016 is all about.

And what is the message for me?  There definitely is one; it says so in the book:

These synchronicities act like a sort of mental sticking plaster and are strong enough to hold the two of you together; to keep you talking and interacting until you both get the information or experience that you need…

Is this episode telling me to stop faffing about and to get on with writing the next book… and making it better?

Probably.

 

I’ve Got Sunshine on a Cloudy Day

logo Well that’s a lovely surprise.

Dull and cloudy here in Glasto, but the lovely and hugely talented Swetha M has nominated me for A Sunshine Blogger Award.

Cheers, Swetha!

So here to celebrate are The Temptations, circa 1965, and assorted deer, badgers, foxes, frogs and things. (I know – the relevance eludes me too.  Very sweet, though.)

Now the rules for sunshine blogger award: 

  • Thank the blogger who nominated you for the award.
  • Display the banner /sticker /logo on your blog.
  • Share 7 facts or things about yourself.
  • Nominate 5 bloggers that you admire and inform nominees by commenting on their blog.

So I’ve said ‘thank you’ and the banner is up there above the warthogs, and it now falls to me, as the proud recipient, to list 7 facts about myself.

Let’s see…  I was going to do a bucket list, but I’m actually the most ridiculously contented of people and I don’t think I could come up with that many desires, so I suppose it has to be facts.

  1. I don’t have any pets since the last of the goldfish died in October, and I have no plans to replace him (Could have been a her – not sure how you tell with fish – but its name was Merlin, so ‘him’ it was.) as I want to encourage wildlife in my pond.
  2. English: Good Hare Day!!!!!

    I love animals, but it has to be a glimpse of a red kite, hare or fallow deer on a country walk to really rock my boat.  The neighbour’s moggy relieving itself in my garden or a pug-on-a-pink-lead just doesn’t do it for me.

  3. I lose myself totally in gardening and disappear off somewhere magical – that’s the kneeling on the ground with hands deep in loam variety of gardening.  When I return to the planet, I feel pure joy for hours afterwards.
  4. My favourite place in the world is the Chalice Well Gardens.  I used to regularly travel hundreds of miles to visit them and now I live just across the road.  How lucky am I?
  5. Deutsch: Aspidistra elatior (Habitus)

    I don’t drive.  Never have.  Yet I love travelling, so do masses of bus and train journeys; less convenient perhaps, but greener, and they’re far more fun, as you get to meet such amazing and interesting people.  Last year I had a bus ride around North London chatting happily with a  pair of young Afro-Caribbean guys nursing a huge aspidistra; would love to know the back-story!

  6. I’m not afraid of death.  Absolutely not at all.  Dying could be unpleasant, of course, depending on the circumstances, but I’m with Peter Pan on this one: ‘To die would be an awfully big adventure.’  Not that I’m suicidal, I hasten to add.  I find life a huge adventure too, and am very much enjoying it.  When the time comes, though, bring it on.
  7. Just one bucket list item to finish, then.  I want to write another book, or maybe more – something that will help people feel good and important and generally as wonderful as they really are.  So a book to banish fear, basically, because that’s all that holds people back.

Right, and now for my nominees…

Yes, ridiculously difficult to select just five, and I do want these people to understand that if they don’t want to accept or do anything with the award, that’s just fine by me.  However they are people whose writing inspires and/or fascinates and brings me great pleasure, so I hope other readers will follow the links and discover the magic:

First a couple of ‘Version 2.0’ writers (You’d have to have read my book to understand that!).  Love reading their blogs and their comments on mine.  Don’t always understand everything as my mind isn’t wired that way, but enjoying learning and finding out more…

Atxero on Wording Through

Synamex on Startower

Next some wonderful, generous people who give freely of their time to channel incredibly wise Guides and answer readers’ questions.  I’ve learned so much from both sites…

Cheryl on Ask Higgins

Cynthia and Bob on Ask The Council 

and finally, a new discovery whose wizardry as a writer just blows me away…

‘Rosie’ on La Tour Abolie

Oh I never have been one to follow the rules…!  There’s a sixth blog I simply have to nominate.  Sorry if this brings WordPress crashing down around us, but I illegally nominate this wise and heart-based blog from an amazing and perceptive lady who has taught me so much:

Mariner2Mother on Life is a Journey… Not a Guided Tour

I’ll creep away quietly now… 🙂

 

 

The Pillow Monster

IMG_20150802_150019This morning I wasn’t woken by the Pillow Monster.

It’s the first time in over a week that little footsteps and the gentlest of touches on my head didn’t pull me back from dreams.  Once I’d stirred, the gentle three-year-old would transform into his alter-ego and clamber boisterously into the bed, giggling, attacking me with pillows or force-feeding me ‘pie’ or ‘cake’ made of plastic toys.

There are worse ways to awake.  This morning’s was easier, but felt a little lonely.

My grandson and his family were here for nine days.  Sleep was hard to come by; a hungry, teething 6 month old saw to that.  My cottage, which feels spacious and airy to me when I’m alone was transformed into a tiny, cramped place by the mountains of paraphernalia required by a young baby and toddler.

A traditional Punch and Judy booth.

We made bugs from egg boxes, watched dragonflies in the garden, did pirate treasure hunts for ‘golda balloons’ (yes, it took me quite a while to work that one out!) and made a fire engine from a huge packing box.  We yelled anxiously to Mr Punch when the crocodile tried to steal his sausages and sang whispered lullabies to little sister when she couldn’t sleep.

To my grandson, everyone is a friend.  Having just had his face painted as Spiderman, he shouted a cheery greeting to a pair of lads we passed drinking and smoking outside a pub.
“He waved to us!” one remarked.
“Look out, Spidy’s about,” laughed his friend.
“D’ya think I look cool?” the little one asked, tugging on my hand to go and chat with his new friends.
“Very cool,” they grinned, “Yeah.”

As I marched him on towards the playground he continued waving and shouting fond farewells.

Of course he’s been warned about strangers, but he stares reproachfully at us when such things are spoken.  For him there are loving adults surrounding him and the world is a place he trusts and enjoys, filled with excitement and fun.  His heart is so open it almost hurts to watch him sometimes.

As we sat in a cafe, he looked around the table, telling each of us in turn that he loved us.
“Hah!” winked the old man at the next table, knowingly. “What’s he after then?  There’s always a catch when they say that.”

I thought about that man’s experience of the world and my grandson’s.

So different.

There was no catch.  He loves unconditionally.  Certainly he can throw a mega-tantrum because he wanted his drink in the blue cup and it’s been poured into the red one, but he makes few enough demands.

“The thing what would make me really happy,” he told my daughter on his journey home yesterday, “is if I could sit on the sofa, watch a DVD and eat toast.”

When that very modest request was granted, he phoned me to tell me how good it had been and how happy he now was.

I feel so privileged that this lovely small person has arrived in my life and poured so much love into it.

 

 

 

Expanding Consciousness

List of images in Gray's Anatomy: IX. Neurology

“I am everywhere.”

That’s how the film ‘Lucy’ ends.  (Thanks to Atxero for pointing me in its direction.)  It’s a Matrixy kind of a thing – Scarlett Johansson gratuitously destroying anyone who gets in her way, turning ‘life’ to a video game scenario as she develops new and unimaginable neural connections and expands her consciousness until all of her brain is being used, rather than the 10% or so most of us have been settling for.

I was woken up to this expanded consciousness idea some years ago – by Will, the guy I’m currently working with on remote viewing .  He was a little kid then.  He made it impossible for me not to notice that he was seeing things I couldn’t see,  sensing things I couldn’t sense and performing psychic tricks and feats that left me scrabbling to catch up and understand.

English: corpus callosum. Images are from Anat...

English: corpus callosum.  (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are babies, children, teenagers and young people – even a few older ones – who came into life this time around with expanded consciousness.  In my book I called them the Version 2.0 players in this game of Life.  They are the ones who haven’t fully forgotten what is actually going on here – who they really are.  They’re struggling – many of them – to get along with the everyday details of life: social interaction, school, shopping, going to work… but that’s because they are holding an awesome amount of Light or Memory or Spirit or whatever you’d like to call it, within their consciousness.

One day, some meddling but oddly broad-minded scientist will take a look inside the heads of some of these people and discover something unexpected – extra DNA strand activation?  Something rather interesting around the pineal gland?  Neural pathways way beyond what the textbooks show?  A distorted and expanded corpus callosum?  I have no idea what, but something will appear.  I strongly suspect all of the above, as well as a transition from carbon based to crystal based life, but I’m no scientist, just an interested observer. They’ll probably label it a syndrome or dysfunction anyhow, because scientists tend to like norms and neat bell curves.

The rest of us – those who maybe didn’t come into Life that way, but have been jump-started by our special young people – are catching up.  They are waking us up to a new way of being and experiencing – and it’s wonderful.

“I know I’m obviously biased,” my daughter told me, rather apologetically, the other day, “but there are times when he seems to shine somehow…”
She was talking about her 3 year old son.  I’m biased too, but she’s right.  He does.  I was with the two of them at the weekend.  He was raking a flowerbed for his seeds in the garden.

“This is a good day, Mummy,” he said, quietly and thoughtfully.
She looked at him and smiled, slightly bemused.  “You say that every day,” she pointed out.
He looked into her eyes then and said, very pointedly, “But it IS good.”

I checked with her later,  He really does say it every day?  “Yes,” she insisted, “and we won’t be doing anything special – just walking along the street or eating lunch or something.  Then he’ll tell me it’s a good day.”

What a beautiful lesson that tiny little kid is giving his mother.  She believes she’s just about coping – managing him and his three month old sister and the home; she’s rushed off her feet and always feeling someone is losing out.  But the child sees past that.  He sees the goodness of every day and gives it back to her.

IMG_20150510_085131The next day it was my turn.  We were walking through an orchard.  I was aware that it was a pretty place – just aware.  My focus was elsewhere.  Then he stopped and turned to me.

“This is a Good Day, Grandma,” he said, with the gentlest emphasis on those words.

Suddenly I was able to feel it the way he was experiencing it – the family clustered around us, the crunching gravel under our feet, the azure sky with scudding grey clouds, the apple blossom and buzzing of the bees, the birdsong everywhere,  the utter beauty of nature in an English springtime – and I felt all the deep joy that had bubbled up inside him spilling into me from his deep brown eyes.

I felt, as I always have with Will or the many other Version 2.0s I’ve known, so honoured to be given a glimpse into his consciousness.

He’s one of the special ones.

Crystal concealed – and revealed…

So the strange and amazing tale of forays into the phenomenon of remote viewing continues.  The previous two posts explain the story so far.

Up to this point, I had two main assumptions about the experiments we were doing.  The first was that I was in some way conveying information to Will about crystals as I held them in my hand while he, many miles away, focussed on ‘seeing’ them.  The second was that these viewings were working brilliantly because we were both using our Andara Crystals, which had some kind of link to each other.  Both these assumptions were about to be blown apart by what happened next.

On the Friday before the third viewing we had scheduled, my soon-to-be-granddaughter decided to put in an appearance.  Just as I was settling for a quiet evening, I received a frantic phone call.  My daughter was in labour.  There was no one to look after the three year old.  Could I come, please, NOW?

There followed a hectic, high-speed journey across the country.  I’d had 15 minutes to pack.  Racing around the house mumbling, “Toothbrush…  make-up…  pyjamas…  phone…” etc. as I hurled things into a case, with no idea how long I’d be staying, the precious third Andara stone went right out of my head and was left behind.

My new granddaughter, with Mum and big brother

My new granddaughter, with Mum and big brother

On the Sunday, when mother and baby were safely home and doing fine, my jumbled and sleep-deprived thoughts turned to the viewing.  I am seldom without a crystal of some sort stuffed into a pocket and I was relieved to find that I had inadvertently brought a gorgeous tumbled green kyanite with rubies scattered through it – one of my favourite crystals.  I explained the situation to Will and told him I’d endeavour to find a quietish spot in the house and would be focussing on a non-Andara crystal at exactly 2.30 pm.

What I didn’t know at the time – he only told me some weeks later – was that Will had already picked up on the absent third Andara, some days before I’d left home.  He had also, two hours before the scheduled time, done an advance viewing for the crystal I had with me.

Green kyanite with rubies

Green kyanite with rubies

We proceeded as before, signalling a start and end to the session via text messages.  I sat in a corner of the spare bedroom, my feet resting on my suitcase, holding my kyanite.  He told me he’d seen red at first, then a clear quartz crystal.  He told me it had a definite triangular shape.  In his advance viewing, he’d seen the stone as a pinkish colour, but didn’t mention that.

There was quite obviously no match.  He looked at the photo and simply said, “Nothing like what I saw.”

I felt my focus had been weak.  I wondered if it only worked for Andara crystals.  Sadly, we put it aside and resolved to try again when I was home, the next week.

Monday arrived.

It was early morning.  My three year old grandson was rifling through my suitcase and found a small pouch tucked into my make-up holder.

“Wossis, Grandma?” he enquired.

“It’s my dowsing pendulum,” I said, taking the, ahem, cone-shaped rose-quartz crystal from the red fabric pouch to show him.

I never go anywhere without one of my three pendulums.  I use them to get in touch with my intuition, my Higher Self, my guides.  The rose quartz one is always kept in the make-up bag.  As I said, I hadn’t had much sleep for several nights and – stupid as it may sound – it simply hadn’t crossed my mind that this, too, was a crystal.

A slow awe spread through my entire being as I realised what had happened.  Somehow – in some utterly unfathomable way – Will had picked up on this little crystal inside its bright red pouch, inside the make-up bag, inside the suitcase, under my feet, during the viewing session, while completely missing the crystal I was holding and concentrating on.

Rose quartz pendulum

Rose quartz pendulum

I laid the pendulum on the pouch and photographed it, sending the picture to Will. “Any chance this is what you were seeing yesterday?”

He agreed that it was a perfect match for the stone he’d seen, while the pouch was the exact shade of red he’d seen before being able to penetrate to the crystal.

Later it occurred to me that Will and the rose quartz pendulum were old friends.  I’d had it for many years.  As a young boy he’d watched as I dowsed with it, taking dictation of messages from guides and his departed mother as the crystal danced across my computer keyboard, allowing him to understand that he was never alone, and that death was not the great separator he’d feared.

Was this why time, space and a succession of containers were unable to prevent him from making contact with it once again – or vice versa…?

The third Andara

The third Andara

Of course I had no idea that, had I asked him, Will would also have been able to describe the third of my Andara Crystals, despite our viewing session still being in the future.  The following Sunday he told me its colour and shape, even providing me with a clear drawing of the stone.  He did this from the impressions he’d gained a week and a half beforehand.

I’d now learned that his ability to view was clearly not restricted to the Andaras.  It also became evident that my own focus on the object was not a necessary part of the procedure, although perhaps my presence was.

There were still many more questions than answers and we decided that our next project would be to see whether – having kick-started this ability with the crystals – he would be able to view other things.  Perhaps he could pick up features of my location, for example.

On another Sunday afternoon, the answer to that would be revealed.

Breakdowns and subtle bodies



Русский: ЭзотерикаI'll begin by telling you that this is to be one of my 'alternative communication' posts.  Haven't done one for quite a while, so if you tuned in wanting another feel-good story about LIME Cottage, sorry but this is drawing on a very different aspect of my life.

For those who aren’t familiar with my form of alternative communication, I should point out that it is very, er, alternative.

I’ve come across many people who channel and many who speak to those beyond the veil.  I’ve done both, but what I do now is something else again.  I have telepathic conversations with a young man I’ve known since he was a little boy.  He taught me to send and receive telepathically when he was about 8.  He went on to teach me wonders that astounded me.

Sometimes.

At other times he was withdrawn, grumpy, monosyllabic and would insist that the revelations and connections to higher realms had never happened.  It always confused me.

In his late teens, after some very difficult life experiences, he shut down completely.  He barely left his home or spoke to anyone, he only corresponded with me via text – a word a week was normal (‘How are you doing?’/ ‘Fine’).  He cut himself off from family and had no friends.  He developed compulsions and became paranoid.  He refused to see a doctor or therapist and so on and on.  They were dark days.

And then, quite out of the blue, he began to correspond with me telepathically.  It certainly ‘felt’ like him.  I would sit at my computer, type questions or comments into a word-processing program and then hold my crystal dowsing pendulum over the keyboard, just as I’d done (and demonstrated to him many times) when I used to contact his mother in spirit.  The crystal moved and spelled out words, which I typed.

This was different, though.  For a start, he wasn’t dead.  I’d be receiving one word texts from the physical him in London and expansive, fascinating insights from the telepathic him.  Strangest of all, he (in the body) appeared to have no knowledge of the conversations he was having with me via my computer.

Fairly obviously, I doubted the validity of what was happening and more-or-less convinced myself that I was making the whole thing up.  That was when I contacted Cynthia and Bob in New York.  They, I knew, were the real deal.  Cynthia channelled The Council while Bob made detailed recordings.  Yes, they assured me, it was all happening, and I needed to write it all down – publish a book of our strange and wonderful friendship.

The communications have continued intermittently ever since.  It wasn’t until early this month that I commented that the different aspects of him seemed to be more separate than most people’s.

YES, he responded. OVERLOADED.   A BREAKDOWN IN MY TEENS.

I gasped.  ‘Is that what a breakdown is?  A separation of the subtle bodies?’

His response registered mild surprise that I hadn’t realised that.

Suddenly everything made sense – the way in which the magical, evolved indigo/Version 2.0 boy had vanished and been replaced by a terrified, hyper-alert young man working entirely from the limbic system – the ancient fight-or-flight mechanism at the very centre of the brain.
I recalled his angry replies when I asked how he was feeling: ‘I don’t HAVE feelings!’
He managed tasks that had a direct bearing on his own survival, but nothing else.
His life was encased in rituals and obsessions.
He was functioning without any connection to his soul.

Afbeelding van koendaliniekanalen en centra Ze...

Afbeelding van koendaliniekanalen en centra Zelfgemaakt, geen auteursrechten (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So now, he was telling me, I was receiving telepathic communications from his mental body.  A while back, when he’d been fixated on astral travel, the communications came from his astral/emotional body.  All his subtle bodies were continuing to develop just fine, but independently of each other and, he reassured me, they were gradually reconnecting as he was healing.  I guess that explains why he’s become able, in the last few months, to manage the occasional short phone conversation and to send me a birthday card.

Meanwhile, my discussions with his mental body continue to amaze and expand my own consciousness.  Sometime soon, I’ll share with you the ‘Idiot’s Guide to Subtle Bodies’ he prepared for me.

I feel jubilant that I can finally make sense (well, to myself, at any rate) of what has been happening, and that I’ve regained a connection to the wisdom and wonder that kept me spellbound when he was a boy.

I want to teach Jed

English: Hug a Hoodie! Some of Highworth's you...

What follows is a piece of writing I did about 8 years ago.

I was looking out some of my scribblings and thoughts of an educational nature for a friend’s daughter who has just graduated as a teacher, and thought this piece might be of interest to others.

I still believe and stand by every word.

I taught him last year.  I kept him in my classroom, most of the time.  I found ways to get him back, when he couldn’t stay there, and ways to get myself back, when it got too much for me.

 

Jed is courageous – massively so.  He takes on The Man.  He doesn’t conform because it’s the line of least resistance.  He stays true to himself, as he searches desperately for himself.  And that search, in our education system, could well destroy him.  I want to teach him and help him in his search.

 

Our system tells Jed he is ‘challenging’.  What a world we’d have, if every child grew up challenging, testing, thinking, experimenting and learning from their experiences, rather than their textbooks. 

 

Our system tells Jed his attitude is ‘wrong’.  He should accept unfairness, bias, dreary lessons from exhausted teachers who are buffeted from one new initiative to the next; targets that are number-driven, not people driven; results that compare unlike to unlike.  He should meekly bow down and cope with all these things, because life is like that.  What if it wasn’t?

 

Jed is very unsure of himself.  He swears and shouts loudly.  He throws chairs and punches.  He behaves in ways most people don’t.  He’s constantly told he’s bad and wrong and unteachable and impossible and he wonders who is right and what is right and why his way of reacting causes so many problems to him and everyone else.  He doubts himself.  He doubts his ways of interpreting the world.  He is deeply unhappy, but he doesn’t have a choice.  What if there was another way?

 

As educators, policy-makers, law-givers and law-enforcers, we rely on the fact that adults know best.  Children are young and know less, so we must teach them what we know, what we do and how we do it.  They must listen and work hard and develop self-motivation, so that when they grow up, they can run the world the way we run it.  What a recipe for progress!

 

A child who dares to say, “Hang on – I don’t think this is the right way; I don’t think this is the best you could do,” challenges us.

We left those feelings of uncertainty and self-doubt behind in childhood.  We don’t want them back.  We don’t want children moving us forward – challenging us.  No wonder we call it ‘challenging behaviour’.  No wonder we label them and exclude them.

 

Jed is excluded, again.  He calls back to see me after school.  He tells me what he did, what the teachers did and how much he wants to be back in school.  He has to have a special meeting before they decide whether to take him back.  He’s unhappy and unsure and he knows it will happen again and again until they finally wash their hands of him.

 

It goes without saying that Jed has massive strengths and a burning desire to learn.  With courage and tenacity like his, he could be a massive asset to society.  He could also be a suicide statistic or an inmate in a young offenders’ institution.

 

I want to teach Jed.  I want to teach him that there is another way.  I want to be able to tell him that our world desperately needs visionary young people like him who need to learn through experiencing and trying and testing; not through being told.

 

There are plenty of the other sort.  That’s fine.  Let them shine through the current system and come out with their clutch of A* passes and do the jobs suited to them.

 

Let the Jeds of this world learn in their way.  Let them not take anything for granted.  Let them learn philosophy and inter-personal skills and co-operative discovery and self-awareness from the moment they are discovered.

 

Imagine an education system where the infant school teacher announces,

“I think I’ve got a non-conformer here!”

She would say it with pride, like saying that Kirsty excels at literacy or Ahmed is amazing at sports.

 

They’d need a teacher who taught them how to learn, then let them try.  If they found a better method, they’d tell the teacher, who would also learn.  Targets and tests and results would be irrelevant, for the simple and excellent reason that anything worth being is, by its very nature, incapable of being tested and targeted.  The results would speak for themselves.  Society would be moved on by the people who dared to challenge our deeply imperfect system.

 

I want to teach Jed.  I want Jed to teach me.