The Accidental Medium

(Continued from Bronte’s Inferno – Part I)

Fast Forward One Month.
Bronte is still integrating the knowledge that past life karma continues to play itself out in this life between her and the loved ones in her world.  I invite her and Tom over for dinner to see how it’s going. Little did I know that unfinished business from this life will present itself tonight.

“Uncle Tom” is roughhousing with the girls, doing their favorite most shriek-filled game. We have footprints above our heads thanks to Tom taking turns with the girls, walking them upside down on the ceiling.

Over the din, I hear that Bronte is embroiled in another family drama.  Sister stuff this time.  Bronte’s feeling as though she’s expected to step up and take care of things when she’s in no frame of mind, or position to do so.  I remind Bronte that families are there to teach us, and this is a test.

“Boundaries, baby, boundaries,” I tell her.  I know all too well that Pisces have boundary issues.  (But it’s also probably why I am such a clear channel – I easily cross the boundary between this and the other side).

Bronte goes into the details of her sister issue.
I see Bronte’s Mom come in behind her as she explains her immediate predicament with Sis.  Suddenly Bronte rockets out on another trajectory. She’s now talking about her family situation long ago, the sister issue suddenly left in the dust.

Bronte recalls caring for her second baby, her first child just out of diapers. As many Mom’s do, especially in the 80’s, Bronte went straight back to work. Marital problems were burbling in the background. The family bank account seemed to have a mysterious leak in it. They’d moved into her in-laws home to stem the flow and get the daily support of extended family. She knew her marriage was fraying at the seams but Bronte doggedly kept moving forward. Exhaustion, work and babies made it easier to ignore the signs.

“The last and only time I had one-on-one time with my Mum happened when she came to visit me when Trisha was a baby. It was about a year before Mum died. With all the kids in our family, I never got to be with Mum alone, in my whole life it seems, so this was really special. Having Mum all to myself. But I was so busy, so much going on. And it wasn’t long before Mum started asking for my brother who lived in the same city”.

Bronte continues, “At first, I kind of ignored it, telling Mum, her son was being the usual self-centered male, blissfully sowing his oats with total disregard for the rest of us.  But then Mum started getting really persistent and wanted to know when he was coming to see her.  I was getting really pissed off at my brother. Where the heck was he? Selfish son-of-a. Why didn’t he bother to return my calls? Show up?  Urrrgggghhhh.”

It’s at about this point, Bronte’s Mom starts shaking her head.
I’m not sure what that’s all about. I don’t say anything to Bronte – that her Mom is standing by her chair. I know any small interruption will shut Bronte down and we won’t get to the bottom of this.

Now Bronte is really getting agitated, thinking about the whole (past) situation. “I finally tracked down my brother and told him to get his behind over here and take over with Mum. She was so obviously bored here and wanted to be with him more than me. When my brother showed up at the door, my Mum was all ready to go.  As she’s leaving she says to my brother “TAKE ME OUT OF HERE, PLEASE!”

Bronte’s Mom is now shaking her head frantically. From her reaction to her daughter’s words, it’s apparent that this is not what happened at all.

Bronte is shaking her own head. “And that’s when I knew. That I really didn’t have any value.  My husband… and now even my Mum…And that’s when I started drinking. Seriously.’  Her words break into a deep, painful, breathless sob.

In all our times together, all the secrets and hurts she and I have shared, I have never seen Bronte cry. Not once. This is cathartic.

Bronte’s Mom looks at me pleadingly, “DO SOMETHING!!!”
So I leap out my chair, slip around the end of the dinner table and hold a sobbing Bronte in my arms. She’s a dead weight. A drippy dead weight.  The pain is pouring out of her and all over me, both energetically and hydrologic-ally. I look at Bronte’s Mom over her shoulder. She’s telling me telepathically what to do – To fill in for what she did when Bronte was a little girl in distress. I rub Bronte’s back in a big circle. I hold her tight, rock her gently, and soothe her with words. “It’s okay…”

Finally I whisper through my own tears, “That’s NOT what happened, Bronte.” Your Mom is here. She’s telling me that’s not what happened. It’s in your head. She was there because she knew it was bad. She wanted to help, but you cut her out. You didn’t want to talk, or confide in her. You were so busy. No time for her. And she was there for you – to lessen your load. She was so concerned about you. She KNEW your marriage was falling apart. She’s your Mother! She loved you! She loves you now!”

Bronte is gasping between sobs. Bronte’s Mom is now telling Bronte “I LOVE you Bronte. I would never ever do anything to hurt you. I LOVE your feistiness. I should have been more feisty. I am so glad you’re hearing the truth. You know it’s the truth.  It will help you with your writing. It will give you LEEEVerage with your writing.”

Bronte’s Mom repeats, “It will give you great LEEEVerage.”

Bronte starts laughing as she’s crying.
Her Mom doesn’t say ‘leverage’. She says ‘LEEEVERAGE’. Bronte now knows it’s her. “That’s exactly what Mum would say! She was Scottish:  She always mispronounced words like that!”

Bronte’s Mom is now doing this funny little dance – stamping her feet, pumping her little fists up and down. She’s so excited Bronte knows that it’s really her.  “Bronte, your Mom is doing this crazy little dance. I wish you could see it. It’s quite distinctive!”

Now Bronte is bawling. She really knows it’s her Mom.

“Mum had this silly little girl dance, with her fists clenched and stomping her feet. It was so funny!”

I’m laughing, “It IS funny!”

Bronte’s Mom says joyously, “She’s the first (family member) I’ve been able to get through to!”

Bronte gradually pulls herself together. The shift is palpable. Tom is silent, giving Bronte emotional room.  Frankly, I don’t think he knows what to do. Best to keep quiet.

Later that night I give Bronte a huge hug as she and Tom head out the door. “This was a biggie, Hon! You did it! It was a lie – in there, messing with your head all these years. And you cracked it open. Good Job!”

Bronte smiles weakly. She’s spent. Her footing a little unsure, Bronte holds on to Tom’s arm as they walk slowly towards his truck.

After our “session” I go to bed and pick up a book.
I’m exhausted but have the need to read anyway. I’m into the latest book by Colette Baron-Reid.  A highly skilled intuitive, Colette writes about getting a reading from her gifted medium friend John Holland.  Just so happens, at this juncture in the book John Holland channels Colette’s Mom – and the same thing happens. A belief Colette clung to for most of her life about her Mom turned out to be untrue. After that reading, Colette was basically off the radar for days, crying and trying to integrate what she’d learned. I have first-hand knowledge of this kind of shake down process, but it’s nice to hear it shared by another reputable source.

I email Bronte in the morning, asking her outright “So, how goes the shift?”

I continue, “I’ve been reading, and a passage reminded me to pass on this important detail.  There is a process, after a tightly held belief has been shattered, and it is a shake down process. (I relate Colette’s experience to Bronte).  It’s a reminder that you have to take the time to rewire and integrate what you have learned. It’s painful. But if you don’t, it will be much more painful.”

Bronte emails back later with her status thus far. “I’ve been shaken, baby! Cried a lot. But you know, it’s really hard to resist sticking the whole thing into a box I can understand. One thing prevents me from doing that–the word “leeeverage” That’s exactly how Mum would say that word and I realize there’s no way you could have known that.  And that crazy little girl dance…

“I feel ashamed of myself for doubting her.  She was too loving to hurt me but I kept that pain in me for years. I didn’t look at that moment because it was too horrible and then when I finally did, it was too late. She was gone. I thought ‘I can’t fix it now – so…’ Thank you for this.”

I’m always amazed how Spirit does its best to make amends.
Spirit tries to set the record straight with loved ones: Time and space don’t matter.  We usually need help to hear the message.  Something has to shift. We need to be in the right frame of mind to accept something very foreign to our ingrained way of thinking. And be open to change. I guess that’s what I do. Help people to hear these messages when they are ready.

I also see how we must be patient with ourselves. Our mortal integration process of messages from Spirit takes more than a couple of days, to not only know the truth but feel the truth in our core.

Almost two months go by.
Bronte and I are at a gathering. Talking about her struggle with alcohol, Bronte says, “You know, I’ve been following the 12-Step Program, reading the books, trying to walk the talk. But there was something missing that kept derailing me. But when I heard my Mum’s message, when I knew it was her – the things you couldn’t possibly have known…

“I saw what it was: I had this wrong belief, this pain stuck deep inside me. I didn’t even know it was there. But I now realize its significance: How was I going to stop drinking when I had this huge pain to cover up about my Mum? But I found out it was pain based on an illusion. I don’t need the alcohol to cover up a pain that doesn’t exist anymore. I feel the truth in there now. I think it’s getting easier.”

— With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.

 

I have a dear friend named Bronte.
She’s an excellent writer whose talent lies in the romance / mystery genre.   Her first published booked became a top 5 finalist for a national book award, her second book is already at an Agent’s, and the third book is in creation.

If you’re an astrology aficionado, Bronte was born on the cusp of Aquarius and Pisces; a celestial division line that can seemingly split Bronte’s personality into distinctly opposing character traits – more so than your standard Pisces.

Bronte is hilarious, caustic, insightful, unaware, reflective, judgmental, open, selfish, giving, demanding, clear, confused, attractive, feisty, warm, prickly, practical and an incurable romantic all rolled into one.  In other words: Bronte is human – and a reflection of the dualities found in each one of us. At her best, Bronte is endearing, grounded and wise, at her worst she’s a roiling open wound, an angry inferno with a particular, almost irrational rage towards men.

Addiction is an issue in Bronte’s family.
Bronte’s father was an alcoholic, and her mother ended up having to care for seven kids mostly on her own. Bronte doesn’t talk about her parents much. They died long ago. Bronte is the middle child, lost somewhere between the “haves” of the more stable beginning of her parent’s marriage, and the “have not” children that appeared as the marriage wound itself down.  Each child carries their own unique scars and protective mechanisms shaped by their pecking order in a rocky home.

Like each of us, Bronte is on her own unique spiritual journey. And like most of us, she’s getting her butt kicked something fierce this past year.  Bronte has courageously come to the realization she’s addicted to alcohol. She’s joined AA, has a sponsor and is slowly discovering there are fists of pain that have been stuffed deep inside her heart since her rebellious teen years, but probably longer.

Bronte is divorced and living with her ‘non-wordsmith’ partner of ten years.
Tom’s what we call a “Wood Guy”.  He interacts with wood in many ways: as a tree cutter, a carpenter, a handyman, and an extraordinary rustic furniture maker.  Tom often disappears from a paying job to go off on a “mission” deep into the woods, along winding logging roads in search of the elusive burl for one of his exceptional furniture pieces.

Tom’s needs are simple – but he’s by no means simple minded.  His cutting wit brings things down to their bare essence. Tom’s character and perspective ground Bronte when she’s in emotional chaos mode.

Bronte can be a ranting feminist at times, and during these moments Tom can be difficult to pin down.  He disappears – and rightfully so – I don’t call this post “Bronte’s Inferno” for nothing.

I find it fascinating, the dichotomies in Bronte.
A caring, creative Mom of two grown children, she’s always avoided the kitchen; like it’s some kind of Gulag.  I often wonder how her kids ever got fed.  Bronte can have railing feminist views on the one hand, yet didn’t learn to drive a car until she was 40.

Bronte and Tom live in a lovingly built home – Tom’s design and construction – that is kept cozy warm in our cold winters by radiant heat, fired by a specially-designed wood-burning furnace located about 50 feet outside their house. That means if Bronte is alone, and is out of heat, she doesn’t fire up the electric base boards or call the propane guy – she has to have chopped wood at the ready for her to feed an outside furnace in -20 degree weather, and sometimes at night.

For these practical and other loving reasons, Bronte is rarely without Tom somewhere in the vicinity. I often wonder about this dependence / independence theme that runs through her life.  It’s glaring.

On one of those cold winter days, I bring the girls over to hang out with Uncle Tom while Auntie Bronte and I drink tea and chat.  My husband calls these shared moments our “fix”.

Bronte talks about how she tackles her addiction one day at a time. Lots of past issues around family are coming up – and speaking of family issues, she’s planning her 50th birthday party, and inviting all her city-dwelling siblings here to the woods for a long weekend. None of her siblings have ever attempted a reunion before. It’s too much to orchestrate and they are calling her “brave”.

I ask Bronte: “Who’s going to cook?”

Bronte sinks into the couch and sighs, “I must be insane…”

As we talk, I see an older woman appear behind Bronte.
Grey hair, tender smile, fairly short in stature.  The way she’s emanating love I know this must be Bronte’s Mom. I have known Bronte for more than 10 years. I have never seen anyone around her. And this underscores an interesting aspect about Spirit. When we are closed down, Spirit has difficulty getting through to us. But as we work on our “stuff” and start clearing away the heavy energetic debris that surrounds us, Spirit finds the space to make itself known.

I ask Bronte – “So, what did your Mom look like? Do you have a photo?”

I know it’s Bronte’s Mom but the photo can validate my sight and capture some of her Mom’s essence, her energy.  Even in an old photo with a cloche hat pulled down around her ears, I see the resemblance of the older woman standing here and the younger version in the photo.

I tell Bronte that her Mom is standing behind her. Bronte is startled then quickly tries on nonchalant, but it’s obvious she’s rattled. I’m thinking, why is she so rattled with her Mom here?  You’d think she’d be happy? I’ve never seen her Mom before. hmmm.

Post-family reunion, Bronte is in desperate need to debrief.
I come over for a quick cup of tea before picking up the girls from school.

“Well”, says Bronte matter-of-factly. “I managed, within the first hour of our reunion to revert to a petulant teen, smart-assing my older sisters and condescending to my younger siblings. Wow. It’s mind-boggling. I acted like an insane woman!  I got triggered again and again. I really tried to stay centered, but there were times… oh Lord.  My poor Mum. She had to put up with this?!

Bronte’s Mom has been standing by the kitchen sink since Bronte started pouring the tea at the counter.   I feel her motherly love – she’s so proud of her daughter. Bronte’s growing awareness of the problem, and the recognition that this is a problem she needs to work on.  That’s why she’s come in. Bronte used to be very comfortable sitting in judgment of her siblings – but still feeling left out and not understood. Now she’s starting to see why.

I tell Bronte, “Your Mom’s here. She’s very proud of you.” Bronte nods. Is that faint appreciation for her Mom’s presence? No. More than anything, I think it’s an unsettling thought for Bronte. Hmmmm.

Silently, I’m glad to hear Bronte’s summation of her recent behavior. I’m very proud of her too; she wouldn’t have noticed this about herself a year ago.  The fog is clearing and Bronte’s getting a much clearer picture of her shadow side, and how she has undermined her own ability to be heard.

A couple of months later Bronte sends me an email…
“I had a dream in the early morning hours yesterday that featured a big red stone building, Victorian, and across the street (such as it looked in the dream) was a gray stone building. Both with a center tower and a stone arch. This was clearer on the gray building than on the red building…

She fills in more details. “The red building was blackened with pollution or soot. But the heavy red stones were identifiable. I heard the name or was told the name in the dream: “Broadmoor” – but I didn’t know to which building the name applied, one or both. And a date 1850-1860 although I had the sense this was for the red building.

Bronte continues, “I felt pretty good about the red building. In fact when I woke up I felt reassured. I was thinking about it again this morning. I was just riffling through one of my old Agatha Christie’s to see how Agatha handles revelations at the end of her book – to help in writing my book – and one of the characters mentions Broadmoor-a British prison. I must have had Broadmoor very deep in my subconscious because I don’t recall hearing it before the dream.

“So I Googled Broadmoor and there it is – a Victorian red brick building with an arch that opened in 1863 as an asylum for the criminally insane. The building in my dream was stone, a big square red lumpy thing and Broadmoor is brick but quite lumpy looking in the photo.”

Bronte’s puzzled: “What I don’t understand is how a building for the criminally insane could give me a feeling of reassurance? The gray building is similar but not as real, present or striking as the red one. I don’t know the identity of the gray brick one. Maybe what I felt was the reassurance that I wasn’t inside?? Love B.”

I read Bronte’s email again. It is fascinating.
She hasn’t noticed this kind of synchronicity before – where dreams and reality collide at several levels. I’m sure many people have reached for a book or magazine and it falls open at ‘the’ passage that needs to read – it’s an answer to a question we’ve been carrying around in the back of our heads. And I’ve used Google to get to the bottom of some of my intuitive readings, helping to verify places and people’s faces – Google comes in really handy.

I email Bronte: “Ok so here’s what’s interesting…

“One of your favorite expressions is “Are you insane?” or a permutation like, “Are they insane?” ,,,”Is SHE insane?”… “Is HE insane?” … “Am I insane?” Followed by another favorite – “That’s Insanity”. hmmmmmmm….

I tell Bronte I’ll get back to her about her dream.

Later that night I prepare myself to receive clear messages.
With Kate’s room calm and protected, I do my own chakra clearing as Kate falls off to sleep. Then on to sleeping Matilda’s room, a powerful channeling space where I do a meditation that taps me into my guides. When I’m done and with the girls asleep, I hastily type out the results on my keyboard and email them to Bronte before I fall into bed:

“Someone you loved -someone close to you and someone in a position of power (and male) like a father, but I think it’s a husband, treated you VERY Badly. Crazzzy bad. And you kept thinking it was your fault. You were doing something wrong. And then it got so bad, that somehow it got to court (my guides say that’s the gray building) and the judge deemed your male maniac to be indeed insane. You were SO relieved. It WASN’T you, it was actually him. So knowing that this person was safely stowed away in an insane asylum and that you were indeed not the problem after all, it gave you a great sense of peace. Don’t know what happened after that, except that the maniac person never got out. I keep seeing you walking outside that building – you’re wearing a long dark dress, long dark overcoat and hat.  And you probably did do just that – walk by that red building regularly, because it did give you a great sense of peace. Hugs, E.”

Later that night I’m awakened for no apparent reason but with a dream still top of mind.  I stumble down to the kitchen to send another email to Bronte from my laptop:

“YOU didn’t take him to court – he did something to a male in a position of power and that guy took him to court, and got him thrown in the asylum… That’s why the gray building isn’t clear to you – I don’t think you were even involved or actually in the gray building, just outside it… Interesting that one male abused you horribly. And another male saved your life. Hugs, E”

“Wow. That is …wow.”
Bronte’s reaction to my three emails included a revelation and a shift. Bronte writes,

“The feeling I had about that red building was hard to explain except that it was good, in a very reassuring way–and I wrote very well that day. But it wasn’t ‘joy’ or ‘happy’–it was validation. Comforted. Reassured. I did feel safe thinking about that building. And the feeling stayed with me all day and yesterday. So the reason I would feel this way about a criminal asylum makes sense in your read. I was quite bothered that it turned out to be a negative place where some seriously disturbed men now live.”

Bronte signs off, “And yes! That is my favorite expression: “Are you insane??”

Bronte sees the bigger issue looming in front of her: The overblown responses she has to what she sees as “male domination” that go far beyond the actual situation.  In her email she realized this:

“The issue surrounding a man who was close to me hurting me so very badly is almost too painful to explore. All I know is that all my life I’ve had an overpowering reaction to male mastery. Life and death reactions when clearly the threat isn’t that high. I figured I was just a loon. Thanks so much. I’ll treasure this.”

There is no doubt that this man in Bronte’s past life was violent.
I clearly saw how he was a socio-path, who thought he could manipulate anyone through charm and/or intimidation. And when he couldn’t, he attacked the other man in the scene, whom I believe was his employer.

Bronte had not been in a position of power – she was dependent without the law on her side, unlike the greater legal protections in place for abused women today.  Back then Bronte had no support, no way to complain without repercussion, no way to escape. There’s no wonder Bronte has a life and death reaction to male domination. It was life vs. death at the time. It was lucky that her husband violently attacked his employer before he attempted to do the same to Bronte.

Now Bronte has an inkling of how a past life can impact the present. I tell her “Knowledge is power – so remember this when you start feeling that fight or flight response…”

And I’m adding in my head “when Tom leaves his dishes in the sink…”

To Be Continued…. Brontes Inferno (Part II)

— With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.

Childbirth is brutal on your body.
What happens after wards is a big secret your girlfriends don’t tell you about. The sleep deprivation.  Your vital organs jiggling inside you, seemingly unattached to your skeletal structure.  The flabby skin jiggling outside you. Gone is the bikini belly along with the possibility of a perky butt anytime soon.  Then there are the pendulous breasts, clearly not your own, that make you feel like a milking machine. Mooooo.

After I had my second child, I had all sorts of additional minor postpartum issues – like misalignment of my spine, twisted sacrum and a problem with a vein that made my leg muscles ache. Child-bearing is not for whoosies.

But the main issue was my child herself.
Matilda had infant acid reflux and she would turn blue and start to choke if left lying flat for too long. She couldn’t be left alone. I tried feeding her at different times, in different positions, raising her head, raising her bed, putting her to sleep in a baby swing, strapping her into a baby car seat. Nothing worked. Functioning on very little sleep, I finally resorted to sitting up with Matilda in my arms and “sleeping” (I use that term loosely) that way each night for 8 months.

Matilda grew out of her baby reflux, but my aches and pains got worse. On the insistence of my husband who has messed up his own body from sitting at a computer too long, I went to see his massage therapist.

I’m always careful who I choose to work on my body.
It’s not just about skill level of or comfort level with the therapist. As an intuitive, I’m aware of and exposed to all kinds of energies, and with significant lack of sleep, there is always the possibility that a lower vibrating energy may glom on to me.  And there are the times I get scared, frustrated or angry and hold that energy in me.  Whatever the cause, it doesn’t feel good.  And when this lower energy eventually finds itself incompatible with me, it can break off and find somebody else to glom onto. I want my therapist to be protected from any bad energy I might inadvertently bring in.

Then there’s the practitioner’s office – it may not be clear.  The therapist may have worked on somebody else with bad vibes, negative thoughts or what have you – and that low energy may be hanging around ready to meld with the next client’s energy. yuck.

I don’t mean to sound dramatic here.
But you know how some places bring you down and other places lift you up? Some spaces feel leaden and others feel airy?  You know how you are attracted to some people but want to stay well away from others? You may have even experienced a blue funk that seems to hang on to you for a few hours or even a few days after you’ve visited a bummed out friend.  You are experiencing your own clairsentience (ability to feel energy). You’ve been exposed to low vibrating energy.

Meditation transmutes lower energies, as does exercise, relaxing in a warm Epsom salt bath,  spending time with happy people, finding the humor in a situation, laughter, being in nature or other sacred spaces.  If you don’t transmute this energy, it stays in the same low form and if it doesn’t stick to you it looks for another place to roost.

We are all energy. We need to protect our own energy as well as manage the energies around us.

Susan is a tall strong woman and a gentle soul.
A single Mom, she started up her massage therapy services just after her second child was born. Her second child is the same age as Matilda. I don’t know Susan well, but we took our children to the same playgroup.

When I walk into Susan’s treatment room, I see that she practices safe energy management. The room doesn’t feel heavy. It’s an oasis. There’s light orchestral music playing in the background. The faint scent of massage oil and incense floats in the air. There is a huge chunk of glistening purple Amethyst sitting on a side table and a healthy plant on another. Scentless candles burn silently in the corners of the room.

Even though Susan is noticeably careful about keeping her treatment room clear, I can see how this room could hold on to low energy. Fresh air flow and natural light help to easily maintain positive energy in a space:  This room is in a basement. It’s located far from the main reception door that leads to the outside. There are no windows. This is a busy health center. Lots of people in pain. Lots of issues in the tissues release themselves here.

We talk about my issues – my sore back and leg – and how best to proceed. She starts working to relieve the tight muscles I’ve developed holding Matilda for months at a time.

I haven’t told Susan about my abilities – but my husband has.
As she works on my aches, I tell her how I appreciate the effort she takes to keep this space clear. Susan admits that the space is not ideal – she’s renting the room from another health care practitioner.

I comment on her giant half geode of amethyst.  Amethyst is known for its energy transmuting properties – the stone helps to clear and protect a space from holding on to lower energies.  Susan stops to show me her favorite book – the Book of Stones. We share a reverence for these rocks – there is something magical about them. They have a strength and vibration that lifts our spirits, and makes us both feel grounded, strong, clear and centered.

Out of the blue, Susan says, “I need to ask you about something. I’ve only told two close friends. They think it’s just in my head. Maybe you might know what’s going on…”

I listen, my eyes closed. “Sure! What’s up?”

Susan starts slowly. “Well, there’s this balloon…It’s in my house.”

“Okay…”

Susan continues. “This balloon follows me everywhere. It even follows me UP the stairs. And it’s NOT HELIUM! It’s freaking me OUT!” Susan’s anxiety becomes palpable.

I’m thinking out loud, “What color is the balloon? Where is it around you?”

Susan mutters, “I don’t remember the color. It just follows me – it’s around me or just shows up in the room. I keep putting it back in the closet and the next thing I know it’s in the kitchen with me!”

Susan isn’t one to freak out easily.
She’s got a lovely calm way about her. Something is definitely up. There’s a balloon in her house that’s following her around like a dog. It’s wigging her out. Yet she doesn’t get rid of it. hmmmm.

With my eyes still closed, I take three deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. And immediately I see a blue balloon bouncing along invisible air currents and following Susan up a flight of stairs – it’s at her right shoulder.

I’m not thinking, I’m talking. “Has your Dad passed?” I feel he has.

Susan says, “Yes. He died a while back.”

I blurt out. “Did you have a good relationship with your Dad?” I don’t wait for an answer. “No, I don’t think you did. Doesn’t matter. He’s trying to get your attention. He’s trying to help you. So what’s happening with you right now? Something else is going on that’s upsetting you.”

I know next to nothing about Susan’s family. I don’t know how I know, but it’s so obviously her Dad. I don’t even know why it’s obvious. It just is.

Susan pauses. “Well… I’ve been trying to do this quietly. You’re right. I need to be out of this space.  So I’ve put an offer in on the old MacLeary place across from Alan’s Hardware Store. It’s perfect for my family and for running my massage therapy.

“I don’t know if I’ll get it. I don’t know how I’ll get it. I need a mortgage, and I’m a single Mom, and self-employed.  I’ve just started this practice so there’s no business track record. I’m not the best credit risk. And Mr. Alan has been trying to buy that place for years. He’s tried to start a bidding war …

“Luckily, Mrs. MacLeary said she’d prefer to sell to me.  She seems more interested in who gets her house than getting the highest price. But if I can’t get my financing in order fast I won’t be buying it. She needs to sell – she can’t wait much longer. Alan is waiting with a signed check with Mrs. MacLeary’s name on it. I’m stressed.”

Susan goes silent. I get another download.
“Your Dad is trying to make things right with you. Don’t you worry. He’s working in the background. Don’t panic. Just keep moving forward. You are meant to have that house. It’s going to happen soon.”

Faith is a funny thing. You need it most when life gets bumpy and uncertain – and that’s when faith is most difficult to find and hold on to.  Susan is obviously wrung out by this emotional roller coaster. Her ego has taken over, playing this “Will-it-or-won’t it” question in her head. Worrying her. Wearing her down.

I tell Susan, “Do what you can do, and then let it go. It will work out. What else do you need to do to secure the mortgage?”

Susan goes into the details. “My real estate guy says I need to get a co-signer for the mortgage. But the only one is my Mom. But she lives in Florida. But I need to get her to agree to this first, then get all the original documents to her, have her sign them, then get them back to me in time – by the end of the week – then the real estate guys need to do their stuff.  But I just don’t see how that’s all going to happen. It’s too much…”

Susan is overwhelmed. The ‘buts’ are blocking her. I don’t have any rational proof that she can pull this off in a few days, but I am compelled to say, “Just do it. It will happen. Your Dad is on your side. Well, he’s actually on the other side, but he’s pulling some strings. He’s going to make things right with you. After we’re done here, call your Mom, get the documents, call Fedex and get those documents rolling. Then you’ll have done all you can do. Let it go. It will happen.”

One week later.
I walk into Susan’s treatment room. I’m reluctant to pry but I ask anyway. “So… how goes the real estate deal?”

“I got it!!!” Susan bursts into a huge smile.

“I knew it!!!” I think I’m as excited as she is. “And the balloon is blue.”

Susan beams back, “Yes! I wanted to tell you!  The balloon is blue.”

— With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

Spirit gives me messages in movies.
Not in Hollywood movies.  Movies in my head.  They play on a screen in my third eye.  I can see them best if I close my eyes.

But when Spirit wants to give me a heads-up about something particularly important, it gives me a snapshot. I could be looking at something as innocuous as a kitchen tool, then my eyes zoom in on the item. And I hear a “Click-Click”, like the sound of an older model camera that’s taking a photo in my head.

I’ve learned that the “Click-Click” is telling me to remember the image – it will be important.  It’s telling me – “Just file that picture for future reference. You’ll need it.” I’m not told why. I just have to wait patiently for the answer to be revealed.

Our long-awaited family reunion has started.
And we’ve just arrived at my great Aunt’s family cottage compound where the party is already in full swing. My husband goes with the kids to watch the croquet tournament on the back lawn. I head to the kitchen to pitch in with the dinner that my Aunts are busily preparing. I once managed restaurants in my former pre-kid life.  The kitchen is a welcoming place that quickly plugs me into the social whirl.

One of my Aunts immediately hands me the job of slicing cold meats for the buffet table. Her younger sister whispers in my ear,  “We’ve been avoiding this job. I hope you find something decent to cut with.  These knives are AWFUL.”

Like the rest of the females in my Mom’s clan, I’m pretty handy in the kitchen. We don’t wait for a man to sharpen kitchen knives – I learned early on to use a sharpening steel or a second knife to get the job done. I open the drawer and find a half-decent slicing knife. But what catches my attention in the bottom of this kitchen drawer is a very old whetstone.

“CLICK-CLICK.”

Spirit is very subtle. I would have totally ignored the “Click-Click” before. It’s just an old fashioned knife sharpener after all. But I’ve learned that the simplest things can hold important messages. I file the image of the old whetstone for future reference.

Fast forward 28 hours.
I’m talking with my cousin whom I haven’t seen in a long time. We’re standing in front of the urn he has lovingly carved out of wood. He lost his Dad 6 months before. It’s been a tough time. My cousin has already opened up to me that he feels and even sees his Dad around – out of the corner of his eye.  It comforts him.

My cousin is one of the nicest guys you’d ever want to meet. Calm, gentle natured. Great Dad. Caring husband. Reliable. Trustworthy.  Solid. An empath. He takes care of other people before he takes care of himself.  The Go-To Guy. (Every family has one.)  He takes on way more than most.  He keeps it to himself if he gets anxious, frustrated, fearful, angry.

As my cousin talks about his Dad, his Dad appears behind him. I’ve never seen this before, but with the family reunion, and his family around, my Uncle appears surrounded in a dark purplish blue radiant aura. It’s stunningly beautiful.

My Uncle gently lays his hand on my cousin’s left shoulder. I’m thinking – okay. what’s up? And in my head I hear the instructions,

“Wait for it…!  Wait for it….!”

I wait and I listen to my cousin recounting the last days of my Uncle’s life. Even though it was agonizing, he and his Mom stayed with his Dad to the very end.  Looking back, he says he’ll never regret spending those final hours with his father.

And then my cousin says, “I have one regret.”

Here it comes…
My Uncle starts whispering “It’s okay. It’s okay.” Over and over again.

My cousin tells me a story from long ago. He was still in school. The family was going through difficult financial times. My Uncle was coping but not so well. Like many people, he’d resorted to numbing his fears with alcohol.

After school each day, my cousin would come home and immediately start chores in the family business, doing a lot of the heavy dirty work. On one particular day when my cousin was home and well into his chores, my Uncle sidled in. My Uncle was having a particularly hard day coping and was already well into his cups.

My cousin has set exceptionally high standards for himself. He doesn’t blow. But he blew then. There was a heated exchange between them.

This altercation has been emblazoned on my cousin’s psyche – deeply affecting him some 20 years later.  He cannot let go of the incident:  The argument was not up to the expectations he has for himself. I’m thinking that this incident was probably the first time my cousin ever stepped forward and countered his father, showing the depth of his frustration and disappointment with his Dad and the situation.

My cousin bursts into quiet tears.
His pain is a wave that hits me. But I’ve already prepared myself and let it wash over me rather than absorb it.  Because I’ve stayed grounded, I can clearly hear my Uncle saying reassuringly, “I deserved it.”

I tell my cousin his Dad is standing behind him. I let him know his father does not hold anything against him for what happened in the past.  He needed to hear what my cousin had to say. He knows he had it coming.

But my cousin is still deep in the pain. He explains there is no excuse. He shouldn’t have lashed out in anger. His Dad was doing his best, trying to keep things together. He was human.

Then I get a download and continue talking. On automatic pilot.

We’re ALL human. We can get angry. We can clash, especially in stressful situations. Maybe, just maybe, this is the first time his Dad actually started to listen – because the anger came from a supportive loved one who’d never expressed an angry bone in his body. It just may have been the first of a series of wake-up calls that helped my Uncle to redirect his path for a better future.  He got his Dad’s attention. And that was a very good thing that came out of their fight.

I tell my cousin about boundaries (important for an empath). That if he hadn’t said anything about the situation, that he would be part of the problem. Co-dependent. While it wasn’t pretty, he’d made it clear to my Uncle there were other ways to cope, and that my Uncle was fully capable of coping differently.

My cousin gradually calms. But he’s holding on to this pain – perhaps he’s had if for so long, he doesn’t really know how to let it go. It’s part of his story: In his mind he’s disappointed himself and his Dad. There’s no changing it.  And that view has kept him in his place, holding my cousin back by keeping him full of guilt, and now regret. It happened. It can’t be undone.

Or can it?

Fast forward 17 hours.
We are now on the old family farm – now parceled out. Barns, silos and out buildings long since torn down. Just the big old farm house still standing. It was where my cousin and his family spent the first years of his life. My Uncle was the last in our family to farm this land more than 30 years ago.

A gang of us – three generations of relations spanning 80 years – start the walk into the fields and back towards the woods. There is a special place where my Aunt wants to spread some of my Uncle’s ashes. My Aunt stalls the walk to the woods – it’s overwhelming. My Mom stays with her, in what used to be the farmyard, as my Aunt talks about the old days, getting up her nerve.

The humidity hangs glistening over the cornfields.   We all wait for the two stragglers, while trying to stay cool in the shelter of trees at the edge of the woods. My cousin decides to make the long trek back through the oppressive heat to fetch his Mom and my Mom. When he finally returns with the two women, my cousin is quietly elated. His eyes are sparkling.

He shows me a dusty old whetstone in the palm of his hand. We’d all traveled single file down that same narrow uneven path by the side of the corn field, carefully picking our way across the deep furrows where the corn rows end.  But it was my cousin who found the well-worn whetstone sticking out of the sandy loam – it was the same color as the earth.  Hard to spot.

My Mom comments that whetstones were commonly used by farmers working out in the fields to sharpen the old farm implements on the fly.

My cousin is smiling and shaking his head. “I don’t know why nobody else saw the whetstone. Everyone was on the same path – you all walked over it. It was right there – sticking out of the ground.”

I know why.  My cousin had gone the extra distance. This was meant for him.  I look at my cousin. I smile. I murmur to him. “That’s a gift from your Dad.”

I never tell him why I am absolutely sure it’s a gift from his Dad – About the heads up I got two days earlier while working in the kitchen with my Aunts. CLICK-CLICK.  “It’s important.”

But my cousin doesn’t need that verification. The look on his face tells me he KNOWS it’s a gift from his Dad.

Maybe the healing has begun.

— With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.

I’m not sure what this all means.
For no apparent reason, my mind keeps slipping back to a time about 10 months ago when my Mom’s old friend Jean passed away: Spirit is getting my attention with these repetitive thoughts. The reason for these thoughts is not clear, at least not yet.  Spirit is persistent – but it’s on its own timeline.

Why am I being reminded of Jean’s passing? It’s not the anniversary of her death. I was not close to Jean – I don’t feel her loss in a close personal way. It’s not that Mom has been talking about her. In fact, there seem to be no people or events that have triggered the replays in my head. It’s odd. Unresolved. I’ll wait and watch for clues that point to what this is all about.

I’ve learned not to ignore repetitive messages.
They pop in from nowhere, in times of “no mind”. Like in the early morning when the house is quiet and I’m waiting for the coffeemaker to beep, or when I’m tidying up the girls’ rooms, or cleaning out the kitty litter. During these times of habitual routines and chores, a calm space is made.  It’s a clearing that’s far enough away from the surrounding ‘busy thought’ that it invites messages from Spirit to easily slot into my consciousness, much like a dvd inserts into a dvd player.

Now as I’m folding laundry, the space is filled with more than a memory. I’m being told specifically to remember this moment of remembering Jean – for future reference. This is the message. And no more. Spirit rewards patience.

I remember the call.
It’s a hot summer evening in July of last year. We’re on holiday in the big city – and far away from my Mom. The girls are pouring through the new books we’ve bought on an expedition to Borders Books that afternoon – an activity that got us out of the beating mid-day heat. I’m now reading and my husband is watching a documentary when the phone rings.

My Mom is distraught.
She’s heard through the seniors’ grapevine that her friend of more than 60 years has died of heart failure. Jean was admitted into the hospital and is now dead, just days later. My Mom is understandably upset – one of her oldest friends has died and nobody called her to let her know. The funeral is the following day in a far-off city, and there is no way Mom can make arrangements to be there in time.

My Mom can’t believe it. It’s happened so fast. She’s the last one left – her two best friends from college are now gone. There’s nobody to share those cherished memories with. Underlying this is the quiet shock that Jean’s family has not called her to let her know.

I don’t know Jean very well at all.
I may have met her a half dozen times in my life. She didn’t live in the same town. Our families didn’t visit. I’ve never been to her house. I don’t know any of her children. The past couple of years, Mom and Jean talked on rare occasions but they always picked up where they left off. Lifetime friends do that. Mom doesn’t talk much about their time at college together: Mom’s life has taken many twists since those free-wheeling college days – those memories from a bygone era that have nothing to do with kids, grandkids, careers, moves and empty nest syndrome.

I assure Mom I’ll try to tap in.
My Mom believes in my abilities, and she’s also concerned, nervous, and generally uneasy about them none-the-less. But when she needs my help in an intuitive capacity, my Mom does not hesitate to call. She is suspicious by nature – Mom’s favorite saying is “I’m just playing the devil’s advocate.” (Fair enough). Yet she somehow trusts the messages I receive from Spirit, despite how it unnerves her.

As the summer sun goes down, my family settles in for the night. The room is in quasi-darkness with lamplight filtering in through the curtains, turning the room a deep blue, and the sounds of traffic drift up from the street. My two wee girls are asleep, my husband snores quietly at my side.

I wrap everyone in white light.
In my mind I call in my guides, and swirl bands of sparkling white light around each family member. Then I fill the entire room with white light. This routine serves to protect us from unwanted spirits who may decide to drop in and wake us all up. We gals are like tuning forks that inadvertently broadcast our communication abilities to the spirit world. Wrapping calms the room, raises the vibration and helps to keep out the lower energy riff-raff. I know it may sound weird. But sleep is precious to me, so I rarely miss a night’s wrapping. I know what it can be like when I don’t wrap.

Next, I clear my chakras (the body’s energy centers) with a mini-meditation that helps me to receive clear messages. Then I do a breathing meditation to make that clear space that invites messages from Spirit to drop in. It only takes a few minutes to wrap everyone and clear me.

I say in my head, “If it is meant to be, please let Jean come through to me.” I don’t think – just calmly hold the space. My head is clear. No thoughts. No expectations. I’m actively present.

Jean comes right in.
It jolts me a bit. I feel hyper-alert. I’m surprised how easy it is to tap into her vibration – it’s as though she’s been waiting for me. I realize she HAS been waiting for me to bring my energy up to hers. Jean’s energy is so light, I can feel its warmth spread through my heart chakra.

Jean immediately starts talking. I don’t see her but her voice is clear and strong as I remember it.

“Tell your Mother I’m so sorry. I hadn’t planned on going. But I saw the window and I took it. I couldn’t go back. I was so tired. It was my way out. Tell your Mom, please don’t be upset with my family. They couldn’t have known I was going to go.  I came down with a virus. And I went very fast. I didn’t have to go just then but I was ready. I was exhausted. It was time. But there was no time for them to prepare.”

I see the words “C. Difficile” printed on the screen inside my head.

Then Jean starts showing me movies.
They are playing in my head – of her with my Mom and their other best friend Evelyn: The triumvirate of girlfriends all on scholarships, sitting in a beautiful room with tall ceilings and dark paneling.  The three bright young women are chatting away on a big couch, wearing twin sets and smoking cigarettes, their vivacious energy creating the epicenter of the room, while other students circle around them. These women are obviously the movers and shakers there. My Mom? A mover and a shaker? Who Knew?

I’m now seeing a tiny dorm room. There is a goldfish in a bowl sitting on a shelf in front of the window. Jean guffaws. The scene really tickles her funny bone. I wonder what that’s all about?

The scene changes again – Jean shows me the three of them all dressed up in strapless ball gowns at a formal dance, corsages on their wrists. There’s a young man on stage in a big band, playing the clarinet. Jean’s obviously got her eye on him. Her future husband, perhaps?

Jean’s energy begins to fade.
I feel her step back. I promise her I’ll tell Mom her message. I tell her how glad I am she’s in a better place, and let her know I’m here if she ever needs me to get messages across. She knows that. And then she’s gone.

I call Mom the next morning and tell her Jean’s message – How sorry she was to leave so quickly and cause Mom such pain. She didn’t mean to leave quite so abruptly, but she saw the window and went for it.  And her family hasn’t been able to cope with her sudden passing. Mom is very surprised yet very relieved. But she questions, “I was told Jean died of heart failure, not from a virus.”

“Well, that’s what she told me.” I don’t waiver. I trust what I’ve been told.

I relate to Mom the scenes Jean showed me from their time in college.  Were they at center of the social whirl? Mom downplays it but it is indeed the case. My Mom was social convener for her year – and she and her two girlfriends were inseparable. I describe the room where she sat with Jean and Evelyn – Mom says I’m describing the Women’s Residence Common Lounge. I ask her how Jean met her husband – he played the clarinet in a dance band.

I ask her, “What’s with the goldfish?” Mom laughs. She had a pet goldfish she kept in her dorm room. It got so cold that one morning Mom woke up and the goldfish bowl had ice forming on top of the water.  So she moved the bowl to sit on top of  the radiator in front of the window, so the goldfish wouldn’t freeze in the winter time.  Jean always got a kick out of that college story.

You won’t believe this!
The next evening Mom calls me back with an update. She’s excited. Elated in fact. Mom has talked to Jean’s son. Jean had died of a viral infection. She’d been admitted for pneumonia then she’d contracted C. Difficile in the hospital and she was so weak, they couldn’t get it all under control. My message is corroborated.

Jean had been taking care of her husband whose health had been failing recently. Her husband wouldn’t contemplate moving out of their huge home into a care facility. Jean was exhausted from being a caregiver AND housekeeper AND caretaker. It was a difficult situation, and one her husband wouldn’t let her out of. (Or so the family thought. Jean saw a way out and took it!)  Jean’s words now make more sense.

“That’s amazing. You knew!” my Mom utters in quiet relief. Listening to the tone of my Mom’s words, I realize that she’s letting go of what was, and starting to come to terms with what is – accepting her friend’s sudden departure, and finding compassion to forgive Jean’s family for forgetting Mom in the aftermath. I recognize that’s why Jean came in so quickly and clearly:  She was determined to set the record straight, and make things right with her dear friend.  I was the medium.

“I don’t know anything, Mom.  Jean told me.” I impress upon Mom that I’m just the messenger. I create a blank mental slate that Spirit can write on.

Now it’s almost a year later.
Jean keeps cropping up in my head and I’m hoping to get this question resolved. I call my Mom to find out how Jean’s husband is doing. Maybe she’s popping up because he’s sick. But Mom has recently heard that he’s doing fine, and remains in his house.

I am often reminded that Spirit doesn’t neatly wrap and deliver the whole story on a silver platter. There are always missing pieces and the story never really ends. When it’s time, I’ll come across some of those missing pieces along my own journey. I trust I’ll find out why I’ve been thinking about this woman I barely knew.  Spirit rewards faith with revelation.

— With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.
(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.