The Accidental Medium

I’m overtired.
It’s unseasonably hot and muggy. Not good sleeping weather. It’s Mercury in Retrograde again. And it’s full moon. An old friend of mine – now in spirit – wakes me up. It’s Sunday night and he’s brought a young adult male with him. They are standing at the side of my bed. His young friend just died in an accident. I cannot see this person’s face – I find out later his face was lost in the accident. I’m not meant to see these kinds of details. It’s part of “the deal” I have with my guides. I’ve asked to stay in the higher realms. So no blood, gore, low lifes or threatening entities whenever possible, and I will do my part. There are other intuitives more designed and able to handle this other side of life.

My friend tells me his young friend hasn’t crossed over yet. I realize that’s why I cannot hear the young man talk: If he’d crossed over I would be able to hear him. This fact would be obvious if I were somewhat coherent at 3 a.m. What is apparent is that my services are needed. So for two nights I’m awakened at 3 a.m. to tell this young man I can see him, he’s dead, and he needs to go to the light. He will be fine once he goes to the light. He can come back and visit. But right now, he needs to go to the light. I’m trying to sound convincing while blessed sleep pulls me back under.

It’s in this frame of mind that I’m feeling compelled.
I need to go over to the farm of my daughter’s soon-to-be teacher. Brie has been wanting me to walk through her farm house and environs for months now, to see what spirits are around, to see if I can tap into her guides, and to find out if there’s any ghosts or other energy that need to be removed. But I’ve been so busy, and pulled in many directions. It’s now Mercury in Retrograde. I’ve been doing my best to conserve energy, stay grounded, stay centered. Take care of old business.

So when I get a call from Brie this morning, I’m not surprised. But Brie is shaken. She has a friend who has gone missing – I think this may be another reason why I’ve been so unsettled. In addition to my nightly bedside visits, I’m probably picking up on this situation too. Her friend’s family used to own a farm and Peter was instrumental in getting his Dad to sell the farm to Brie when he retired. Peter has been missing for 4 nights. I’ve never met him and don’t know anything about him – until now.

Peter has been depressed lately. Last Saturday he came to visit Brie and her husband at their farm. They all went down to their lake and enjoyed a swim. Peter was very “up”. He had dinner with them at the farm house, and left their place about 11 p.m. The next day, Brie found his car parked at their lake property, his wallet in the car. A cottage neighbor told her he’d towed their floating dock back to Brie’s lake property that morning. It had gotten loose during the night and had floated over to his side of the lake. It had been a flat calm night so the wind hadn’t torn it loose.

Brie called Peter’s family to tell them about the abandoned car.
They told her their news: Peter had not turned up after his visit to Brie’s. The family had since called the police. So first thing Monday morning, police showed up at the lake with two teams of divers, boats, sonar equipment and surface teams. Now, the police are starting their third day of searching the lake, and still no luck.

Brie wants to know if I can tell if Peter’s lost in the woods and if so, did I think he was still alive, or if he’d fallen in the lake? There’s concern he may have committed suicide. I blurt out, “He’s gone. He decided to leave”. I can feel Brie’s shudder over the phone.

I say, “You did a very good thing, Brie. To give Peter this time with you on the lake, and at the farm where he grew up. This was a gift to him. He was off his meds. I can feel his spirit trying to pop out of the top of his head. He was joyful when he saw you. He was barely holding on to the physical. He was bi-polar. He couldn’t take it any longer. Not feeling. He wanted to be joyful”.

Brie confirms what I’ve said: Peter is indeed bi-polar and known to go off his meds.

I am now seeing a marshy area at the far side of a lake.
Then I see a man fill his pockets with rocks and walk into the lake. I cannot tell where he is on the lake. It’s a close-up. Then there’s an inhale of water. Silence. That’s it. At this moment, I don’t tell Brie what I am seeing or hearing. She asks me if I can come over and see if I might be able to locate him. I agree to come over in the afternoon. I remind her this is not my normal work. But Brie’s just relieved I can come.

When I get to the farm, Brie and her husband are there to greet me. They say that they’ve been thinking Peter may be in a marshy area where the police haven’t yet explored the water. A man appears between them – squat, about 75 with greyish white hair. I asked them what Peter looks like: Peter is tall blond and 40ish.

“Well there’s this older gentleman with whitish hair standing between the two of you with a big smile. Maybe he’s going to help us find Peter.” Whoever he is, he joins Brie and I as we hop in the car for the ride over to their lake.

The lake is small, partially populated, much of it wild.
There are about 25 cottages on the north and west sides. The remainder is natural – and much of that undeveloped part is Brie’s – it’s part of the farm. The police are out in their boats, and there is a cottage cordoned off, being used as the police encampment and staging area.

We park the car at the end of the road and walk to the south side of the lake – an absolutely beautiful hike – near the crest of a hill, in mixed forest. The trail takes us down a steep ravine towards the marshy area of the lake where the police have not searched yet. As I am walking on the hiking trail, I’m picking up that Peter wants his body to be found.

We follow along a stream, the lake’s inlet, down towards a small point of land by the water. At this point, Brie asks to stay behind – she doesn’t want to go to the shoreline. I think she may be worried about encountering a body. The thought doesn’t bother me in the least. The white haired man is still with me.

My view focuses on an outcropping of rocks in the water by the far shore and I get the strong impression Peter had been there. But is his body there? I don’t feel it’s so.The police boats are past the rocks. Then my attention is drawn to a boulder sticking out of the water opposite from the rock outcrop, the boulder surrounded by reeds and fish are jumping around it. These rock formations are all visible from the other side of the lake where the police are searching.

A tall younger man appears.
I don’t know if it’s Peter but I surmise it is. He’s with me for only a moment. The white-haired man is telling me to touch the huge log that’s lying on the shoreline and juts out into the water in that lush marsh. I touch the green mossy log. I feel as though I am meant to stay here. Then I get the feeling I am supposed to act like a beacon to call the police boat over.

As I am thinking that and then start sending messages for the police boat to come this way, the police boat makes a sharp turn and heads towards our end of the lake. Brie comes up behind me – she has watched the boat make the abrupt turn and head towards us. She says,”I was wondering if you willed that boat over”. I tell her it felt that way and added, “There’s something about this log, although I’m not sure what. This man is telling me to touch the log. There was another younger man here but he’s vanished.”

I remind Brie that finding dead bodies is not my forte. Helping people communicate with Spirit is – so this new endeavor feels strange to me. The signs are not clear.

The police boat floats in close to us – as close as it can get in shallow marsh – and the policeman asks me if everything is okay. I ask him if he’s checked this part of the lake and he says no, there’s protocol in searching for a body. They are going through the search grid. I say I understand and wave him off.

I am not sure if the body is where we are.
The fuzzy information I’m picking up is throwing me off.  Maybe I’m being shown that Peter could see these rocks from where he stood at Brie’s dock.  I have to stay open to guidance.  There’s more information but I’m not getting it here.   I look behind me.

This boggy point of land is like a garden. It’s wild but there is symmetry, organization, to the placement of jewel weed, wild snap dragon, irises, jack-in-the-pulpits, ferns, moss and some very unusual plants that I’ve never seen before. I can feel that the police have been here on the land, and then Brie finds foot prints. There are also clean rocks thrown in the water – no moss or algae on them.  Grass on it’s side in places. People have  been here recently and have left a subtle disruption.

I tell Brie this older man is still with us.
She’s trying to place him. Maybe he’s the neighbor who died in December? He loved the lake. If he were alive, he would be helping out right now. Maybe he IS helping now. My description of him makes Brie think it’s probably him.

As we hike back to the car, Brie recalls how Peter was talking to her daughter about University last weekend. Her daughter told Peter she’s a really good writer and wants to be a journalist. Peter said “Wow! That’s so great that you know what you are good at. I think I am good at one thing – seeing beauty.”

I begin to understand a bit more why Peter wanted to go off the medication: It makes everything dull and flat. Hard to see beauty when it’s being intentionally suppressed – and if that’s your gift and you can’t use it, what’s life for?

Brie’s cottage neighbor George is waiting for us back at the car. He tells us he’s been watching us from his deck. What were we doing? What was I pointing at? What did the police say? I don’t know this man but he’s acting a bit on the “untethered” side.

George says he was at his cottage the night of Peter’s disappearance.
George had arrived at his cottage on Saturday night at midnight.  He sat on his deck overlooking the lake until 4 am. He’s an insomniac. He heard nothing. Saw nothing. He also talks about how he had to get rid of his home-grown when the police showed up on Monday. He had it in pots soaking up the sun by the lake and had to ditch them when the police boats started searching the lake perimeter.

George tells us how he told the police that they were going about the search all wrong. How they weren’t in the mind of Peter: Peter would be detaching the floating dock, lying down on it, paddling furiously away from shore; he’d go out to the deepest part of the lake, swearing at all the people who’d done him wrong, and offloading all his anger at the world in general. And then he’d tie something heavy onto himself and jump into the deepest part of the lake. George seems to know a lot about the frame of mind of someone who is about to kill him self.

But this is not at all what I’m picking up about Peter.
Peter’s in a shallow area, close to shore. He’s at peace when he does the deed. He’s not swearing – he’s very calm. He’s ready. He’s happy to let go. As Brie and I leave, Brie says, “George has his own problems with depression. I think he’s made some attempts on himself.”

I reassure Brie that what George is saying is not at all what I am picking up about Peter. Maybe that’s the difference between being bi-polar and being manic depressive?

As George disappears in the rear view mirror, Brie wants to know if we should stop by the police camp and tell them to search in the marshy area. I say “No.  I don’t think so. It’s not clear to me that Peter’s there. I think Peter’s enjoying watching the police try to find him. Let’s just let them do their thing and let Peter have some fun. They’ll find him. Just not now.”

We drive back to Brie’s farm but before we get down the driveway I have a thought. “Brie, would it be possible to go to the area where the dock is? The police have cordoned it off, but can we get in there anyway?” “Of course”, she says, “I own the land.”

So back we go, this time headed in the opposite direction.
We park outside the police cordon at her property lane way, duck under the yellow police tape, and walk the path down to the lake. It’s overgrown, wild, and beautiful. I see the water sparkling through the trees and I hear voices. Brie is ahead of me and starts talking to some people at the water. At first I think it’s police, but no, it’s two of Peter’s family members along with a family friend. They are standing by the side of the lake watching a police boat go back and forth, dragging the sonar behind it.

Brie introduces me and tells them why I’m here. The brother and sister nod. They are in their mid to late twenties. Serious. Articulate. The brother says,”We know about intuitives in our family – I’m not, but my mom sees auras, my sister sees spirits.” His sister nods. They are both smoking heavily: This is stress and they need to ground themselves.

The brother asks me if I think Peter is in the lake.
I say quietly, “Yes. He’s gone. I have no rational explanation for this – there’s no evidence. But I know he’s gone.” The brother nods. The sister takes a deep drag from her cigarette.

I tell them I think Peter’s likes the wild goose chase, watching the police try to find him. He wants to be found, but not just yet. The brother nods, “That sounds exactly like my brother.”

I ask Peter’s sister if she feels him around.
She says – “I’ve been seeing double shadows around me. Mine and someone else’s. Last night I couldn’t sleep and felt a spirit press up against me by my bed. I am open to Peter but I am also concerned about what else I’m open to right now.” I think Peter’s sister is shut down, partially from shock and stress, partially hoping he’s still alive, and then there’s her fear that, in the midst of this crisis, she’s now a target for wayward souls.

I point to the outcropping of rocks across the lake from where we are standing; I tell Peter’s brother and sister I feel the impression of Peter out at those rocks.  The brother says, “Peter goes there. That’s the swimming rocks. That’s his favorite swimming spot.”

I see a tall middle aged man standing in the trees by the water.
I walk over there. The man doesn’t speak. At least I cannot hear him. He’s not crossed over. I am getting impressions from him though. I feel like I am supposed to touch the tree closest to the man. It vibrates under my fingertips. Tingly energy shoots down my arm, through my body, and into the ground.

The afternoon sun is sifting through the forest canopy, its beams touch the foliage, the tree trunk, the ground. The man is Peter. It’s the same energy I’ve been picking up on the hike. He’s now appearing to me, tall, blond, thin, early forties. I am getting an impression that he’s using the energy of the trees, the water, and the sun, to stay present, and be clearly visible. He’s obviously here to hang out with his siblings.  There are no specific messages. A great sense of peace is emanating from this quiet spot, even with the police boat going back and forth, trolling the sonar off to the left of us.

I tell the siblings their brother is here. I say, almost to myself, “That makes sense. He would want to be with you.”  The pair nod. The brother steps down the embankment to the water’s edge. He sits on a rock near the family friend who’s not speaking, just lying on the floating dock. The sister sits quietly in an old chair and closes her eyes. We are all silent. I walk over and sit on an old stump, close my eyes to clear, ground and center. I make a space and wait for more impressions – subtle telepathic information – to drop in.  It’s the state of “no mind” where intuition flows. I hear the wind in the boughs of the fir trees, bird calls, September crickets, and the low drone of the Zodiac’s motor.

Peter’s brother starts talking –
“My brother told my Mom that if he went missing he was with a cinder block in a body of water some where. Peter had bought a cinder block. But when we checked his house on Sunday, the cinder block was there. I was relieved, but now I’m thinking he went the natural route. He used stones from here to weigh himself down.”

I tell him that’s what I saw in my vision this morning. Stuffing stones into his pocket, lying down in the water, inhaling. Very peaceful. “He’s in a much better place. This world was too hard for him.”   The brother nods.

I hear the words ‘not today, not today, not today’. I tell the small group I’m picking up that the police probably won’t find Peter today. I tell Peter’s brother and sister, “Your brother is standing by that tree. Peter’s enjoying being here in this beautiful place with you.  Just peace here. ”

The police boat abandons the search area close to the shore where we are sitting. The boat heads to a completely different area further out in the lake. As we all sit there in the softness of the forest, a piece of the puzzle slots into place:  Peter really does want the police to keep searching – I feel his intention – to spend these moments with his siblings here in this quiet refuge. And it’s happening.  He’s very much present and available to be with them. He couldn’t do this before – when he was alive.

Quietly, I mention this impression to Brie.
And how Peter had chosen, what has turned out to be the most beautiful period this summer has offered, to take his physical leave and be with his family. If he’d checked out earlier or later in the year, his siblings would be bundled up and standing out here in the cold or rain. But no. They have been sitting under the tree canopy by the lake in a peaceful spot for three glorious summer days that we didn’t think we’d get. A gift.

The brother thinks out loud, “The last time we saw Peter was at the end of May. For his 40th birthday. He was happier then. And he let us give him a hug. It was really hard for him to be touched. But that day, he was fine with it. He seemed to like it. Then we didn’t see him at all. Not since then. He just retreats, doesn’t want people around him. Won’t leave his house. This is normal for him.”

Peter’s sister steps down to the water’s edge to sit beside her brother.
They put their arms around each other. They quietly discuss whether or not they should leave now. They’ve been here all day. But they don’t move. I whisper to Brie, “They know they are meant to stay here with their brother.”

I make another connection and whisper to Brie – “The last time they saw Peter was the last Mercury in Retrograde.” She nods. Brie knows about Mercury in Retrograde. People act out, blow up or act on things they wouldn’t normally do. Life can look as though it’s quickly unraveling, where life’s forward motion has stopped and may feel like life’s slipping backwards, losing ground, regressing.  But this is actually a time where great progress can be made, if used wisely.

I am now feeling the need to leave, to let the siblings spend time together by themselves. Brie and I get up. Brie gives them all big hugs. They come over to shake my hand.

I don’t tell them I am sorry for their loss.
I give them each big hugs. I tell them “I think you are meant to enjoy this time together now. Your brother is now able to spend time with  you.  Please enjoy this quiet moment – all of you finally together.”

As we walk away, I tell Brie, “I’m hearing the word “Friday”. Maybe that’s when Peter’s body will be found. But time doesn’t mean much on the other side, and we have free will on this side. The police could decide all of a sudden to change tactics, and Peter could be found much sooner.”

As we hike back to the car, Brie says “You told them to enjoy this time. I felt that too.”

I reflect, “It’s an odd thing to say if you’re totally immersed in the ways and thinking of our physical world: Here they are, watching the police searching for their brother’s body, and I’m telling them to enjoy this time. It’s counter-intuitive to our left brain to think this way. But from a spiritual perspective, from the intuitive right brain, that’s what makes the most sense. ‘Peter is here for you now. Enjoy this beautiful place of your childhood, and the peace it brings, communing with your brother,” and I add in my head ‘before Peter’s body is found.’

I get home and end up down at my own dock by our lake for a late afternoon swim and “poopoos” (my Mom’s term for our happy hour appetizers). My Mom, brother and sister-in-law are down at the dock. My wee girls are in the shallow water playing with my teenage nephew.

My husband eventually comes down to the lake to join us. He starts quizzing me about my afternoon adventure. I answer my husband’s questions. He’s listening intently.  He knows this is new for me. How did it go?

My Mom is used to the daily doses of spirit I receive.
She’s accepting of my experiences, and trusts my instincts. She doesn’t question me anymore, but she has questions about the messages. This reflects her own spiritual shifts this year.

Mom says – “You’re talking about that man who’s missing? I’ve been hearing about it on the radio. It’s in the newspaper today. So sad. You were asked to go see if he was dead? This is amazing!?” My brother appears to tune out. My sister-in-law has no comment.

I rarely talk of these things in front of my brother or sister-in-law.  They are not “receptive”, shall we say. But it’s not my job to teach them, shield them, defend myself or prove anything. It just is. My world includes these outer dimensions, other planes of consciousness. Better me then my brother, I tell him. He agrees with that.

My husband is a force, not to be trifled with.
With my husband there asking serious questions about my experience, my brother the lawyer doesn’t dare to question my frame of mind or argue what ‘really’ could have happened this day: That there’s another  “logical” explanation for this.  Yes, I think to myself: Spirit is everywhere; Logic and intuition work together to receive and decipher these messages.

Later, we’re all sitting at the dinner table. I get a call from Brie. “I wanted you to know that they found Peter’s body just a little while ago. At sunset.”  I blurt out, “So it’s NOT today he was to be found, it was TONIGHT.”  I love the words of Spirit. True but tricky. This is a reminder to always listen deeply to the words.

Brie is amused by the interpretation. “That’s right. They found him off a big log that juts out into the water, just to the left of where we were all sitting.”  Where they’d stopped searching earlier, I’m thinking. The police must have gone back to that same spot after we left.

I say, “The log. Brie, remember that older man told me to touch the log by the shore in the marsh? That’s when Peter first appeared.  I guess I was being shown Peter was near a log that juts out into the water. Not THAT log but A log. Peter wasn’t in the marshy area, but that was his view from where he last stood.

I tell Brie about the messages from Spirit –
They are sometimes literal but are more likely signs, symbols and metaphors for what’s really going on. We have to learn the language to understand what’s being said and not said. At the table, my brother is throwing his eyes heavenward, and shaking his head as he listens to my “Spirit talk” – but he says nothing. At least during earlier dinner conversation tonight, I’ve learned my bro has moved from atheist to agnostic and tonight is claiming he’s “spiritual”. That’s a shift.  He just needs to figure out what “spiritual” means to him. That will be his journey.

Brie tells me that Peter’s siblings have just left her house – They’d come over to tell her that Peter had been found and to thank her for being there, for bringing me, and for us staying with them. They’d had hope, and in this case, hope had been a very painful emotion to manage. They needed to know what happened to Peter:  Our being there helped them to prepare for the moment when Peter’s body was found.  They’d stayed at the lake until sunset, when the Police found the body. When his body was found, they said Peter’s face had a lovely peaceful expression on it. It made them feel so much better to see he really was at peace.

I look back, and I realize my job today was just what I normally do -
I help people to connect with Spirit. It wasn’t about finding a body. It was to help the people here come to terms with the death of a loved one, to hear their messages, to face life lessons, to come to accept difficult realities, to move forward. In this particular situation, the siblings wanted to know not just Peter’s whereabouts.  They wanted to know that he was finally at peace.  The impressions I picked up helped them to feel that.  And then they saw it for themselves.  It revealed their own knowing that Peter was moving to a  better place, finally released from the trials of this world, and is now experiencing the beauty found in peace.

Tonight it started to rain, a heavy subtropical downpour. It’s still raining. Colder weather to follow. You’ve got to admit – Peter’s timing was perfect.

— 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.

Does this ever happen to you?
Computer crashes. Car acts up. Cell phone battery dies. No Internet connection.
Lost toys. Lost documents. Lost checkbook. Lost car keys. Lost money. Lost time. Lost creativity – I can’t write. Forget to call a friend. Forget when and where an appointment is. Forget to book a play date. Forget a birthday. Forget Mother’s Day.  Petty arguments. Missed calls.  Miscommunication.  Meetings canceled.  Can’t get a babysitter.  It snows in May. Beaver cuts our tree down. A guy presses the wrong button and the Dow dives almost 1000 points. The dollar drops. People behave badly. All in one week. This is not an exaggeration.

I think it’s just me.
Then a newsletter lands in my inbox from Robert Ohotto. (He wrote “Transforming Fate into Destiny” – an excellent and practical book.) “It’s Mercury in Retrograde,” Ohotto reminds us.

Again? So soon? I get it. I should have known. My husband is very pragmatic. And he’s not into astrology. Even in our house, it’s a bit too woowoo for him.  And we’re at the peak of Mercury in Retrograde. I tell my husband it’s MR. He shrugs, non-committal. Forewarned, is, well, forewarned, I say.

I’m knee-deep in deadlines.
I have to go into town. I’m on a tight schedule. The family is going together for logistical purposes.  My husband is jumping up and down – He hates being late. I tend to cut it tight. He’s of German descent. He likes order. Space. Ample time. He gets rattled by my photo finishes. I’m still in my pyjamas, on my laptop, madly trying to meet a journalist’s deadline. I’m a source. Final edit – Save! Compose email! Send!

I fly upstairs for a quick shower. I hear the girls arguing. Our littlest won’t get dressed. Our eldest won’t eat breakfast. My husband hasn’t been able to find his car keys. He now can’t find the portable phone to confirm an appointment.

“Where’s the phone? It’s lost too!” My husband cannot tolerate disorder. He has to find the portable phone. It’s a mission.

“Matilda….”??? I hear him grumble accusingly at my youngest. Matilda runs into her bedroom and slams the door. She has a reputation for collecting and hiding personal items that don’t belong to her: My husband’s car keys, my lipstick, my eldest daughter Kate’s dresses. Possibly a phone? The list goes on.

I yell downstairs, “Call our number! Dial line 1 from line 2″.  I hear Kate translating my instructions to my husband who’s now stomping around in the kitchen. Then the phone rings. I’m just out of the shower, chilled and roughly towel-drying my hair in the bathroom.

My husband yells up the stairs: “Answer the phone!”

I streak out of the bathroom and grab the upstairs phone.

It’s the police.
911 Dispatch. What the??? The officer asks me if I have dialed 911. I say no!? Then I realize that our 4-year-old had been playing with the phone – we’ve lost the phone. I explain that she may have our portable phone and dialed 911 by mistake.

The officer questions, “Do you have 911 on speed dial?”

I don’t know. Maybe? It’s never happened before. I am late, starkers and dripping shower water all over the hardwood floor in front of an open window with a cool breeze wafting in.

“An officer is headed your way right now,” advises the 911 dispatcher.

“Please cancel,” I beg. “We’re on our way out the door!” I’m stressed. My husband is upset with me again for being late. The kids aren’t ready. I’m thinking the officer is probably 20 minutes away from us here in the woods.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. We cannot cancel. Just in case you are in a precarious situation and cannot tell us, we must send an officer over – just to be sure.”

“Can you PLEASE cancel? I have an appointment! I am late!  I’ve got to leaaaave!?”

“Excuse me, Ma’am. Are you okay? Is everything all right there? An officer will be right there – it will only be a few minutes!”

“YES! I’M OKAY!!! It’s a crazy morning! I’m late! I’ve got to get to an important meeting! Please cancel!!!”

“Ma’am. The officer is on his way.”

SHIT! I hang up the phone.

I’m nude and shivering at the top of the stairs.
“WHO CALLED 911??? Did Matilda call 911?!!” I am, how you say? hysterical.

My husband is sitting in his living room chair. My two daughters are huddled beside him looking nervous. Probably overwhelmed by my wrath. Or maybe it’s the sight of their buck naked and shivering mother screaming at the top of her lungs from on high.

“I did!” he shouts back.

My look is incredulous. “YOU called 911? What were you thinking? I hope we don’t get CHARGED for this!” I screech at my family in general.

“Your daughter told me to call 911!” my husband defends.

“I didn’t say call 911! I said CALL LINE ONE! Why would you call 911 to FIND THE PHONE?”

My husband looks sheepish. I don’t think he knows the answer. My eldest daughter Kate looks confused. She doesn’t understand the implications. She’s holding the portable phone – apparently found. My youngest daughter Matilda is wearing her older sister’s dress and has my ruby red lipstick smeared around her mouth. My husband remains silent. He’s holding something that jangles. “I found my car keys,” he mutters.

I burst out laughing. In reality, it’s kind of a half-cry. Mercury in Retrograde.   My husband is now a believer.

So what exactly is Mercury in Retrograde?
Here’s an explanation.

— With thanks to Spirit for infinite return.

(c) 2010, 2011, 2012 The Accidental Medium. UltraMarine Media Inc. All Rights Reserved.