Archive for the ‘Chakras’ Category

Bronte’s Inferno (Part I)

Monday, August 9th, 2010


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.

Spirit on a Silver Platter

Saturday, May 15th, 2010

Accidental Medium Post

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.