Archive for the ‘Mediumship’ Category

The Whetstone.

Thursday, July 8th, 2010



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.


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.

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.