Gilby… part 2

I sat at the table as Christmas dinner was served and committed myself to watching carefully. Did Grandpa really have a story for every situation? I watched him carefully, feet swinging, as Dad carved the roast with the new electric knife and Mum and Aunty whizzed back and forth from the kitchen with last minute vegetables.

We said grace. We ate. We talked. We listened to each other. Even as children, we had a voice. We were heard, but mostly I liked to listen. We were happy together. We were family.

I looked at Grandpa carefully. I noticed he was getting older. As I grew taller and my chin was rising above the table, my feet nearer and nearer to touching the floor, he seemed to be correspondingly shrinking – a function of gravity and time, he explained. Grandpa always had great explanations. I accepted his aging as children do. I could not imagine life without him in it. He held up the roof of my world.

Then I saw Grandpa take a breath, and settle into storytelling mode in his place at the head of the table.

Blog_160131 empty-present-1306483_by_Kym_McLeod

Image: Empty Present by Kym McLeod, freeimages.com

“And that reminds me…” Grandpa said.

“Here we go again,” muttered my cousin.

Blog_signature

Gilby… part 1

It was Christmas.

“Here we go again. Another round of Gilby’s stories.”

I looked at my cousin with the round-eyed shock a small person feels when a beloved and looked-up-to elder does something unaccountable. Eight years older, he was my eldest cousin. I thought he was perfect.

When I was very small, I had decided that I would marry him when I grew up… My dad had the unfortunate task of carefully explaining why I would have to marry someone else. I thought it was a great pity. I idolized him as only a small girl can.

Unfortunately, he was going through his adolescent boy phase.

Blog_160130 candle-1460271_by_Ana_Abreu

Image: Candle by Ana Abreu, free images.com, 2015

“But, I love Grandpa’s stories,” I objected, ignoring the fact that beloved big cousin had very incorrectly and rudely called Grandpa by his first name.

“Yes,” he huffed in agitation, “and there’s so m-a-n-y of them… and they are so l-o-n-g! How can he possibly have a story for every situation?” and rolled his eyes.

I heard the words but they made no sense. I LOVED Grandpa’s stories. I LOVED learning from the wisdom of those who had gone before. I listened and listened… I learned and learned… and every story was like a jewel reflecting light into the darkest corners and illuminating the way forward. Grandpa’s stories guided my way forward.

But was my cousin right? Was there a story for every situation? And what did it mean if there was?

Blog_signature

 

Grandfather…

We are never truly alone.

We are reunited with our loved ones again and again.

You are immortal.

How do I know?

My Grandfather taught me…

I am an Anglo-Australian woman with blonde hair (OK, it is touched up to hide the gray, but I refuse to fade as I get older!) and blue eyes. My biological ancestry is a Celtic mix of Irish, Scottish, Yorkshire and Cornish. I was taught to be proud of my English and Scottish ancestry. I was taught to be proud that I am 5th generation Australian. I was taught about the alcoholism that came with that ancestry. I was not taught about how white people dispossessed and killed aboriginal people for land, and my Irish ancestry was not advertised. In a lot of ways, as Australians, we are still not far enough from those colonial times when pubs had signs advertising “No dogs, No blacks, No Irish.”

But as I stood on the grass at Rhinebeck after another life-altering past-life regression with Dr Brian Weiss, my current-day, Celtic-derived self was still overshadowed by the me of the past. I knew I was taller and fitter and stronger. I held my head proudly and testosterone flowed through my body. Dark hair flowed down my back in a dark river that shone in the sunshine. I walked with other feet that knew the shape of the Earth beneath.

“How did you know your Grandfather preferred you to your brothers?” asked another participant.

“Because I was the best.” I answered.

My present-day self cringed at the lack of humility – the arrogance. My Navajo self lifted his face to the sun and knew the truth. I was the oldest. I was the fittest. I was the strongest. I was the most intelligent. I revelled in looking after my tribe. It was my place. One day I would be an elder… just like my Grandfather. I could see the truth reflected in the firelight of his eyes as the tribe sat together many night times… listening to the stories…

Blog_160129 campfire_by_xannca-d7ap3af.jpg

Image: Campfire by xannca-d7ap3af, DeviantArt, 2015

But it was not to be. Not this life time.

Blog_signature

Soul mate… the sticking point

I love animals. I have been told that I have a unique connection to animals that others don’t have. They are important to me. I see the beauty in their forms and faces. I see them in my dreams… and when they are in trouble, they find me there, so I can send them to the Light. I love my pets… and yet for years, there has been a block.

Blog_151213_hjordis_by_kristbane

Image: Hjordis by Kristbane, DeviantArt 2015

** This is what Cricket looked like when she first came home.

I hunger for connection. I love them when they are small. I fret over them when they are sick. I make sure they have what they need, but I struggle with just being together. I don’t seem able to reach out for the love that is right there for me.

How did I get here? There was a lesson of love to be discovered.

I have always had a dog… and I have lost my dogs in a series of heart rending tragic events. It makes sense that these experiences have erected a wall between me and the love I see shining in their eyes. It’s like they are patiently waiting for me to put the pieces together. But is that the whole picture?

As a baby, I played in the tall grass in our backyard. It was a new house in a new development. It was farming land. There was no lawn, only tall grass. Mum says that she knew where I was because she could see the grass rustling. Me and my dog, making tunnels and loving each other.

I don’t know what happened to him. I have no memory of him. I regret it.

Later, I sat in the middle of a mass of wriggling bodies. They crawled over my legs and sucked my fingers. It was pure joy. One of these would be mine. How could I choose? They were all wonderful. My little sister was making a fuss about why she couldn’t have one too, but Dad explained that this would be my puppy. I called him Buster. He loved me… until she took him for a walk to the shops and then left him on the front lawn. We drove around and around. I called his name in heart broken accents, the pain in my chest was so bad, but he never answered me. My heart was empty. I don’t know what happened to him.

More wriggling puppies, but there was a distance for me now. It was not a joy. I was only eight, but I had been raped, made a pariah and outcast form my community, moved to a different town and lost daily contact with the grandparents I needed. Her name was Zara. She survived Cyclone Tracy with a twisted hip but had to be shot because Mum and us kids had been evacuated and Dad couldn’t look after her while re-building the city. I was not spared the knowledge of what happened to her.

Fade to grey… Dad finally rejoined us in Adelaide. My brother insisted that we get a puppy from the same breeders. He insisted that the new puppy be the same colour and same name. Zara II loved me when I hit rock bottom. I know she loved me. She lived to a good old age. I just couldn’t step outside my losses.

I understood all of these experiences. I accepted them. But if acceptance and understanding was the key to new behaviours, why was I still stuck decades later?

Cricket was waiting patiently for me to have the necessary breakthrough.

“No matter how close we are to another person, few human relationships are as free from strife, disagreement, and frustration as is the relationship you have with a good dog. Few human beings give of themselves to another as a dog gives of itself. I also suspect that we cherish dogs because their unblemished souls make us wish – consciously or unconsciously – that we were as innocent as they are, and make us yearn for a place where innocence is universal and where the meanness, the betrayals, and the cruelties of this world are unknown.”

Dean Kootz, A Big Little Life: A memoir of a Joyful Dog

Blog_signature

Soul mate… everyday miracles

“There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.” Albert Einstein

The tiny warm bundle that snuggled with room to spare in my cupped hands was deeply asleep. I could feel the boneless way she was lying. All babies did this when I held them. Eventually, their little bodies would just… relax.

She has sucked urgently on my thumb while the Reiki energy poured into her body. She recognized it. It was life. It was love. It was what she needed to survive.

The breeder watched in amazement. “I don’t know what you are doing there and I don’t know how she recognizes it as nourishment… but she does.”

Time to put her back to bed with her sister.

Lizzie’s babies were in the laundry.

“I had to put her in here to whelp” said the breeder. “I couldn’t trust her not to abandon them in a bigger pen and its too cold this time of year for the babies not to be close to their mums.” I had already had a tour of the shed where the ‘good mums’ had their babies, their happy little faces enquiring of me what I might want.

Lizzie tried to bolt out of the door. “No, no” said the breeder sternly. “You stay here and look after your babies. That’s your job.” And then quietly added “…and this is the last litter for you. You are clearly not enjoying it and it’s not fair on the puppies.”

Lizzie eyed us speculatively.

“My biggest worry” said the breeder “is that I cant get her to eat, and if she wont eat, there’s no milk for the puppies. She’s making colostrum and her milk should come in shortly, but not if she wont eat. I don’t hold out much hope. I think the biggest puppy will do OK hand reared, but the little one… she has a slight underbite… oops there goes the phone! I’ll be right back.”

I squatted down on my haunches. I looked Lizzie dead in the face. Compassion poured from my heart for her. I felt so sorry for her. I felt sorry for myself.

“I know it’s hard” I coached her. “It’s hard birthing them. It’s hard raising them, but you have responsibilities. There really isn’t a choice. They are relying on you.” I laid symbols over her to comfort her and energise her for the job that needed doing.

The breeder walked back into the laundry as Lizzie snatched a couple of mouthfuls and then laid down for the puppies to suckle.

She looked at me in round eyed shock “What did you do?”

DSCF0148.JPG

Image: Lizzie by Anne Marie McGlasson, 2004

Blog_signature

Soul mate… with four legs

“Be the person your dog thinks you are.” JW Stephens

When I met her, she fit in the palm of my hand… so tiny, so perfect.

“I’m not sure what is going to happen,” said the breeder. We sat together in the cosy warmth of her farmhouse kitchen, the steam from our teacups humbly rising to the heavens, as she explained to me the ins-and-outs of Border Terriers.

“Her mother, Lizzie, didn’t do very well with her last litter. She could probably be described as neurotic. She refuses to eat, and she just won’t lie down for the puppies to suckle. She runs out the door when she can and is never in a hurry to come back to them. It’s not normal. On top of that, she is particularly rebellious if it is a man asking her to do something.”

Boy, could I sympathise! Challenges with mothering… check! Cranky at men telling me what to do… check! Desperately wanting to run away from the responsibility of it all… check! check! I had a marriage on the rocks, two traumatised children and something had to change…

So I went looking for someone to help me keep my dreams alive…

And I found this a sleepy little bundle of warmth and hope.

I tapped into the energy that was singing in my body and I gave it to her. She was so tiny. I drew symbol after symbol and laid them over her little body like a mother covering her child with a blanket. I held her to my heart so she could hear it beating. I let the strength of my life force be her guide.

“Three puppies were born, but two weren’t hardy. The little boy has already died and I’m so sorry, but this little girl is not looking strong either. She may not live. We’ll know in the next day.”

She latched onto my thumb and started to suckle. She wanted to live.

Blog_151211_Cricket 2011

Image: Cricket by Chandler Meakins, 2011

Blog_signature

Soul mate

It was a time for healing relationships.

She was small and cute, and loved me with all her heart.

And from the moment I first saw her, I loved her right back.

I loved her sense of humour and how she skipped with joy when she was happy. She was my rock, she was my safety net and she forgave me all my mistakes. She was always just quietly… there. I held her in my arms and cried. She was getting old. I wasn’t ready for her to go yet. I hadn’t had enough of her time and attention. I needed her still.

There always seemed to be some drama, some urgency that got in the way of us just spending time together. She never complained and she was always glad to see me… She always radiated a gentle acceptance of anything I had to offer. I was so sick of the various dramas that got in the way of us being together. Why was it so hard? I knew all the excuses but I just couldn’t seem to get past them to work it out.

“It’s time” I thought. “Time to change, and time for her to come first. Time for both of us to be first with each other – so we can heal. She needs more of me… and I definitely need her.”

Blog_151210_heart-beads-1183299

Image: Heart beads by Bas van der Wiel at freeimages.com

Blog_signature

Truth saying and story telling

“I hope people realize that Past LIfe Regression Therapy works” Bhavi, 2015

Writing the story of ‘Bhavi and me’ took months.

I wasn’t ready.

The magic, the transformation of the experience was so powerful… so sacred that I could only sit with the truth of it. It was some months before I was ready to re-live the experience and find the words that would do it justice.

Bhavi gave me permission to write and share our story from the very first moment. “You should share our experience with Brian and Carole (Weiss). I am happy for you to do that. People may learn from it.” She said, as we walked out into the summer sunshine… together after 500 years.

Every time I looked at her, tears welled up in joy and gratitude. It was automatic. It was a reaction unconnected to my conscious brain. More than anything else, it was this inexplicable welling up of love for a beloved stranger that confirmed this experience as real.

“Emotions never lie.” I reminded myself. “Emotions are the bridge to spiritual truth.” When I left Omega to come home to Australia, the awful pain of separation was like leaving one of my children behind.

And later, when I suggested sharing our story more widely, Bhavi repeated “You should do it” and sent me kisses via WhatsApp.

Blog_151205_bleeding-hearts-2-1370705

Image: Bleeding Hearts 2, by Lauren Burbank at free images.com

Some of you may have been wondering whether the stories I have been sharing are fictional. My purpose in sharing these stories has been to entertain, engage and yes! to educate. To open your hearts and minds to greater possibilities. They are all true.

And as Seth Godin suggests and was my intention… Never be boring.

The truth is… you are immortal.

The truth is… we are all connected.

The truth is… we are re-united with our souls mates again and again.

Blog_signature

Past Life Regression Therapy training… the aftermath!

“Learn everything you can from the past, and then let it go. If, earlier in your life, others could not express their love to you, it was because they were blocked, not because of some defect in you.” Dr Brian Weiss, 2015

“And I will awaken you by counting up from 10 to 1… with each number you will feel more and more alert… 1…. 2… 3…”

My face was wet with the tears of my grief… and horror. What had I done?

“4… 5… 6…”

I gently released the experience of that life… a high ranking girl with aspirations to the priesthood… and brought the healing back with me.

Blog_151203_introspect-1465528

Image: Introspect by Ramasamy Chidambaram at freeimages.com

“7… 8…”

My baby sister was not gone. I had left her to her fate without a thought… and she was sitting right beside me.

“9… 10…”

I opened my eyes and her dark velvety eyes looked right back at me.

“Are you OK?”

“I… I… I…” deep breath. “I was Indian. We were together. You were my little sister and I was a … shitty big sister. I thought you were a pest. I am so sorry. I didn’t look after you and I should have. I am so sorry.”

A river of tears poured from my heart.

In some quiet corner of my mind, I wondered if she thought I had lost it… crazy or opportunistic… it didn’t matter. My heart was the open wound you feel when you lose your child and find her again.

And then the miracle happened.

“I didn’t want to say anything. I thought you would think I was crazy. When I met you, I saw my mother’s eyes. I thought maybe you were my mother.” Bhavi’s tears mixed with mine. “I forgive you. I love you.”

I held her and rocked her like she was still the baby in the orange tunic I had just left. “I love you too.”

We cried and cried, and like any good mother should, I supplied the tissues for snotty noses from the depths of my suitably stocked handbag. The tissues rained down like confetti at a wedding.

Then Bhavi lifted her dewy eyes to mine with wonder “It’s gone… that feeling. I don’t feel unloved anymore. It’s gone.”

 

 

PS The third miracle was that in searching for an image that looked like Bhavi in India in the 1500s, I found her again… in a free image on the internet… this is exactly how she looked to me.

Blog_signature

Past Life Regression Therapy training… the experience!

“Our souls are timeless and endless, existing beyond all dimensions, preceding all space, all emptiness, all matter, all forces, and all energies. How magnificent we truly are!” Dr Brian Weiss, 2015

IMG_5401

Image: Botanic Garden Lilies, Anne Marie McGlasson 2014

“Pick the door that seems right to you… and when you are ready, walk through…” I let Brian’s calm and gentle voice wash over me, happy to surrender to his instruction.

I found myself… in India… in about 1500.

“Good grief!” I thought looking down at myself. “This has to be true… I have always detested this colour. I wouldn’t wear it even in my imagination… so this has to be true!”

I watched the water trickle from my fingertips, totally entranced by the perfection of each droplet as it separated from the puddle in my palm, then arced through the air to re-join the water in the pond. A perfect lesson in everything returning to the Divine.

The garden was magnificent, huge and built over many levels. There were sandstone fountains and beautiful trees, flowers and exotic fruits. In some places it was shady and in other places it was sun-kissed. But what mattered to me was this small and private, almost neglected corner.

The water held a slight green tinge. It didn’t matter to me. Water was sacred. Water was my element. I would join the priesthood and study and discover all the mysteries that water would share with me. In communion with water, I would share the wisdom it offered. There would be many supplicants seeking answers. I would answer them but the questions would come as from a distance. What would always matter most to me would be this communion with water.

I was richly and traditionally dressed in a sari of burgundy with woven gold edging. I had no shoes on… and I didn’t care. My ankles were encircled with solid gold anklets adorned with small bells that tinkled with each step. I wore the heavy gold jewelry on my body with indifference. I didn’t care. I hadn’t dressed myself. I was dressed for my father’s pleasure. To do him honour.

I had stood patiently and vacantly after a rich breakfast, until the servants had done their work of dressing me… until I could run away into the garden. I knew that they thought I was simple, that my brain was damaged, and it suited me to be thought of this way. It made me unmarriageable, and if I was unmarriageable, I could have my way and be sent to the priesthood. I waited for… longed for… the moment my father would gave up on me in disgust, as the various suitors had.

The water spun delicately from my fingertips back into the pond.

There was a cry of joy and a small girl dressed in iridescent orange hurled herself into my arms. She was about 2. I was her older sister. I was 16 or 17. We had no mother. We were alone a lot, apart form the servants, who knew to keep apart from us. Our father was a cold and distant man, not a cruel man, but a powerful man consumed by the responsibilities of his position. We didn’t know him well. And so, I was the only mother she had ever known, and in the way of older siblings…

I thought she was a pest. This joyful little girl so full of love for me was… a nuisance to me.

It was not my proudest moment to realize that I had indeed left her for the priesthood. That she grew up in that big house alone. That she made the state marriage my father was so intent upon for me. That she brought him the honour he needed for the political games he played. She stood in my place and sacrificed her life so I could have the freedom of a spiritual path… and I had not even acknowledged it.

With the shock of a sledgehammer, I knew who the little girl was…

Tears streamed down my face.

It was Bhavi.

Blog_signature