We are all connected…

We are all connected…

Unsurprisingly, I had nightmares that night.

When I finally returned to my hotel room after the first day of the ‘Many Lives Many Masters’ workshop with Dr Brian Weiss, I reluctantly turned on the TV, feeling compelled by a sense of world citizenship. “I should make sure that I know what is happening.” I told myself.

I watched the strained faces of the reporters, I heard the attempts at counting bodies and watched the mountain of flowers grow, and I felt numb and disconnected. It always surprises me – that disconnect. You think I would be prepared for it. There have been so many atrocities in my lifetime, so many disasters, some the violence of nature and some the violence of man.

But I never get used to experiencing those first moments and feeling nothing because it is so shocking… and feeling like I should feel something.

I started to sense the fear being broadcast along with the terrible news, infecting listeners like the most recent form of winter flu. I knew better than to absorb the violence and cruelty into my aura.

I took a deep breath and imagined Light and Love and Healing pouring into Paris. I asked for everyone affected to be nurtured and supported during the crisis. And I asked for forgiveness for the misguided souls who had perpetrated such a criminal act. But I had overlooked something.

I woke in the early hours, bathed in sweat and overwhelmed by panic.

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Image: The Ochre Pits – Sacred Site, Central Australia by Anne Marie McGlasson, 1993

The aboriginal sacred sites were filled with mud. They were choking with pollution and crying out to me for help. I was up to my waist and covered in mud, digging, digging and digging. trying desperately to clear the mud so that the sites could glow again. So they could do their job as a part of a greater system of transmitting life force around the planet. And there was too much mud. It was caving back in on me as I tried to move it away. I was failing. My chest heaved with tortured sobs.

Barely awake, I frantically texted one of my favourite friends from Past Life Regression Therapy training. It was only the next day that I realized that I hadn’t been very coherent, but he listened and lovingly put the dirt under my feet… and I went back to sleep so my higher consciousness could finish the job.

We are one world and one people. What affects one of us affects us all. We are instrinsically attached to this planet we call Earth – mentally, emotionally and spiritually. Indigenous people understand this. Their ceremonies and rituals honour our interconnection with the planet.

The impact of terrorist attack in Paris spread out like a wave, washing through people’s psyche and filling the sacred sites of the world with shock and horror. And there was a group of souls who answered the call to action. I was not alone in clearing the scared sites that night. I woke in the morning with a vision – the sacred sites were clear and once again transmitting their golden light back to humanity.

Click here for more information about our connection to the planet.

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There is a balance…

I rarely watch the news anymore. Dr Brian Weiss’ theory that we all live in an Earth School, and that the first graders (as he calls them) have high-jacked the media with less than mature behaviour, makes total sense to me. My increasing sensitivity over the past few years means that one episode of the news affects me like a physical assault. I just can’t sit through the pain of fast-track repetitive and indigestible violence and trauma… so, as a result, I miss things.

“Paris? What’s wrong in Paris?” I thought.

“I promise you,” said Brian with his wry and laconic humour. “I don’t schedule these events to coincide with my workshops. It just seems to happen.”

“OK, it’s bad.” I thought.

“And if we could all share a minute’s silence in respect…” said a somber Leon Nacson.

“OK, people are dead” I thought as I closed my eyes and willed Light and Love, Peace and calm to go anyone who needed it. I didn’t find out how bad it was until I got back to my room much later.

“What these souls don’t realize is that they are going to spend many lifetimes making up for their actions… to their victims… and their loved ones. Their spiritual development will be delayed until these debts are cleared. Eventually they will succeed, but it is going to take some time.” Brian continued.

The idea brought me some peace. People can be so vengeful when they are angry and upset. It worries me what a complicated mess we can make of things if we let these feelings dictate our actions. It was soothing for me to remember that there is a natural order and justice to the world. Nothing is ever forgotten, and there is a force that encourages balance in our experience as individuals and as a group of souls.

Which was fortunate, because I was just about to come face to face with my own aggressive nature…

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Expectations

I never get what I expect. While I might hope for certain things and feel anxious about outcomes, somehow it always ends up differently, especially when we are talking about Past-life therapy.

I have always had a natural inclination to follow my nose. When I was going to University, I was awed and slightly intimidated by a girlfriend who had a 5 year plan for her life. It was so amazing to me that she could have such clarity 5 years into the future.

“You really should have one” she would say, and I would feel slightly guilty that I didn’t have the drive to complete my own 5 year plan. I wondered to myself “How can I have a 5 year plan when I don’t even know what I am doing tomorrow?”

Life always seems to have worked out best for me when I looked for the signs that were pointing the way forward. The Universe seemed to have a way of presenting me with the answers to the questions I asked myself in my head. And that is not to say that I got it right all the time.

The first spiritual lesson is discrimination and I have had many painful lessons of trusting people who seemed to have answers for me – people who promised love and affection, wisdom and insight – but delivered something else entirely. Fortunately, I also seemed to have the ability to disentangle myself from these people… sometimes quickly and other times over years. I guess that’s what’s called resilience. It taught me to identify the true teachers from the false.

So as I sat nervously with bated breath in the Melbourne Exhibition Centre waiting for Dr Brian Weiss to begin the ‘Many Lives, Many Masters’ Conference, I was hoping for miracles and soul connections but wondering how anything could measure up to the meeting of my group of souls at Past Life Regression Therapy Training at Omega in Rhinebeck.

… and then Paris was attacked by terrorists.

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Image: Paris Peace Sign by John Jullien, 2015

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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.

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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

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White Ribbon Day

While it is Thanksgiving in America, Australia has been having White Ribbon Day – a week devoted to educating ourselves and standing up to men’s violence against women.

Of particular note, have been excellent documentaries by the ABC (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) called ‘Hitting Home with Sarah Ferguson’ and ‘Call Me Dad’. There was also an incredible Q&A episode where a senior policeman asked us all to consider men who hit woman as criminals. As he explained, assault is criminal behaviour.

This is how we would like women to be treated in Australia…

Duluth model_equality wheel

One Australian woman a week dies after being murdered by a partner. This is an issue for us all to be informed about. Nova Peris made an inspiring appeal to us all not to let ourselves down, not to let our communities down and not to let our children down.

This is what we don’t want to continue…

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My contribution to this week is to share these diagrams with you. The Duluth model has been around for a long time. I have used it to great effect in classrooms and in counselling sessions because it is clear and descriptive. I hope it helps you identify behaviours that are abusive, behaviours that are wholesome, and behaviours that are helpful.

Hint: the behaviour type is in bold in the centre of the circle.

And if you have a friend or family member in trouble…

Duluth model_advocacy wheel

For help (in Australia) please call 1800RESPECT, go to your local Women’s shelter, or call the Police. It’s time for change.

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A tale of two pots…

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole, which she carried across her neck.

One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water, at the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water.  Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments.  But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do.

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After 2 years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house.”

The old woman smiled, “Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot’s side?”

“That’s because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them.

For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table.

Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house.”

Author unknown

Image: Spanish Pots by Geezer, DeviantArt

Go back to the moment the problem first began… part 1

It was 1993 and I was still having problems – flashbacks, nightmares and being triggered by similar situations. Most of the work I had done to heal myself of being raped when I was seven and made outcast from my community, I had done alone. My mother, bless her, had ascribed to the view that if I was treated as if I were normal, I would be normal, as if by sheer force of will she could take the event away from me. And she was very nearly right. She saved me from the label of victim and the trauma of telling the story over and over and amplifying the damage.

But the silence and lack of acknowledgement did a lot of damage too. Everyone knew. It was like the elephant in the room everywhere I went, but I knew that she believed me. I had heard her scream with rage at the neighbours who labelled me a liar before my dad tossed them out of our house. It nurtured me through the years following even though they had not meant me to hear and believed me to be in bed and fast asleep.

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I was left to think and wonder and work it out for myself. I made the errors in logic that children do when left to their own musings. I had asked to go on the sleepover, everyone loves him and ‘it’s all my fault’. I had no context for the sexual interaction that had occurred, no way to know it was wrong, but somehow I did know it was wrong. The dissonance took my voice and gave me convulsions. I was mute and terrified in my first encounters with boys.

Healing began with the boundless love of my teenage sweetheart but that was a long time in the past. Occasionally, as I grew older and the nightmares got worse, I reached out for professional help. I was mostly rebuffed, or found that those helping had ulterior motives. I was definitely on my own.

And then a new psychologist joined the company I was working for and we struck up a friendship. Her particular passion was hypnosis. She was new to it and proud of her skills. I shared my story. “We can fix those symptoms really fast” she said, and invited me to her rooms.

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