Catpaws Cafe

Random musings from my virtual fountain pen

Archive for the tag “healing”

Just Who do you think you are?

I am addicted to watching Who do you think you are. I find it compelling viewing, regardless of if I have heard of the person or not. To discover tracks of how adversity was overcome and risks taken, of great journeys and adventures. As a writer – as well as as being a personal quirk – I’m intrigued by what drives people; what makes them tick, apart from biology, hormones and survival instinct.

Early on in life I already wanted to do our family tree but noone would talk to me. At thirteen I still needed a parents permission to use of the telephone, especially for long distance phonecalls, permission to contact any relative on my own, and to look into anything. Wherever I turned there was all these “stuff” you just don’t talk about and even less ask about.

My motivation in those days was rather different from today. Then I wanted to find living people to connect with; less “boring” relatives… meaning ones that actually saw me; that I felt I had something in common with; AND an the same time to do something WORTHWHILE. There’s THAT word again… Something that would be SEEN. A project that was tangible and meritable. By that I mean something that could stand on it’s own and have some sort of value in the world.

I don’t know whether my parents discouragement and disinterest was due to financial constraints. I think in part it probably was. Genealogy in the 70s was very different from how accessible it has become with the arrival of computers. What 13yr old can and has the means to travel, make appointments to visit far-flung churches and archives? And gets taken seriously should she get that far? To risk someone (ie untamed me) coming across some white elephant in the carefully conjured smokescreens that surrounds every family’s secrets? It just was not done. It was always, “when you’re an adult you can do it”. Eighteen seemed a very long way away.

Nevertheless, their apparent lack of interest baffled me. A tree had been done long ago on dads side, showing the bare statistics; born; married; children; died; and that publication reached back as far as the 1600, when a fire had consumed earlier records.
On my mothers side – who knows? I know a little, now…

It’s funny that on both sides of the family there is French and Dutch, and on dad’s side – if my suspicions prove correct – Finnish and Saami too! I find that prospect rather exciting. I may hate the cold and snow and mosquitos and midgets too, but the nomadic lifestyle; the raindeerskin-boots of my youth (and raindeer-meat), crafts carved from the fallen antlers and embroidery– there is a love and connection I’ve never found any rational explanation for.

I am fascinated because I’ve always felt an outsider. I wanted to see if I could find someone else like me, a few generations back perhaps. Someone I’d feel some sort of kinship with.

At the same time I am deeply divided about the whole thing. Statistics does not interest me; the people who broke molds do, and that’s not the kind of thing you find out from records of births, marriages and deaths that are the skeleton of the initial stages, and sometime the only thing you can find.
If I take myself as an example, someone like me would not even exist. Lists showing academical merits; a string of unrelated jobs (that not even I want to keep track of); or previous abodes (should a future writer of family chronicles manage to unearth those), does not tell you anything about the real me. Due to a stalker I’ve kept well away from drawing attention to myself, using nom-de-plumes when working in media. What is worth knowing or interesting about me, my proudest moments and most memorable achievements are nowhere to be found.

I am also aware that what I really yearn for is perhaps a soul tree; who have I been before, the twists and turns my core have taken, and where my souls near and dear are located. With variables such as multiple timelines etc, in 3d the whole thing falls apart almost immediately.

I’ve heard that for many on their ancestral journey the results at the end does not matter as much as the actual process of digging. I found I really enjoy it but heck, if someone had already done the same tree I’d happily pay them $20 for a copy! That said, I’ve always enjoyed research and been rather good at it too. I loved reading thorough several hundred years old property deeds, wills and stuff when I worked at the district court.

When I was 18 I was researching for a radioshow at the local library, On the third day of research I was ‘downloaded’ with a lot of information, most of which I to this day I have not consciously unpacked. It was a most peculiar and at the same time exhilarating feeling, and ever since (and before too, come tho think of it) whenever I read some interesting historical document, information not on that page sort of percolates to the surface… I enjoy ‘reading’ the blueprints of history; the why and where things connect, and etymology, rather than kings, dates and battles; the adjusted records to suit politics and those in power.

For this family tree project (and perhaps I’ll undertake some for others in the future) I have felt perfectly suited, as I have found my intuition and psychic gifts invaluable. For three weeks (and after that whenever I come across another document) I dreamed of little else besides the people I have researched, seeing places and hearing fragments of conversation, picking up clues as to where to look and what to look for. Obsessed? Me? Never…. hehe.

The whole thing has taken on a much deeper meaning along the way. It has transformed into something I can only describe as shamanistic in nature . It is my intent to heal ancestral wounds, some which I am aware of, others I encounter along the way. An act of unconditional acceptance and non-judgement,of that which was considered so shameful it had to be kept hidden. To use a cliché “to shine light on it”. To hold the space that emanates “It’s ok. It’s fine, it truly is. There’s nothing to be ashamed of here, it’s just social and religious prejudices of it’s time. I love you… Whatever everyone did, they did for some reason, and it’s all water under the bridge…”

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A different insight into multidimensionality

I was sitting at the table trying to make sense of the feeling curled up tight in the pit of my stomach. It had been there last night and returned this morning after I had a shower and breakfast. There was discernable dread, and fear, and anger/defensiveness, all for no apparent reason, plus an other one I had yet to pin to understand and make some sense of. I let the words flow onto the paper unsensored in the hope that at some point this purge would expulge the feeling of suck…

I felt upset, but completely out of proportion. I felt a sting of not good enough, but that was not it. I felt like I’d been labelled by someone else – wrongly – and now being judged because what it said on the label was not what was in the package… My hands were actually shaking at this point, and a part of me could not wait to find out wtf is really going on here… I felt fear and criticism somehow saturate my whole life experience all at once, expressed and withheld, imagined and experienced. My life condensed into an accordion-like tubular shape the size of a large soup-can, which I was looking at and feeling at the same time. A heavy dose of you’re not enough washed over me, and… I feel… PERSECUTED! That’s the feeling!  Persecuted!  Hounded.  BREATHE.  Just breathe. And again.

I closed my eyes. My high heart is fluttering. Like I’ve been fleeing on foot for miles. Keep a low profile. Live a quiet life. But the bastards will still find you and use you, and the would be protectors will never spot ya… I write the sentences down as I hear them in my head, without judgement, without demanding it make sense to my mind.

My solar plexus is aching.

I have all these good ideas and all for nothing? I feel hopeless. Held down, held back. I don’t even know what it is that I fear. It’s just that nondescript, indistinct fear permeating my torso, making my limbs jittery. Wtf?

Stones are being thrown. Mock spears of wood. I can’t flee. My feet are bound to this big boulder. The mob has made up it’s mind and nothing I can say will or can make it change it’s group mind. A stone the size of a mango hits my right temple. A bigger one my left shoulder-blade.

I try to reassure the frightened and bewildered me that I love her and I got her.

But if you love me why can’t you do something? Very good question for which I have no answer.

Now we’re both crying, my body heaving with the sobbing that knows nothing else at this point, no up down forward or past. I do not care who sees or hears me. My tears are her tears too, and if I’ve ever been in the moment, now is one of those times. There is no past, there is no future, there is only now.

She is almost unconscious by now and we’re both silently praying for it to be over soon.

The mob is turning away. It’s going to be a slow death process. Just little children left throwing little stones and gravel as hard as they can, the boys daring each other to kick the ”witch”.

So many wounds, so many broken bones.

Slow, cruel, painful, death.

(And you ask me why I do not like people, why I stay away from mobs and crowds. Are we all born barbarians to become whatever we’re taught to be?)

There’s a little girl still around when the others have got bored and left. She is hiding behind a tree and some scrubs and when she’s certain noone is watching she steals close and in her grubby little hand brings a few small forest flowers which she places near my face. She pushes my hair out of my eyes before she leaves.

Witch material for sure my current me observes. She is scarred, she’s only 5 or 6, she is horrified, but in her heart she knows what’s been done is wrong. I do not recognize her energy signature, nor am I aware of any relationship between me then and the girl.

 

I don’t know what the message here is. Maybe it just is. I don’t know what to do, to stay or go. There’s no etiquette book for these things and tho I would like to stay (because I think I would want that), this woman is too traumatized to care. There is nothing I can do for her, and nothing I can undo.

What is different to all the other times I’ve watched other incarnations of my soul or been downloaded with another life is that this one is somehow real-time… I just know this.  I feel it as it unfolds and there’s no fast forward. It’s painful and uncomfortable because I want to end it for me/ her/ us? And I can’t. There’s nothing I can do. I could sit here in a state and wait and keep vigil of sorts, but I feel that would serve no purpose. Still anchored to the dying body but no longer conscious and not aware of our connection, I choose to bring my attention back to the kitchen and the cat and my coffee. There’s nothing I can do that would make the darnedest bit of difference to body or soul anyway, and that’s hard to swallow.

The thought that at some point in time I could have been part of one of these mobs – willingly or just to save my own neck – revolts me. I don’t want to think about it, but nor am I denying the possibility of it.

Where else in my modern day life do I feel persecuted? I’m fed up living with fears, unspecified or specific. For what kind of a life does that make for? We made the connection for a reason – and I will try find a way to clear this within me.

I check back with her a few hours later and by then she is dead. I don’t know whether to be relieved or grieve, and I feel a bit of both.

 

Catpaw on Huxday, September 2012

[I did go looking for more back ground a few days later and I found some. For now I’ll just add that to me she is Sally, not entirely correct but close enough.]

Gonna get myself (re) connected…

Gonna get myself (re-)connected… 

(Excerpt from The spirit of flying, shared here to reaffirm not all all alien contact experiences need be traumatic.  All of mine have so far been both inspiring and beautiful)

The scene:-

On and off throughout my life I’ve had the ‘’not dreams’’ of being off to an other existence at night.  I described these nocturnal adventures in my old journals, the ones that mostly  like the proverbal  baby should not have gone out with the bath water…  I threw most of them away when I moved to Mexico.  I never wanted to read the laments of my oft tortured being ever again and to read through all of it even once to recover the nuggets (that would prove to be gold) I did not do.  Time was short and there was also the issue of suitcase space.

At one point years earlier I remember finding in a magazine at the quacks or somewhere, a photo of a building that looked so much like the one I so often had visited in spirit at night that my jaw quite literally dropped.  It looked the same, even if the energetic imprint didn’t match.

The nights leading up to attending the Reconnection Healing Workshop in Mexico City in June 2010 was of a similar nature.  Raw by lack of sleep, over exertion and altitude sickness made for some of the worst migraines ever.  I spent the first night in MC too hot, too cold, with diarrhea, nose bleeds, vomiting, cold sweats, slipping in and out of dimensions and remote viewing myself (and others) at far away places.

I felt there were 8-10 entities around me whom I affectionately called the cleaning crew, prepping me for what was to come.  Who (or where from) they were I could only guess at that time.  The following day, after having been thoroughly physically purged, my husband brought me some migraine tablets that stayed down and kicked in.  I even got a much needed hour of sleep.

Tentatively I got up, had a shower and some coffee and toast before venturing out to visit The Blue House, once home to Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, now a museum.

Talk about powerful paintings!  I have never been a visual person At All, (something that all who have known me in person can attest to).  Art to me tend to simply fall in one of three categories; like, don’t like and next.  Music is the medium that has the power to move me.

So behold my surprise when the emotions infused within each of the paintings washed over me, one after another.  It didn’t stop there, things, furniture, corsets and crutches.  All in between frequent trips to the toilets…  tmi perhaps, but I really wasn’t away with the faeries, it was very grounding or at least physical of sorts.

She (Frida) must have really poured her heart and soul into these paintings.  Her feelings and emotions, love and pain clearly palpable in every one .  all in the sentient equivalent of Technicolor.

As me and my husband proceeded through the house my back felt worse and worse and I had to sit or crouch down more and more often.  I mentally kicked myself in the shins for not having been to see the chiropractor before we left Isla, holding out and hoping for a miracle cure to occur at the weekend.  On a scale of one to ten where 10 equals fainting, I persistently hovered around an 8-9, clammy with cold sweat and at times experiencing the tunnel vision that usually precedes fainting in my experience.   Oh well, too bad.

The garden was the most tranquil and serene place one could have wished to find anywhere in a big city and that such a place can exist in a place like MC, second biggest city on earth,  amazed me.  Nor was there any trace of pain or the mental torment said to have followed the frustrated pair of artists who had made their home there.  Not even any  intruding sounds of traffic, just peace, holding space for any visitor to just be.

Closing time was fast approaching so we left  and took a couple of photos of the outside from across the street.  Mario left me leaning against the wall under a tree for shade while getting us some much needed hydration.  Within a couple of minutes the pain in my body had dropped from a 9 to a 2. It was her pain I’d been feeling while we were in the museum!  Funny how that never occurred to me while we were still inside.

Later that evening it was time for me to have the first part of my ‘’reconnection’’ (read Eric Pearls book if you are interested in this process).

The night that followed I once more barely slept at all.  ‘’They’’ were talking at me, showing films and explaining all sorts.  I was only in bed for 4 hours (one of the joys of staying with relatives is the catching up) but the lectures alone went on for way over 8.  Much about what is popularly called quantum science or metaphysics and all very interesting.

Woke up exhausted with what felt like an iron band around my head, pineal and pituitary glands throbbing, nosebleed the minute I rolled over to get up to run to the bathroom retching and the ever present liquid belly (despite the immodium).  Halleluja.  The joys of altitude sickness when you’ve lived your entire life at sea-level paired with high levels of inpouring light…

Spent Saturday and Sunday in the beautiful conference room of a  very posh hotel with hundreds of other practitioners to be from all walks of life.  I had looked forward to this for over a yr and in contrast to having been so open and attentive, I’d barely talked to anyone and no one had talked to me either.  It felt a bit like college and Uni  all over again; ‘’I already have enough friends and no desire to make make more’’.  Well, I do and I deliberately and especially chose to do it here in MC, in the hope that out of all those people with a joint interest in healing there would be one or two at least to connect with, over lunch,  for the weekend or friendship.

I was very disappointed and felt very rejected and tried hard not to show it as I signed the last forms and handed in my name badge before leaving.  It was definitely a challenge not to cry.

I spent a long time being ashamed  of this but here you go.  I have since talked to my soul about this.

Mario had been delayed on the underground on his way to pick me up.  When he turned up he looked like I felt, but for other reasons I will not disclose here.

We took a short walk looking for somewhere to get a coffee.  Near a tree on the tarmac I find a beret shaped cabochon rose-quarts waiting just for me.  A little sign of love from above that I had not been forgotten about, even tho it certainly felt that way.

Ffw to later that night and part 2 of my reconnection.  I’m a little nervous and a bit excited about this one, or rather of how and what will follow.

Four entities come down, 1 to my side and 3 at my feet to start with.  They are The Overssers.  First they start breathing me like I have never breathed before.  My neck is sort of held in an invisible brace, immobilizing my head throughout.  There are adjustments made to the ethereal body in the area of my neck and lower back.

Red and purple dots and beads dance before my closed eyes, later replaced with spring green and pale blue dots and flowers.  My chakras are worked on, the throat, navel/solar plexus, back of throat and finally, just before completed, the heart chakra.  The chakras turn into pulsating balls or spheres of light, 12-15 cm in diameter.

When I (cheeky I admit) want to take a look at what’s going on (with my 3rd eye vision) they switch it off!!

’You are here to bring light and information to the planet’’ they say and make me repeat 3 times.  (very similar to one of the phrases that was given to Eric Pearl).

Now I see 2 pyramids made out of what looks like aluminium/pewter/silver but warmer than any of these in colour.  I am moved closer to the one on the right.  Four saucer shaped crafts (much like the classic ufo’s of early science fiction) decend from above into clear view and just hover there.

About 3 minutes before the whole session comes to an end, I feel something switch on.  There’s no sound, no cogs, no visuals, yet it clearly goes clunk, and with it goes the distinct feeling of turning the mains back on after having done extensive repair works to the wiring of a large house.  One minute it is not there, the next if very definitely is, whatever ‘’it’’ is.

I feel slightly spaced and lightheaded as I get up and the faint smell of sweetcorn lingers,  somewhat puzzling to me.

One more string added to my healing-bow.  And since I chose not to do the advanced course (to be able to facilitate reconnecting other people)  the mystery of what officially went on remains.

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