Catpaws Cafe

Random musings from my virtual fountain pen

Archive for the tag “healing”

21 Oct 2021

Inner child work

Not click-baity but descriptive. Diving right in here. The book I’m re-reading speaks about finding your kryptonite, which you can have in more than one flavor. This is early childhood needs that were not only not met, but made wrong, bad, unacceptable, or shameful, and that the young self then internalized so deep down it takes some real excavating to uncover. And identify it is a must if you want to heal and set yourself free.

One need many – or most – toddlers have is to feel that they are Special just for being, so I chose that to pick apart this Sunday.

I have not studied psychology and I am no authority; these are simply my observations that I’m sharing in case they help someone or make you curious.

What is special, anyway? If “everyone is special” “in their own way”, perhaps we need to redefine it, but not here, not today, not by me. These are adult semantics.
If we are all inherently special – what happened? When did it stop? When does worth become dependent on usefulness, achievements, talents, or amassed skills? Is it socialized out of us? When does being cease to be enough to give us worth?

When being is no longer enough to be seen as valuable, and those who at a tender age have not had their inner fill of feeling special by their caregivers, can get lost. For Somewhere, around here, it morphs into Special FOR something, and we start chasing Achievements, while at the same time feeling little or at least not what we had hoped for, and feel invisible, unvalidated.

You really can tell when someone had this need satisfied – they have no velcro when someone tells them they are being a special snowflake. They are confident and sure of their innate worth no matter what.

A young child has simple needs. When those are unmet by the caregivers in such a way that the child feels rejected and that they themselves are bad for wanting it, it gets stuffed down.
This could be anything from “the look” to verbal abuse or a physical thrashing.
The need becomes equated to “I am unacceptable”, and internalized with shame.
To ask no longer feel safe.
Your kryptonite has a special twist (which you will need to read the book to fully grasp.)
Shockingly early it becomes our humiliating secret, a secret so shameful we even hide it from ourselves. It becomes what I termed The unspeakable.

We then grow up feeling empty and hollow, subconsciously hoping to encounter a sip of something undefined, or at least something that numbs the inner ache or craving for a while. We constantly look for anything we believe could passify that emptiness, that grawing hunger we can’t seem to satiate no matter what.

As an adult the person (subconsciously dying to feel seen as Special) would never ask even if it is what they want the most. The reaction is not to seek attention but one of resignation. The unspeakable has become the unthinkable, the “I.Would.Never”. All while secretly hoping to be recognized and receive the validation they crave.

And because the wound is hidden so deep, should the person dare to ask it either goes unheard, or more likely receive a response that matches their imprint; and triggers the same emotional response the child self felt when they asked all those years ago.


So now that we’re adults, how can you fill that need for yourself?

Why do we need to deal with this early wound we have a hard time even defining? We can’t receive until we recognize and heal.

It’s impossible to meet a need you do not know you have, so first you need to identify your spin on this, your Kryptonite. And these ones are stealthy because by now they are at the bottom in the back of the shed that is your subconscious, your op-sys.

To do this you need to connect with your true needs and heal the early pain, the pain that taught you not to feel your need/s because doing so was not safe or too painful. (Tapping or breath-work can help with this.)
A need is an extreme want.
In this case, I want, and I will never ask for.
Something that even unspoken makes you want to run away screaming rather than utter out loud. Anything to not have to relive the pain and humiliation.

I’ll use myself as an example. I can think of many quirks, but nothing, not even put together, makes me qualify as Special. Not in That sense. Not Unique. Worthy of more.
Every time I recognize something unusual or have an insight into myself, there will be someone ready to smack me down like a game of whack-a-mole. Ready to belittle, mock and make fun of (and this is not even my main one).
“Oh no, they’re being Special again.” Unique qualities become next to shameful, least it make for another opportunity to poke fun at me for. I feel embarrassed. Doubt creeps in.

Maybe the observation is nothing.
Maybe the knack is worthless.
Maybe it’s nothing, and not even there anymore. Absorbed somehow.
Maybe I imagined it in the first place.
Maybe between now and When – it evaporated
and I can’t even remember…
what it was, what made me think it was unique, what made it exciting…
Imposter syndrome strikes again, Jante hot on it’s heels. Don’t think you are in any way special…

And yet, if I contemplate if I could meet others I consider special, who I look up to, like The Dalai Lama for example, it stirs up a primal yearning so intense it gives me virtigo; long lost hope gets reignited and a part deep down cries See me! Notice me! See me as a soul, not as a body or a set of skills, ideas, words. Just recognize me as a shining soul that has endured so much. See me! See who I am underneath the sticky fingerprints aquired over the years as incarnated. Recognize me – the true me – in a sea of souls.

I am hardly alone to feel I’m being lost in the sea of humans, where a few are trying to use everyone else as a stepping stones to “get ahead” to the next level. A kind of elbowing your way to the front of a running crowd where it is not so packed. Where you can breathe a bit easier, and jog or run without stumbling on and bumping into other runners trampling on your heels at every step.
Only these days our unsatisfied need takes the shape of chasing likes and followers on social media.

Everyone knows – at least in theory – that we are all unique expressions of the divine, but mental knowing doesn’t cut it when our inner child feel abandoned and hurt, and thirsts for what they never received.

The world is full of people needy for what they did not receive as children. It can be hard to give what you wanted but never got. I do try, but most of the time it feels like giving from an empty tank.
You are prepared to gift that last fuel in your tank just to be appreciated and thanked, because you desperately want someone to fill yours.
You wait for your chance for years, decades, only to be told to step aside and make way for others now…

Gaslighting can harden and toughen you up – or make you trust no one. I can no longer tell if it is a genuine compliment or a dig, I anticipate the knife to twist or evaporate. If an invitation is to share, or to be the joke. The freak to be the entertainment. I find I almost expect to be poked fun at or laughed at.

I don’t deal well with being poked, put down, and made fun of. It’s not simply that I “take myself sooo seriously”; I don’t know how to be any other way. It’s the way my needs were (not) met.

So I’ve burned myself out being hyper-vigilant for decades; wonder which one of me to send to open the door or deal with a situation. Which stance to take, what level of importance to assume, which voice and pitch. Sometimes this is a conscious decision, but it is always an emotional calculation based on a balancing act involving fear and safety. Because kids soon figured out who is in any way unusual or vulnerable, and pounce.

The question that remains is How [quickly] can I release myself from these limitations?
How can we once and for all banish the mocking voices that pipe up uninvited with their contemptuous questions along the lines of
What makes you think…
What makes you so damn special?
Why do you think you deserve special treatment?
Why do you think you’re so special you could…

What makes you think you could…
Why should You get …?
Why would something like that happen to you?

To that I can only say, I have no idea. But I am working on it.

The book that sparked this off is called Unblocked by Margaret Lynch Raniere and David Raniere.

As a tapping practitioner myself for over a decade, and someone who has also gone through The Personal Peace Process without feeling I made sufficient progress, this book makes sense to me, it was my crucial missing puzzle-piece, and I warmly recommend reading it. It helps if you have knowledge of Tapping or EFT.

I also recommend reading Unseen Academicals by Terry Pratchett.

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09 Sep 2021

Tapping along

I’m not a minimalist, as anyone who knows me in real life will testify to, but neither am I a hoarder. I just have a Capricorn moon, I’m craefty, and on a budget 🙂
I take care not to hoard, but, this is Mexico, and a lot of things are difficult to come by affordably, and a lot of the time you see things once – and never again. If you think you’re going to need it in the foreseeable future and have the funds – get.it.when.you.see.it.
I’ve always avoided fad things, everything is acquired with long term in mind, never the ‘once use and bin’. It’s with the environment in mind more than finances.

I have always had a really really hard time letting things go – unless it’s to someone else who will make use of it. This encompasses everything from worn clothes I still wear (because they still do the job when I’m at home), to small mementos and whatnot, including pens that have run out… Throwing away perfectly serviceable stuff in a world where so many has so little (and I’d happily gift it) – things I paid good money for – just because I have no idea how to find and give it to those who could use it… it’s just… feels so wrong on so many levels.

But, it doesn’t stop there. My stomach used to tie itself in gut-wrenching, painful knots when I needed to “clear out”, waaaay over the top. I realised there had to be more to this, and I was ready to find out. So that’s where I started Tapping (EFT, Emotional Freedom Technique), not knowing where this was going.
Within a minute I was sobbing as feelings started to well up.
It was so twisted and convoluted I’m including it in case it helps someone else understand themselves or someone close to them.

This is where I ask you to Get your tissues ready. If you were looking for a content warning, this is where you click back and go find something else to read. It’s painful but at least there is a healing outcome to this one. Here we go:

Throwing things away to me feels like telling them I don’t love you any more, even when it isn’t true.

There is just limited space and weight allowed in my suitcases, and what gets brought along is always a combo of most likely to be needed, and a couple of sentimental things.

I get that gut wrenching feeling every time, that of telling someone (or in this case something) you’re not important enough, new enough, good enough, for me to make space for you. I feel the rejection viscerally. Why am I not good enough any more? When did you stop loving me? What did I do wrong? From everything.

It is as if what is being rejected is piece of love, offering itself to me, and I tell it to go away.

Breathe! Breathe! I tell myself.

Then, a scene from another lifetime unfolds in my minds eye.

I see an old horse, and I know it is mine. The horse can no longer do the work it used to, and needing the stable to house a new, younger horse, one that isn’t lame and can pull the cart that pays for it’s keep and that of my family, I have to let my old friend go. There is no possibility to keep both.

My old friend, helper, companion. We’ve been through so much together. It breaks my heart I can’t let you live out your days in a green meadow somewhere. I feel like I am rejecting you when it is the circumstances making it impossible, and it is breaking my heart in a way that it never recovered in that lifetime.

The same heartbreak I see reflected back at me in my old horse’s eyes, the hurt, the confusion, the rejection, the betrayal. I was loyal to you, I thought you loved me, I loved you, I did everything my body could for you… I helped you, in all weathers and in all conditions. I was always there for you, and you send me away when I can no longer work for you? When I am no longer young you throw me away? Was that what I was to you? A tool, a machine? Just one more possession? I thought we were a team. I loved you.

I cried, really ugly cried, tapped and felt it all without running away. I howled and wailed in a way I don’t think I have ever allowed myself to do ever before. It felt like me and it didn’t, at the same time, and went on for what felt like hours.

I tapped until the wails became sobs again, and slowly subsided. I was utterly exhausted, but also felt the release as it let go of it’s painful grip on me. My non-corporeal (in spirit) horse in that had been with me throughout, nodded it’s head in approval before nuzzling my pockets in search of an apple or carrot.

We’re good. Centuries have passed, and I now look forward to one day meet with my old friend again, in or out of body.

This is the kind of hurts we’re healing and clearing in this incarnation; things that got stuck, the most difficult situations, the experiences we were unable to heal and resolve within the lifetime we had them.

The emotional imprint (also called blueprint, or overlay) will keep showing up in various forms until we give it the time and attention it needs and deserves. Yes it can hurt like hell, but in the end it allows you to feel a lot lighter. Less restricted. You have re-written your own programming if you like.

It is not so difficult for me to throw things away any more, as long as it is done mindfully and with discernment – don’t want to be contributing too much to landfill etc.

(Also perhaps worth mentioning is that I loved horses at a tween, but never allowed myself to get real close or get too attached to any one.)

Not all Tapping is as dramatic as this. Some is downright miraculous though.
If you want to give it a go I recommend contacting a trained practitioner (if it feels like a big issue) because the emotional support is comforting to have if it gets intense, but you can absolutely do it on your own later, or with a trusted friend. Then teach it to your children.
It’s a great tool to have in your emotional toolkit, and works best on issues where there is a stress component.

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04 May 2014
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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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08 Oct 2012
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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.]

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14 May 2012

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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