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Let Your Breath Be Your Pace

I have to fashion a bridge across the deep dark crevice of emotional pain that threatens to swallow me whole. I ask you now Spirit Guides and loved ones who’ve gone beyond to help me thread together this passageway that I may walk it slowly with ease and without incident. Can you help in this difficult path I see before me? Your Love is my Love is Me.

Dear One, fear not. It is your Nature to cling, to hop to the next stone of worry across what you feel is a burning lava at your feet. Allow yourself to let go. This is not yours to control. It must follow its own path and evolve without your input.

Yes, of course, you may indeed take action on your own behalf but no guarantees are given. There is probability, there is potential, there is free Will. You ask if this will be a lengthy process. You seek a Yes or a No. However, the Way of Nature is flow and undulation. Does a wave reach the shore in the same manner each time it is thrown forward? There is no “yes or no” when all the little droplets of water that make up the wave have each a mind of their own.

You feel a tsunami is upon you with all that is happening at the same time, and yet you can only breathe one breath at a time. Let your breath be the pace that you adhere to. Let the forces be at work here. You will come out the other side – renewed, whole, invigorated.

Keep your thoughts on the sea of infinite possibilities and allow, allow, allow the Unknown. These trials are for you, to shape you, to grow, to push against for strength and endurance. Only diamonds become diamonds by the pressure they endure.

You will rise, shining in the Glory of the Love you emit and Spread to the World. Fear not, for the Love of Spirit is within you and around you always.

Dream vs. Reality

My dad passed away at age 92 on September 16, 2013.

On September 28, 2016, I wrote this in my dream journal:

The other night, I dreamt I ran into Dad. In the dream, I had just gotten out of class or something — I was exiting a building with a lot of people. I almost walked right past him, but glanced back to see him standing against the doorway, waiting for me.

“Dad! When did you get here?!” I asked.

He looked professorial in his gray suit and tie. His crewcut reminded me how he looked in his forties. I asked if he was hungry. He said yes.

The dream continued someplace else…maybe my place. I was making a BLT. He was no longer in my purview. I ate my sandwich and forgot, or neglected, to make something for him.

Then he reappeared. I felt terribly guilty for not making him some food and only thinking of myself. I asked if he was still hungry. His answer was unclear, and then the dream ended.

Earlier that day, I’d been thinking about Dad. I had thought about how his love and affection had dissipated around the time I reached puberty. His pulling away felt sudden. I was 13.

I’d always thought it had something to do with me, with my age, that he was uncomfortable with it. But this day–before the dream–I had realized that his emotional waning happened to coincide with his planning a divorce from my mom. It had nothing to do with my age or the changes I was experiencing. Separation and divorce were likely first and foremost on his mind.

As in the dream, I had only thought of myself and my needs. I hadn’t considered what was going on for him at the time.

Healing Me Softly With His Song

A local dairy farm, Maple Valley Creamery, sells ice cream cones out of a small wooden hut. Each week, they give away free cones to specific names. One week it was for anyone who shared a name with someone in The Brady Bunch. My name is Jan, so my husband and I decided to take the 40 minute drive to get my free ice cream!

I had been worried about my daughter who has been going through months of chemo. She hadn’t been feeling well of late. I decided that a ride in the countryside to get an ice cream was what I needed.

We drove along winding, tree-lined roads that follow the river, past farm fields and past the Hadley Mall to the Hadley Scoop, as the colorful hut is called. We walked up to the window. I ordered one scoop of strawberry shortcake ice cream on a gluten-free cone. They use fresh strawberries!

Behind the hut was a seating area complete with fenced in cows, goats, and sheep for petting. We found a small picnic table in the middle and got settled, licking our creamy treats. We faced the music. There was a guy singing and playing guitar for tips on a six inch riser. He sang a Chris Stapleton song I was unfamiliar with, but the ambiance he created was soothing.

I heard lyrics about Jesus and angels. My ears perked up. I waited for the refrain, as my heart opened up and my daughter slipped in.

Don’t go looking for the reasons
Don’t go asking Jesus why
We’re not meant to know the answers
They belong to the by and by.

Angels come down from the heavens
Just to help us on our way.

Tears flooded my eyes. I tried to hold them back while silently licking my ice cream. One or two escaped. I felt singled out. This song, this message, was meant for me in this moment, I thought. He was healing me softly with his song.

Unraveling Our Heritage

I recently came across a passage about Spirituality and Abundance while rereading
Anita Moorjani’s latest book, Sensitive is the New Strong. I scanned the pages and shared them with my daughter who, like me—since I was the one who raised her—struggles with allowing, and not resisting, abundance in her life and work.

Money. Just the word congers up a wad of mixed emotions. Guilt. Desire. Fear. Gratitude. We weren’t born with any innate feelings about this social construct; we were taught by example or had experiences that led us to this end as adults.

Let’s face it, we need money in our society in order to survive, in order to own shelter, in order to eat, to be well, to seek treatment for ailments. Some abandon society’s demands and choose to be homeless, to scavenge or beg on street corners. But that’s got to be a tough life, too. One that’s not for me, if I can avoid it. I’d rather struggle to make ends meet with the basics. Well, truth is, I’d rather not have to struggle.

In my experience, we reap that which we believe. If we believe we’re not lovable, we reap crappy relationships. If we believe the world is unkind and dangerous, we attract such experiences. If we believe we are not deserving of abundance for whatever reason, be it low self-esteem, a wish to be closer to God, or a belief in its “evil” nature, we attract less of it. The Universe provides by supporting our beliefs.

The issue lies, then, in changing our long-held beliefs. It’s easy to trace their origins. I just look under the rock I crawled out from while in the care of my parents. My mom, a gentle spiritual, but also troubled soul, chose poverty to be closer to God and live among the poor. This came after the divorce and just shy of completing her master’s degree. My dad, a former professor, seemed a little tight fisted around money which may be why we always seemed to have enough.

I take after my mother, being highly intuitive, sensitive, and spiritual in nature and wanting to help people. At age 16, I won a creative writing contest in Seventeen magazine for which I was awarded $30. I donated half to a non-profit children’s fund. Already I was practicing self-lessness and feelings of not deserving of abundance if others were in need.

As an adult, I still give to charity on occasion, but I have also learned that it’s ok to keep 100% of what I earn, especially when I’m helping people. In my channeling practice, I help clients by being a vessel so their Guides can convey needed messages to them. It’s a fair trade.

Channeling is my North Node, astrologically speaking, my Dharma, my calling. Many people get paid for following their calling, some make millions. I was given this gift as a means to survive in this lifetime, whether it be for my own Guidance, or to help others navigate theirs.

I continue to unravel my heritage.

To Purge or Splurge?

My senior citizen cat, who normally lets me sleep, decided to touch the tip of my warm nose with the tip of his cold, wet nose at 2 a.m. this morning. He didn’t even want me to get up and let him out. He just wanted to kiss me and go back to sleep. I know. Sweet, huh? Except that I could not go back to sleep. “Hello darkness, my old friend,” as Paul Simon would say. (Was that song about insomnia or depression? Either way, it was fitting.)

Nighttime is the ripe time to ponder atrocities of life on the planet and in my household. My not-so-common common-law husband of 16 years is a hoarder. Ok, that’s not exactly true. He’s a collector. No, that would indicate many of one item of value, like coins or baseball cards. No, he’s an amasser. “Amass,” according to Webster: to collect for oneself; accumulate. Bingo!

Last night we met with the landlord of a defunct bakery that had sadly gone under. Covid was the straw. The owners of the building were selling off leftover items for the bank to recoup losses. My Common-law was interested in finding (read: amassing) a stainless steel rolling cart for his latest hobby: baking.

What we ended up with instead, stuffed in the back of my Subaru, was a mish-mash of professional baking items of every size, from silicone brushes to 60 lb. bags of flour and a supersized tub of brown sugar. A lifetime supply, depending on the shelf life of the contents…or the human.

I’m only shocked that he didn’t insist on lugging home the Hobart 6000 professional mixer floor model!

Ok, to put things back–or at least back in perspective–he is a man of many hobbies and side hustles that come and go. Currently, he seems to be caught up in a virtual bake-off with his buddy, Jay, that they boast about and post on Facebook. Jay bought a propane-fired pizza oven. My guy bought a bigger one. They both make the dough from scratch. Jay made molasses cookies stuffed with a cream cheese filling made with micro-brewed stout beer. My guy made them with bourbon.

The problem is, I’ve long ago adopted a gluten-free, no sugar, low carb diet for health reasons. I have successfully overcome my cravings for all three…over and over again. Now I live with a baker. So, my Common-law is baking for how many? One.

Really? A 60 lb. bag of flour?

I’m a periodic purger, one who purges. In fact, earlier that same day, I happily got rid of items we decided we didn’t need. I turned a small cabinet into $25 cash, gave away an extra rolling pin (I had to convince him we didn’t need two), and an unused cat ladder. Aaaah. That felt good.

But, the more I purge, the more he amasses. It’s a win-lose. Too bad I love him.