Aside 10 Aug

39 Summers Ago

Many moons ago, my family and I took a trip to the beach. As was customary for our travels, no reservations had been made, and we always took a chance, hoping for the best when searching for somewhere to stay. It was Virginia Beach; and the region had been plagued with a severely eroding coastline. We had tried several spots before finally coming to rest at a hotel that was located directly on the beach.

 

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On the shore side of the hotel, there was a massive undertaking to pump sand on to the dwindling beach, and I was fascinated by the whole operation. I wasn’t much older than four or five and had been duly warned not to go near the pipes that were blasting sand in front of the hotel and further up the beach. It was very late and we had spent most of the evening looking for somewhere to stay. As my parents unloaded the car, curiosity got the best of me, despite numerous words of caution. Of course, I wandered down to the beach to see what was going on.

Unbeknownst to my parents, who were still trying to get our things into the hotel, I was gone in a flash! I had walked off in the wrong direction and was now perfectly lost. As soon as my folks realised I was missing, my father embarked on a frantic journey that he later said had aged him twenty years. I continued to walk, eventually coming upon two men who could only be described as hippies. It was the early seventies, and with their Doobie Brothers hairstyles and beach bum motifs, it looked as if I had landed in a really bad 1970’s sit-com. They were sitting around a small fire, with sleeping bags and a make-shift stove, talking and laughing. I remember a funny smell coming from the skinny ‘cigarettes’ they were smoking.

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I walked straight up to them and in my innocence, asked if they knew where my mom and dad were. They were very kind and asked me what hotel we were in. I instantly offered up the name of one of the many locations we had tried- of course, it was one that had no vacancy.

Hand in hand, these two men walked me down the beach to the hotel I had told them, only to find that my parents were not there. Luckily, the hotel clerk remembered suggesting another place to a man and his family earlier that night, and maybe if we checked there, we might find them. My hippies and I turned the other way and walked back up the beach to our new destination. Several hours had now passed and I was having the time of my life! My parents were distracted with worry. We entered yet another hotel from the beach-side entrance and I remember my mother’s face as she saw me cross the threshold with my new found friends. As there were no mobile phones at that time (they were as futuristic as compact discs or cable TV); there was no way to notify my father until he returned on his own. I was absolutely petrified of how angry he was going to be. I had no regard in my young mind as to the drama I had caused over the last few hours. My only concern was that I had disobeyed orders and would most certainly be punished. When he eventually returned, I saw my dad in tears for the first time in my life. He was livid, but relieved; as he lectured me as to the danger I had put myself in.

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The reason this story is so significant in my history, is that my father went in to great detail as to how I could have drowned that night. As a great little swimmer, a Pisces by sign and by nature, I never had a fear of the water, only a deep respect for and great pleasure from all it had to offer. As my father lectured on, his voice was reduced to a murmur and seemed to fade into the background as I spontaneously recalled a memory of having drowned before. I appeared to be staring off into space as my mind transported me to a place that I remembered as vividly as if I had been there the day before.

Oddly enough, as I re-experienced this part of my past, I was not afraid, nor did I equate the present night’s experience with what it meant to drown. I had unexpectedly dredged up from my extensive biography, what drowning meant to me. Getting lost on the beach did not come close to the feeling of standing outside of a temple of some sort, in a modestly embellished, full-length purple gown, watching fiery objects sail through the sky. I appeared to be in my early thirties. I distinctly recalled looking across a field at the beautiful village that held my family home. I had been frantically working inside of the temple in some sort of preparation for the impending devastation. A global catastrophe had sparked off a massive tidal wave that quickly took me to my death. As I went under the colossal wall of water, I felt the fear and sadness of going through this alone, without being able to hold my children as they faced their imminent deaths. The only thing remotely similar to this memory and my current beach adventure was that this time around I could have, but didn’t drown, and I was separated from my family. I was lost in this unexpected flashback, the first of many to come, when Dad snapped me back to the present. “Do you understand me, young lady?” was the next thing I heard.

Dad was still lecturing, not realising that I had just experienced my very first recollection in this life, of death in a former incarnation. Neither of us was aware of the significance that this event would eventually have on my future work. I knew enough at age five to know that losing me for the night had been a little too traumatic to even contemplate sharing this new insight with my parents. It was filed away and not spoken about until many years later; a habit that I had already begun to master.

Tonight, thirty-nine summers later, I took off from my hotel and walked this same beach on my own again. The research I have been doing all week at the Association for Research and Enlightenment, founded by the great 20th century prophet, Edgar Cayce, was swirling through my mind as I stood by the water’s edge. As the water lapped against my ankles, the lights of the endless string of high rise hotels twinkled behind me, while music wafted through the air from a variety of live bands playing in the many seafront restaurants and clubs.

Apotheosis is, by standard definition, the divinization or deification of man (decided by man, oddly enough). In the world according to MH, when man finally remembers that he is not seeking divine love and wisdom but already is divine love and wisdom, well, then we’re talking true Apotheosis. Picture the Christ energy; Divine into flesh, returned to Divine. Was this energy ever NOT divine? If we then, as mere mortals, are made in the image of our Creator, then are we too, not divine by nature?

As I wiggled my toes in the cool sand tonight, I looked up and smiled at the same stars that had watched me discover; remembering the true essence of my own divine nature, thirty-nine summers ago on that very same beach. It all started with a five-year old’s simple realisation that she had lived before. Life has come full circle as I delve deeper into the subject matter of my latest book, “Apotheosis”. I remain in constant pursuit of the best way to share the events of a series of lifetimes, which I hope just might inspire you, my fellow travellers on this journey, to also remember, that you already are that which you seek

Until next time… Shine on!   

 

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Aside

Faith Without Works is Dead

24 Apr

Faith Without Works Is Dead

James 2:14-26

New King James Version

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What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him?  If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food,  and one of you says to them, “Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,” but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead. But someone will say, “You have faith, and I have works.” Show me your faith without your works, and I will show you my faith by my works”. 

 

Did you ever have a week, even two, maybe a lifetime that seemed to have a running theme? A period of time where the Universe appeared to throw caution to the wind, breaking its own rule of impartiality, providing blatant experience after experience to provide and perfect a certain set of lessons? Understanding faith and the works that go with it? Let’s just say this theme and I are up close and personal.

I’m a big supporter of elbow grease, putting your money where your mouth is, walking the walk and talking the talk. I’m equally a fan of trusting that timing is everything and that patience is, in fact, a virtue. Eager as we are sometimes to prove through our actions that we are on ‘the path to enlightenment’, I have come to realise that more often than not, the ‘works’ required for faith might be of the mind rather than physical in nature.

My Dad once said, “There are two kinds of courage. Many a man is capable of the heroic action on the spur of the moment, But it takes a man of supreme courage to go on to face something which may haunt him for days ahead and which by turning back, he could escape.”

Faith without works is dead…. Works may just mean the courage required to trust that all is unfolding as planned, even if it hurts a little. Allowing oneself to trust that a divine plan is at hand may just be more difficult than the action one presumes is necessary to carry out the deed. Physical work is only one leg of the tripod. It is, after all, faith without work(s) that is dead. Without the emotional and spiritual investment in a plan, the plan doesn’t stand a chance.

The fear of failure or appearing foolish has prevented more great acts from coming to fruition than any lack of physical prowess ever did. Faith without works…

Until next time

Shine on

 

 

 

Aside

Chillin’ in St. Ursula’s Ward

14 Jan

Toughing it Out on St. Ursula’s Ward

 clarification for clarice

It’s been a whale of a week! One that has landed me deep in the bowels of a makeshift hospital that I vowed I would never set foot in again after the gruelling birth of my first child. Unfortunately, due to my location, it was the closest facility I could speed to just after I clutched my chest and hit the ground in the parking lot of my local grocery store. I had stopped by to pick up a few bits for a lovely night in front of the fire and a feel-good movie with my girls. I had just put the groceries in the car when a giant’s hand reached through my back, grabbed the contents of my chest and squeezed really, really hard. I was never breathless, but following the last 8 months of dealing with two severe tears in my rotator cuff, of course I had pain down my left arm. In my heart of hearts, I knew I wasn’t having  a heart attack, but it’s times like these when 21 years of training myself to ignore the chronic pains of a contorted frame worked against me. I got up, brushed myself off and did some deep breathing.

I was just about to head home when said giant planted a pick-axe into my left eye. Ok… I’m listening. I tried to remain calm as the knee- jerk reaction to the sudden stab in the eye  caused me to cry out, terribly frightening the two little girls that had just watched Mommy pick herself up off the ground two minutes earlier. We raced to the hospital, small drops sliding down my cheeks, the girls in floods of tears.

“Tingling or pain in the jaw?”

Having endured the enigma that is trigeminal neuralgia, the result of my head smashing through the driver’s side window, I could only answer with, “Always.”

“Any history of accidents, surgeries, fractures, allergies?”

“Extensive, and yes to all.” Just how does one tell a 28-year-old registrar the ins and outs of what has to be one of the most colourful medical histories known to man? So many of the sensations that I feel from the neurological damage of  being crushed at 75 mph aren’t even charted or recognised, let alone have a name that he would find in the little book of medical diagnosis shoved in his back pocket. So, I simply chose to say, “I was killed in a car accident 21 years ago. I’ve got a lot of stuff going on. How about we check the bloods for now.”

So stunned was he, he popped in the needle and did what I asked, although I would have gladly shared the NDE if i thought he was interested. It was, however, a time sensitive situation, and to list my ailments would have taken more time than either of us had to spare.

My ECG was normal, but when the bloods came back, I had an elevated D Dimer, the indicator most commonly used to diagnose blood clots.

“Have you flown recently?”

I nearly felt like a scolded school girl as I confessed my 26 flights over the last 10 months, many of them long haul ones crossing the Atlantic. Attention quickly shifted to my calves and behind my eye as possible hiding places for the elusive clot. My mind shifted into reverse as I thought back to my days of teaching the National Board Exam reviews for chiropractic with the queen of all things obscure in the human form, Dr. Irene Gold. I could hear that thick, Yanky accent as I recalled her telling me that D Dimer was a great topic to trip up my students who thought they knew it all.

“Everyone goes for the clot”, she had chortled, sounding like one of the New York dames from “West Side Story”. “D Dimer can spike in pregnancy (ehm, not a chance at the moment), infection (hmmm, just over the vomiting bug) and adult bilious colic (ding, ding, ding).

As the young doc in training measured my calves, I suddenly felt much more sure of myself. The gripping chest pain, the history of gastric issues, I pointed these things out to a smiling face that as much as said, “it’s a clot lady, get over it”.
I’m not much of a gambler, but I do love putting my neck on the line. If I’m right; awesome! If I’m not, it gives me the chance to work on humility. I’m deducing, hoping and praying that there is no clot.

After 22 hours on a trolley in the corridor of the emergency room, I am now in a modest bed by a window in a room called St. Ursula. Obviously named by the nuns who ran the hospital back in the day. Wasn’t she the hideous woman with the octopus legs and the fab baritone voice in “The Little Mermaid”?

I haven’t eaten, I can’t have a drop of water and I’ve already been through the x-rays and CT scans and ultra-sound. I now await the ‘non-invasive’ procedure of having a little camera shoved down my throat. Thank God I’m allergic to shellfish and was spared the iodine injection that would light up the blood vessels in my lungs.

I’m grateful for the care, even though I’m pretty sure I will get the same bill for my full day’s stay in the corridor as the woman who is in the bed next to me on the ward, who was served dinner, had her own toilet and could turn the glaring overhead light off if she wanted to, while watching her tv.
“Dems de breaks…”

My honest opinion? I think a decade of grief swaddled in my inevitable positivity capped off by my father’s death and my mother’s subsequent accident has dramatically begged for my attention. There’s no shame in that. I’m a “get on with it” kind of gal, and for me, sometimes it takes a little drama to slow me down. You also know that I’m going to turn around and immediately share it with you, so that you might recognise the pattern in your own life. That’s simply who I am and what I do.

I saw something recently that eloquently put it like this:

“The loneliest people are the kindest. The saddest people smile the brightest. The most damaged people are the wisest. All because they do not wish to see anyone else suffer the way they do.”

If through my life, I can create a way to help people grow through realisation, without having to sustain the damage to body or spirit, then I’m on to something big. Don’t ever, for one moment, allow yourself to believe that not one person cares about you. Even if we haven’t yet met, I love you and I’m going to share my trials and tribulations so that you may recognise your own strength and divinity. It’s a consciousness, a way of being, taught by many before and many to come. It belongs to all of us.

I will admit to pangs of sadness when they asked for the contact details of my spouse or partner, my next of kin or even family close by. The life I am leading comes with a price tag. All of ours do. I cried more for my children and their stark realisation while sitting next to me in the hospital.

“What happens to us, Mommy, if something happens…”

It is what it is, and sometimes what it is really sucks.

On the other hand, I delve deeper into the mystery that is my body this time around. That excites me; it always has. I took the ‘living on the edge’, ‘squeeze every drop out of life’ thing very seriously. With great sadness comes compassion for others. With fear for one’s health or safety comes the opportunity to exhibit faith. It, too, is what it is, and sometimes what it is, is awe-inspiring.

So that’s today’s update from St. Ursula on the ward. I promise to keep you posted on the outcome of the diagnosis duel. My money is on me! However, I’m prepared to eat humble pie if I’m wrong. Under the circumstances, a piece of pie wouldn’t go astray, so I can’t lose!

Hang tough, my friends!

Aside 17 Dec

Rolling With Changes

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Well folks, it has been one heck of a week. I have lived the full spectrum of human emotions in the course of seven, seemingly innocent, calendar days. After returning from my eighth trip to America in the last twelve months due to my father’s illness, his passing and my mother’s subsequent accident, I jumped back into work and looked forward to a wonderful mid-week wedding on 12/12/12. The day after the wedding, I found myself walking somberly through a graveyard in Kildare, as one of my closest friends buried her 30-year-old son, following a brutal mugging in Dublin at the weekend. On the way home from the funeral, ‘Old Faithful’, my trusty jeep of eight years, blew her last gasket and left me stranded with no transport, along with the daunting reality of purchasing a new vehicle just a week before Christmas. On Friday, my girls and I made our way to Dublin city centre to help launch the new book of my dear friend, Bertrand Dory. It was my great pleasure to not only speak at the launch, but to delight in the fact that there was an entire chapter dedicated to a radio interview that Bertrand did with me earlier in the year. “Conversations for Your Soul” will, no doubt, be a great success. The girls and I went car hunting on Saturday, and on Sunday, we collected money in the shopping centre with our friend, Irene, in aid of the Simon Community, helping the homeless. I came home to co-host a radio show called “You Are What You Love”, with author and healer, Vaishali, on purpleV.com.

This week there has been exhaustion from travel, the never-ending surprises of my work as a healer, the joy of attending the marriage of a dear couple, the meeting of new friends, the death of a young friend and the sharing of grief with those he left behind. My car exploded, right along with my savings account, I helped to launch a book, I was featured in a new book, I had a blast hosting an internet show and then I put my children to bed. The week has reinforced a great principle, which I would in turn, like to share with you.

When we signed up to come to planet Earth, we chose this dynamic, organic glowing blue ball for all that it has to offer. While in Spirit, and in our full glory, fearless and united with the Source, we knew exactly what we were getting in to by choosing to incarnate here. By donning the veil of forgetfulness, we also separated ourselves from remembering who we really are, and in doing so, allowed ourselves the unique opportunity to experience the dichotomy of light and dark. We find ourselves in bother as a species because we are so far removed from the knowledge of our origins, that we have polarized to the facade of the light out of fear of the darkness. In reality, both are necessary for the human experience in our current vibration. We knew about it, we agreed to it, and we chose it for our own growth.

I look at my crazy week of emotional highs and lows and celebrate the fact that each of the joys and sorrows prove one thing… I’m alive. We have fooled ourselves into thinking that life is not fair or well-lived unless all goes according to the fairy tale plan. That kind of stuff belongs in Disney, the magical place of make believe. Real life is hard. It hurts and can be so painful, but it can also bring unimaginable happiness. The problem with most people is they tend to get stuck in one category of emotions. For me, I’m a bright-sider, always seeing the positive, always making lemonade out of lemons. For others, they dwell in their sorrow, stuck in the “why me?” or “it’s never enough” syndrome. Guess what? Neither is better than the other, nor is it in our best interest to sit for too long in either type of behavior. As the events of this past week reminded me, life is a great big roller coaster. If you’ve ever been on one, the ride begins with laughter and excitement, slowly inching up towards a climax, as our fear rises right along with it, then drops you like a hot potato, leaving you to puke up your guts or shriek with delight as you re-emerge from the fall, only to start climbing again.

If 2012 has been any indication of what happens when we hit the next peak on this crazy ride, hold on to yer hats, we’re in for one heck of an adventure. My advice to you… live each moment, every emotion as it is in that moment. Allow your feelings to be authentic and don’t waste the precious gift of your joy, waiting for sadness. As sure as the sun will set on December 21st and rise again on the 22nd, sadness will find its way into your life. So will fear and uncertainty, but so too will love, faith and trust in the good of humankind, find their way into your heart.

With all that I am I wish you the gift of acceptance of your life experience. After all, you chose it. Happy Holidays and rock on, my friends!