The Lives of the Dead

Some of the most interesting people I meet are dead…

My First Regression

First published May 23, 2019

Hey all,

As promised,  a report on a session I did on one of my fellow attendees at Dr. Brian Weiss’s Past Life Regression workshop at the Omega Institute last week. Sorry for the delay in posting.  It was a lot harder than I thought to write this up.  There was a lot of detail and I didn’t want to forget anything.  As a matter of reference,  the entire regression lasted about 45 minutes to an hour.

I will preface this by saying that my subject, RW, is, herself, a trained hypnotist so she was able to go into trance quickly and easily.  That’s half the battle right there.

Once the subject is under, there are many way to regress, which I will not go into here.  However Dr. Weiss taught us one technique which appealed to me very much.  I used it on RW and I suspect it will be my  first ‘go to” tool that I use when regressing future clients.

For those of you unfamiliar with hypnosis, I should point out that when in trance, one is deeply relaxed but not unconscious. The subject is able to talk, to follow instructions, and respond to questions. RW and I even were able to joke and laugh a bit, while she was still in trance. A trance is just focused attention, either on a task or inwards.  It is a way to release the critical mind and allow the unconscious to come to the surface.  You’d be amazed what’s down there!

***

Once RW is in trance,  I ask her to think back to a happy or meaningful memory from childhood. I like this method because most everyone can recall their own childhood easily. There’s nothing mysterious about it.  This state of mind, this remembering something distant but familiar, is both relaxing and pleasant for the subject, and most important, it leads them backwards, down memory lane. It puts them in just the right frame of mind to go deeper into their memories as they go deeper into trance.

RW quickly pulls up a memory of being a young child, playing “horsey” on her family farm in Australia, with her brother and sister. They take turns, straddling the fence, riding the “horse.” She can see many details of her surroundings, in part because she spent her entire childhood on that farm. This is a happy but neutral recollection.

I then ask her to go back further, to her earliest memory. It only takes her a few seconds for her to find herself in a pram, being pushed by her mother along the shopping street, on her way to errands.  There is another woman walking with them but RW can’t quite place her. She thinks it might be her grandmother who is so much younger here in this memory than she remembered her as an adult that she’s unrecognizable. She is wearing a brown coat.

We are not in that memory for very long when, without any prompting from me, this woman morphs into a man in a brown coat, and then into a man in a white wig and clothing that seems to be from the time of the French Revolution. RW is also surrounded by women in white. Nuns, perhaps?  She isn’t sure.  But she knows that the man is powerful and malevolent, and they are afraid of him.  They step away in trepidation.

The imagery and emotions are powerful but this memory is nebulous.  She is not sure if these entities were living beings she knew in a previous lifetime or she was seeing them in the “in between” – after death/before birth. We waited a while to see if she could get any more info on them, but nothing else came.  She could not say who they were, or what their purpose was, or what their relationship to her or each other was.

Then she notices three men dressed in long black coats, with heavy black beards, wearing  tall black hats.  Perhaps Russian or Eastern Orthodox clergy?  That feels right to her.  Slowly, she feels herself in her “then” body – sitting on an ornate golden throne richly upholstered in lush red velvet.

Her eyes are closed, but in her head, she is looking all around this room. I can see her eyes moving behind her lids as she scopes out all corners of this vision. “I’m in very opulent surroundings. Everything is gilded, ornate… like Versailles but that’s not where I am.”  She can even describe the intricately patterned marble floor.

“Look at yourself,” I say. “Who are you?”

Eyes closed, she scopes out her own body and a slight look of disgust crosses her face.  “I am really fat.  Bloated. I’m dressed in velvet robes. I think there is fur trim.  Sort of like Henry the Eighth, but that’s not who I am.”   She looks at her hand, curiously, and reports a heavy gold ring with large gemstones.  It’s very clear to her.  Once again, she uses the word “opulent” to describe herself and her surroundings.  She keeps coming back to this word.  In this lifetime, she is a person of great power.

“How old are you now?” I ask.

“Forty” she says, checking in the corners of her mind to be sure. “Yes. Forty.”

“Who are these men?” I ask.

“They are religious elders but I’m not afraid of them. They cannot make me follow their will.  I am more powerful than they are. I am perfectly confident that no one and nothing can challenge my authority. Not at all worried about my position.”

“How did you attain this power?”

“Combination of birthright and manipulation. I played the game very well.  I got rid of all my enemies.”

“Let’s go ahead to the end of your life. How old are you now?”

She gave me a specific age in her 50s (fifty-two, I think) and I was surprised that she knew exactly how many years into the future she had gone – not a general estimate of “several” or “a decade or so”  She actually did the math. “Yes. I live for twelve more years.”

“How do you die”? I ask.

She is again in her body, just before she passes. A look of discomfort and self-disgust spreads across her face. “I feel sick. I’m even fatter than I was before. I can’t even bend over to see my own feet. I feel awful. Seriously ill.”

“Have you been poisoned?” I ask, curious.

“No. It’s just that all these years of decadence and indulgence and laziness have caught up with me.  I have all the diseases one might get living like that  – gout, diabetes, liver and kidney problems.  I’m at the end.”

“Let’s move ahead to your death, without feeling any pain.”

“I see a large room with two rows of female entities in white. Nuns, maybe. Or nurses. They are all around me.”

“Are you in the in-between or are you witnessing your own funeral?”

“I’m not sure.  Could be either.”

And then, “Oh. There is a woman here with me on the other side.  She is sort of laughing at me, scolding me, saying ‘I told you so!’

“Who is she?”

“I’m not sure.  Somebody I knew in my lifetime.”

“What had she told you?”

“She warned me that I was too opulent, too self-indulgent. I had the power to make people’s lives better but I did not. I took it all for myself. I did not learn my lesson. And now I’m going to have to do it again.”

“Who do you think she is?  If she could speak to you like that in your lifetime, she must have been somebody who had your ear, someone you respected, whose advice you generally valued.  If you were as powerful as you say, there could not have been many who’d have been comfortable talking to you that way.”

She agreed with this logic but wasn’t getting any specific information on what the relationship was.

“She is older than me.  Old enough to be my mother, but it’s not my mother.  Maybe my wife?”

“Like an arranged marriage?” I asked.

“Maybe…” but still, she wasn’t sure.

We discussed whether such a powerful man would take advice from an arranged wife, and agreed probably not. So she went back inside to see if she could get an answer.

“Perhaps she was your nurse or nanny that you knew from childhood. She might have felt comfortable enough to talk to you that way,” I suggested.

She agreed that a nanny would sort of fit the energy, but still, she wasn’t certain. It was somebody who was not concerned that she’d receive his wrath for giving him unsolicited advice.  (Maybe, I realized later, it was an older sister or other relative.)

[note: some might think this is leading the subject, but as Dr. Weiss pointed out, subjects are not so easily led.  They know what they are seeing and feeling and experiencing.  As you have read, RW and I discuss only logical possibilities based on the information she is giving me. If that doesn’t feel right to her, she rejects it. I am not leading her anywhere.]

“She was right” she continues.  “I gave in too easily to my desires.  I was opulent and ungenerous. I took it all for myself and didn’t care for anyone else.”

She took a while to digest all that, later explaining to me how this lesson had relevance to and resonance in her current lifetime. (It’s personal, so not sharing.)

She was still in trance and seemingly moving around quite well in the realm on the other side, so I suggested we move forward into another lifetime.

And she did.  Into one more recent.  It was quite vivid with an even greater impact on her current life.  But that will have to wait for my next post.

——————

Buy the book!

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-Adrienne

A New Year’s Resolution Suggestion?

 

 

NEW!

Ipo

The universe gives you what you need when it is your time to understand it. You can long for a favored outcome but the Architect holds a silent, unseen hand on your rudder, and you will go where the river directs you.

This does not suggest that you do you not work for your goals; that you do not invest your heart; that you do not suffer the sleepless night; that you do not rise up again and again in the face of disappointment; that you do not fight injustice.  It is in these struggles, in these challenges, in this pain, that the lessons are found.

You cannot know before the end what will come to pass. Or whether it will be all you had imagined.  The future remains shrouded. The goal must not be simply to attain your desired outcome. Over that, you have no control. The goal is to find the lessons in the reasons you may not have achieved your goal. Happiness and satisfaction lie in finding the delicate balance between striving towards an outcome and stepping back to observe and understand why things are the way they are, or why you did not get what you wanted so badly.  There is no such thing as failure or loss if you take the lessons. This is the secret to inner peace. 

——————

Buy the book!

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  there’s a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-A

Sorry About that!

That was a mistake! I hate this new editing format! The full post is coming next week.

-a

A Little Trip and A Chat with Ipo

NEW!

As I was dozing off the other night, I was doing my “trance” breathing (two short, shallow breaths in; a long, slow exhale). This usually puts me into a deep state of relaxation very quickly. (Try it, especially if you can’t fall asleep.) I was hoping to get back to channeling, to connect with another dead narrator. Instead, I suddenly found myself hovering over the dining room table, looking through the bay window , out to the front lawn. It only lasted a few seconds. As soon as I think, “Hey! I’m out of my body!” I snap right back in. But it was something. Progress. At least on that front.

Also, Ipo, has been tugging at my psychic sleeve of late. He’s been whispering to me at odd times, as if trying to give me a lesson. I get a bit more every day. Rather than give it to you piecemeal, I’m going to try to put the whole thing together in one post. In a nutshell, he’s been explaining the human psyche. 🙂

 
Buy the book!
 
If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-A

 

J’Accuse!

First published April 30, 2019 

Par

When I was a child, I accused a man of rape. In truth, he had not touched me at all. But my own belief that I had been violated was so strong; my description of the incident so vivid, so full of the kinds of details a young girl would not know, that people believed me and became outraged on my behalf.

I did not tell a deliberate lie.  It was not an immature display of power. I did not misidentify my attacker.  I understood, on some level, that he had not harmed me yet I could not let go of the compulsion, deep inside me, that he was guilty and needed to be punished for this crime. That was my greater truth.

He was dragged off to prison, all the while proclaiming his innocence, where he spent the rest of his days.

As I got older, as I thought about the incident, I wondered occasionally if I’d fabricated these accusations.  Sometimes, in going over the details in my head, I’d find holes in my own story which made me realize that things could not have possibly happened as I remembered them. And yet even in those moments of doubt, it never occurred to me to felt guilty for destroying the life of an innocent man.  It was my unwavering belief that prison was exactly where he belonged regardless of what had transpired between us.

Later, after I passed over, I understood.

In the lifetime before that one, with both of us in different bodies, he had beaten and raped me, and left me for dead. I was found a few breaths away from my last, and was nursed back to, if not health, at least a condition which was compatible with life. I was never again right in the body or right in the head.

Meanwhile, he forgot the incident entirely. He was guilty of a horrible crime — the ruination of another human being — yet he continued to live his life free, as an innocent man, never suffering the consequences of his actions.

When I encountered his spirit in the next lifetime, without ever understanding why, I was overcome with the need for revenge. This was part of our karmic agreement, that he live as a guilty man, though he was innocent, and I should be the instrument of that punishment.

Sometimes,  trauma takes several lifetimes to be resolved.

——————

Buy the book!

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-Adrienne

Skin Deep

First published February 20, 2015

vintageglam

Gai

I was a great beauty. All my life, I was grateful for this. It opened many doors which never would have opened to me if I’d been born plain.

My mother had been a great beauty herself as a girl, and was still beautiful as I became a young woman. She’d been divorced from my father since I was small. For my entire childhood, she was obsessed about finding a second, wealthy husband. She studied, calculated, plotted. She was singular in this goal.

She was not above telling men that I was her baby sister; that she was raising me alone after our mother died. This, she believed, made her seem saintly and nurturing without the taint of “used merchandise.”   She dated a lot of men, but to her great heartbreak, promise seemed to vanish just as she was feeling most hopeful about permanence.

To the outside world, she remained gay and carefree, but alone at night, while doing her evening beauty regimen, she’d examine herself in the mirror and fret that her looks would run out before she found a suitable man. She had no means of supporting herself. Her only skill was to convince a man to take care of her. If she lost that advantage, she’d have nothing.

She taught me everything she knew. She showed me how to use a coy glance to bring a man to my side. She taught me how to tease a man with promises of his own imagination.  She taught me the trick of giving just enough to make him want more, but not so much as to ever satisfy him. She dressed me to accentuate my natural assets (which were considerable.) She showed me the secrets of maquillage, which, when used skillfully can make a woman appear to be more or less than what she actually is.

When I was sixteen, I fell in love with a sweet young man. We talked about running away together. Mother quickly broke us apart and forbade me to see him again. I was devastated.   A woman’s status, she explained, was completely dependent upon the status of the men in her life. She had great hopes for me. I would use my beauty to marry somebody powerful and wealthy. She would not let me throw myself away on a common boy who would never go very far.  There would be more suitors, she promised, of far higher caliber.

And so there were. Mother made sure of that. She pushed and preened and schooled me; she insinuated me into the right circles. She invented a story for me to tell about myself. I met rich, handsome men. Captains of industry and their sons. Famous entertainers. Influential politicians. Mother married me off to the best prospect. I was elated. I had won the prize! My life was exactly as it was meant to be.

But soon I was no longer happy. We had both conquered each other and had no further need of each other. An unhappy wife makes an unhappy husband. And vice versa. We ended in divorce, but not before I had acquired property and position. I did not want to make the same mistake my mother had made.

I was a divorcee but I was moving in more rarefied circles. I leapfrogged from one man to the next, each more powerful and wealthy than the last. I accumulated status and money. All that was important to me was to rise as high as possible above my standing at birth. I swore I would not end up like my mother.

Over the years, Mother’s fret gave way to worry. The worry eventually blossomed into full panic. By the time she was in her late forties, she was finding it difficult to hold her desperation in check, even though she knew she must — nothing sends a lover fleeing faster than the fetor of desperation.

Eventually, she found a much older man to marry. To my mind, he was a soft and ugly beast, but he was well-off and kind to her,  and she was grateful for him.

I did not want to become a woman who waited for men to choose her. I vowed to always be the one to chose. Even as I got older, I carried myself with confidence. I was an aging beauty but a beauty nonetheless. When I wanted to, I could still be quite charming. But I was selfish; I was vain; I was spoiled (as beautiful woman often are.)   I was perfectly willing to use anyone who could be helpful without a single thought to the consequences for them. I was very practiced at extracting what I wanted from others,  as quickly as possible, with as little emotional investment as possible.

I married three times. I had two children, both of whom met tragic ends, ravaged by the plague of a selfish, vain, spoiled mother. I can’t say I mourned very deeply at the time. We’d never been particularly close.

Few, if any, of my ex-lovers or husbands had much good to say about me. Once my spell on them was broken, all my ugliness became apparent. I made no effort to hide it. I didn’t try to be polite or kind. It mattered not what they thought of me; they were of no use to me any longer.

One evening, when I was in my late 70s, I came home from a gala, went to sleep and never woke up. Some acquaintances might have shed a polite tear or two, but there was nobody to truly mourn me. I’d only grazed the surface of the lives of others.

My mother had convinced me that my beauty was a key that would open doors for me. I understand now that it was not a key at all. It was the padlock. It kept me a prisoner of shallow intentions.

——————

Buy the book!

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-Adrienne

Cleaved

First published Feb 17, 2015

fetus in womb

Zoj

As a small child and well into adulthood, I felt a part of me was missing. It was as if my soul existed both within me and without me, and I had no agency over the part outside myself.

I could not explain this sensation in any way that would allow another human to understand. To others, I seemed strange. My feelings were often bizarrely congruent. For example, sometimes, when things were going badly, when I was hurt or deeply disappointed, when my heart was broken and by all rights I should be crying, I’d be filled with a strange sense of satisfaction or happiness.

The day my father died, I was weeping and mourning with my family, feeling all the pain any adult child might feel at the loss of a beloved parent. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a deep sense of joy and peace. I stopped crying and sat wordless, smiling beatifically. In an instant, I no longer felt like grieving.

By then, people were used to my strange moods.   They shook their heads and reminded each other in whispers that I’d always been odd.

Sometimes, too, in the middle of a happy time, when it seemed everything was going my way, I would be stricken by a sadness that sucked all the joy out of me. On my wedding day, I could not stop crying. I loved my husband.  He was the right man for me. I was thrilled to be marrying him. I had no doubts. And yet, I was filled with inexplicable sadness. They made no sense, not even to me.

Eventually, my husband and I moved to the city.   One day, a friend became angry at me because she said I had snubbed her in public. I had no such recollection. “You looked right at me, smiled back at me, and kept walking.”

Then it happened again. And again.

Sometime, strangers would approach me, greeting me familiarly, calling me by a different name. When I denied I was who they thought I was, most did not believe me. Some thought I was joking or playing a game. One or two became angry or insulted.

I began to seriously question my sanity. I was used to my unexpected emotions but I would never ignore my friends. I was not rude. I worried that the issues which had plagued me all my life were now progressing into a serious mental disorder. Was I losing touch with reality? Was I losing hours without knowing it? Was I losing my ability to recognize familiar people?

I did not share my fears with my husband so as not to worry him.

It went like that for perhaps a year.

Then, one day, I was in a café, reading a newspaper, having a my lunch. Out of the corner of my eye, I perceived what I believed, in that first tenth of a second, was my own reflection. In the next tenth of a second, I realized this was not so. We were not moving in tandem. We were not dressed alike.

I looked again, this time, more carefully. She hadn’t noticed me yet.

I could not stop myself from staring. Finally, I stood up and walked over to her table, and sat down in front of her.   She picked her face up from her book, first in annoyance at being disturbed, and then, her jaw dropped in incredulity.

We were not merely two people who looked similar. We were identical. Even to a mole on high on our right cheek.

We sat there for what felt like a long time, just staring at each other.   She too, had had a lifetime of disconsonant emotion. Her recent encounters with strangers and the upset of friends at having been snubbed had also made her question her sanity.

But now, the logic was beginning to dawn.

“Birthday?” I asked. Just one word. She immediately understood the importance.

It was the same as mine.

*****

When we were little more than a cluster of cells, we split in two. “I” became “we” inside our mother’s womb. There, we shared one soul. When our forms became more distinct, our soul also split in two. One soul, one set of DNA, two separate people.

We came into the world minutes apart, and clung to each other in our first hours. Others saw us as two, but we still felt as one.

Our mother was sick and poor and alone, not able to care for us. And so we were given away to those who could. No one would take us both. Those with the power over our lives decided it was best for us each  to have a loving home, rather than to remain together in an orphanage. Cleaved yet again, both from mother and each other.

We were too young to remember any of this. Even our adoptive parents did not know we were twins.

****

That was the first time in our lives we both felt whole and that our feelings made sense.

We each had places to go, obligations to keep. It was painful to take leave of each other but we arranged to meet later that evening, in the same cafe. We talked until the place closed down. We then went back to her apartment which was closer than mine. Her husband and son were already sleeping, but she insisted I peek into the boy’s room to see him. My nephew! Flesh and blood, twice in one day!

From that day on, we were as inseparable as two separate people can be. Our families became one. Our children played as cousins. Our husbands became as brothers.

We still felt each other’s feelings, but they were no longer a mystery.

We both lived to be quite old, and died within months of each other. And here we are, together, waiting to be born again. Perhaps as one, perhaps as two.

——————

Buy the book!

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-Adrienne

Mastering the Art of Love

first published February 14, 2015

tree_of_love_0_0.preview

Aya (the “love expert” — again)

Lifetime after lifetime, I was trapped in the same not-understanding; unloved without any comprehension of why. In some lifetimes, I simply retreated into myself and didn’t bother with others. In other lifetimes, it pained me deeply to have my feelings reproached. I once threw myself off a bridge to escape the pain of unrequited love.

Eventually, I began to observe and learn. Over more lifetimes, I came to understand that the key to being loved is to remind others what is lovable in themselves.

When this is done as practice, one naturally observes others in a positive way, seeing them in the best possible light. This engenders more love, which radiates outward, contagiously.

To be loved, first you must learn to love properly. The art of love, mastered, is impossible to resist. But still, there will be those who cannot believe the good  you see  in them.  They cannot trust love. This is their  heartbreak, not yours. Each human must discover for him or herself the importance of opening the heart to others. You cannot cajole or threaten or coerce someone to love. Each must come to it in his or her own way, in his or her own time.

Never regret the love you have given another, even one who is not able to return it. Do not blame yourself for staying too long. Do not feel foolish for wishing too fervently. Love, when it deepens your own understanding, is never wasted.

——————

Buy the book!

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-Adrienne

Compound Fracture

Originally published May 9, 2016

Exposición Sistema métrico campo de fútbol de Hisae Ikenaga. Abierto x Obras. MATADERO MADRID. Abril 2011

Kar

It was an accident. I was only a child myself when it happened. It destroyed my family. It destroyed my life.

My little brother was three. I was five.   We were playing together,  as we often did.  Typical boys of that age, we were loud and wild, often disobedient (especially me) and always looking for new ways to get around the rules.

My mother stored some special sweets in a high cabinet far out of our reach,  available only as rewards when we were well-behaved.  One morning, when she was distracted  by other things,  I convinced my brother that we should climb up and retrieve them.   We stacked some chairs, stools,  small tables,  and boxes into a makeshift ladder to enable us to reach the cupboard.

Then, in an instant it was over.  The pile collapsed and we came crashing down, bouncing first off the counter which was crowded with jars, canisters, sharp implements.  Somewhere along the fall,  he hit his head.  There was a lot of broken wood and shards of sharp, smashed ceramic.   I landed hard on top of him.

Mother came running when she heard the noise and found us in a bloody pile. I was hurt — my arm was badly broken – but I was still conscious. My brother was not. He was bleeding so much, it was hard to know exactly from where.

My mother rushed his limp body to the doctor who immediately realized the need for the hospital, where my father joined her. Two days later,  my brother was dead.

From that point on,  my family was irrevocably broken. My father blamed my mother for not taking proper care of us; for leaving us unattended even for five minutes, but she barely heard him.  She  blamed herself even more, and that was a much louder voice in her head. My own guilt and pain were only just beginning.

At the time, I was too scared, and my parents were too distracted,  too inconsolable,  too angry at me and at each other for me to dare mention the pain in my arm.  I never said a word about it.  The break eventually healed unattended and incorrectly, rendering my arm practically useless for the rest of my life,  a physical  reminder of what I’d done; an external symbol of my internal pain.

Over my lifetime, I must have replayed that morning in my head a million times. If only I hadn’t suggested we climb, he would still be here with us.  If only I had landed first and he fell on top of me perhaps he would still be alive.  If only Mother had not been so stingy with the sweets, I would not have spent my life crippled and racked with guilt.

The guilt and blame destroyed my parents’ marriage. They did not divorce, for they were bound forever by this tragedy  but there was no love, no kindness, no compassion for each other’s suffering. They lived together, side by side, going through the motions,  each alone in their unhealed pain

My mother died when I was 15.  My father was never an expressive man.  He had barely said a word to me for most of my life, but while my mother was alive,  there was some semblance of communication as they maintained a semblance of a normal life.   Once my mother was gone, however, he made no secret of ignoring and avoiding me.   He could barely stand to have me around.  His disdain seemed natural and understandable to me.

I left home a few years later and never saw him again. I heard after the fact that he died a few years after I left  but I felt no sorrow. He had been dead to me since my childhood.

I lived the life of a wanderer, doing what I could to make enough money to survive, living hand to mouth. I was often hungry and homeless but I knew life did not owe me more. I had to pay for what I had done.

Although I could not have articulated it then, this was my spiritual debt. If I hadn’t paid it while I was alive, I would have had to pay for it eventually.  I know now, that this was a debt already owed from a lifetime previous, when I committed evil with impunity.

——————

Buy the book!

If you are enjoying this blog,  please click the link above to subscribe and receive posts via email (new posts every three days).  When you think of others who might enjoy it too,  it’s easy enough to help spread the word! Post your favorite stories to social media.   Email a particularly apt link to a friend.   Even better,  talk about the concepts with others (whether you agree or disagree. )
Also,  I have just started a discussion group on Facebook,  for conversations about any of the concepts/issues in the posts.  Honestly, these are things in here which I don’t fully understand myself.  I would love  get your thoughts on this…even if you think this is all a bunch of hooey!
-Adrienne

 

Photo:  ¨Furniture pile¨, 2011, furniture¨ HEIGHT OF ABIERTO X OBRAS SPACE: 102 STACKED UP FURNITURE Photograph by Paco Gómez/NOPHOTO.

Moving Forward…

Hey all,

Sorry, I haven’t published anything new in a while. It’s been a tough few years here in America, what with Combover Caligula sucking vast amounts of our psychic/emotional/spiritual energy, hijacking our nervous systems and mental focus. Certainly the election results were a great relief, but we’re not in the clear yet. It ain’t over until he’s GONE…and he’s not leaving so quickly or easily. Predictions are that these next few months will be the worst of all, which is terrifying.

And of course, there’s still the pandemic to worry about. Things are pretty dire now here, and mathematically and exponentially the infection and death rates will continue to climb. Fortunately, New York State is in relatively good shape, but things are not so great elsewhere, and that affects us all.

Through all this, it’s been hard to put myself in the right frame of mind for channeling. Instead, I’ve been working on lots of small creative projects which are somehow easier to focus on and provide relatively immediate gratification which I need these days. (I recommend it!)

We still have a lot of work to do to get this country back in shape, and the ugliness and stupidity won’t end once he’s out of office. Personally, I can’t wait to never hear his name again!

Hopefully sometime in the not-to-far future, I will be able to get back to this project and channel more stories. I miss my “imaginary friends.”

As for you, dear readers, please stay safe! Stay home! If you must leave the house, wear a mask. Try to maintain your sanity as best you can. Let’s get through this and put 2020 behind us!!

-Adrienne


Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: