21 July 2011

EFT and Matrix Reimprinting - Pt 1 - How I even got there

A very close online friend has asked to 'hear my story' about how I became trained as an EFT and Matrix Reimprinting practitioner.

Or perhaps she means to ask what happened to me on the training and how I have changed.

Or even, how I came to decide that was what I wanted to become. That is the subject of this post.

To use an insufficient analogy (not enough dimensions), every major quantum change in a linear, human life is kind of like a pebble dropped into a pond. The 'major event' presents as a crux, but, looking back, (once you know what you're looking for) its always possible to see ripples that precede the change, preparations, serendipitous coincidences, LoA, God preparing the soil.... call it what you like.

That's why its impossible now to state with any certainty 'why' I did this training, it feels more as if I was called to it, simply because so many doors opened without my intention or knowing participation..

  • I don't know why, how or when I became interested in tapping at all.
  • I don't know how many years I had Gary Craig's newsletter sent to my email inbox, when I was always too busy to click the links, or even open most of them before trashing the lot to make space. Gary invented EFT.
  • I think (THINK) it was discovering that Gary's website had closed and all the articles I intended to read but never had were now removed, that fired up my indignation and set me searching for snippets through Google, suddenly, contrarily determined to learn all about it just because it seemed someone was daring to dictate my options. 
  • I KNOW it was Gary taking care to stress (in a clip on youtube?) that this is not faith healing, that the client does not need to be calm, nor even remotely enthusiastic for it to work, that made the difference between following this up or consigning it to the pile labelled hocus-pocus mashed-potato-brain new-age tripe. I was allowed to walk into this thinking it was all rubbish and it was STILL supposed to do the job. That was a reassurance and a challenge, all at once. All my old buttons got pushed.
  • So I asked a question of the only person in my facebook friends who had EFT in their name - Karl. I have no earthly idea how he came to be on my list at all, but there he was.
  • And I bought a book from Amazon about what I thought was a branch of EFT - and then realised the guy smiling on the back of the cover was..... Karl.
  • So I went to his website, and lo and behold, the very weekend that I landed on his page, he had just landed a bus ride away from me and was training people. I couldn't afford it, I couldn't go anyway because it had started, and I couldn't sigh and rationalise my feelings on the basis of it being 'too far away anyway'. Hooked!
After that I decided I was going to the next training, even before there was any clue where the money was coming from. I did overtime and walked a lot more for the three months I had, and was about £100 short when my mother decided to confess that she'd been angry at one of my children a year earlier and had cut me out of a matured savings bond, all of which she gave to my two brothers, as revenge. Thanks mum. So she chucked me a grand to make up for it.  Revenge, love, ownership, friendship, reliability, even familial politeness, they've always been all about money, to my mum, and most of my life has been about proving her wrong to the other extreme. Or, in some more damaging way, proving her right.  I don't even visit any more even though I love her desperately, because she expresses her excitement by phoning the world and his dog to tell them how much work I'm causing her and how much its going to cost her.  Its her way of feeling important.  But I digress.

I hardly needed the money by then, and spent it un-notching the proverbial belt and restocking the cupboards which had suffered through my extra economy drive, but it was one huge hint-with-a-housebrick from the Universe that I was supposed to go on this course, and not chicken out at the last minute. No excuses left, not one.

So that's how come I got there.

14 July 2011

Status Check

Hi guys! How are you? Everyone OK? Sorry its been so long...............again. I miss your comments and your 'stuff', the kind of normal, special, fleeting incidents we used to commit to the keyboard.

I'm sitting here, not exactly in dawnlight, but close. I mean, five minutes ago it was still that soft early morning light that hints of sleepy fairy folk, of snails and other garden souls making their way home. The kind of gentle scented breeze that speaks of sunshine to come, warms and coaxes roses until they blush, whispers to the bees to ready the battle plan for the coming day.

It was forgiving; you know? The kind of moment that would welcome careful feet out onto the lawn, or just as readily give an understanding wink and wish you sweet dreams, if you turned tail and headed back to bed.

The magic evaporated with the dew, while I blinked, and now we have the kind of light that really only favours the woods, or perhaps leafy lanes in Victorian suburbs.  Flat, it is, with the new day holding on to its bedsheet of cloud like another reluctant waker, pained and grim, forcing the light to filter through in a grey, stark, disgruntled fashion on to the world below.

There might still be colour to be found, and sparkle, and life and secrets and earth and renewal; but, I think, only in the shadows; under a tree, or perhaps in the busy, ramshackle darkness of an overgrown privet bush. The rest of us, those who will not or cannot look, must pay, on a level many more feel than ever understand, for our isolationist concrete fantasy world that we confuse for the real thing.

No going back to bed, then. More tea.

And, breathe....

21 February 2011

Last week and where I wasn't.

I can't remember how many years its been since I took a whole fortnight off work, all at once, but as luck would have it, I have holiday to use up before the end of March and as last week was a quiet one* and this week is school half term, here I am, lounging around for the second Monday in a row.


My nails have grown, and whitened, and lost that suspicious tinge brought about through too much dirty manual work. They're not spectacular, they're just clean, and feminine, and nice, and they make me sad for the thought of plunging them back into sacks of potatoes and huge sinks of hot, dirty water; but that's the future. Not yet. Not until this time next week.

Last year there was quite a fuss about which chefs could or could not have Valentines Day off work at the summons of their other halves, and who had or had not put their verbal request in weeks before somebody else's written one' with the usual grumblings and cries of foul play.

This year, oddly, I am told there were too many restaurant bookings through January to be able to close down for the annual deep-clean, but that somehow Sunday 13 and Monday 14 Feb remained clear of bookings. Therefore the outside contractors were hired and the kitchen summarily closed to customers and staff alike, for the Valentines weekend.

Subsequently the rest of last week was also quiet because following the cleaning there are traditionally three or four days of decorating, when walls and doors are given a new lick of paint........ by the staff.  Chefs, porters, whoever, turn up and grab a paint brush. This year I chose not to and walked the wall of sideways glances and raised eyebrows for my trouble.

Its all very campfire. There may be two token boiler-suits kicking around, and some goggles and masks at the back of the cupboard somewhere, but not enough to go around and the attitude is that they are there if you want to go and be the only one to look like a sissy.

This year I refused to souse my lungs, hair, jeans and chapped hands with paint. I chose to take leave and am still fighting the guilty sensation that I deserted the crew, even though the head chef had already booked that week off for himself so I wasn't the only one. No, actually, he always seems to book that week off, so it simply made it worse.I can still see the two other chefs mouthing silently like goldfish, because they weren't even going to be given the choice yet somehow I'd managed it...

I guess this is the way of any small, financially restricted unit where somebody has to be there, where a minimum must present, must attend, must do their duty, so that it becomes a race to get to the leave ratified in time. We all feel the pressure, but, it has to be said, some more than the others.

20 February 2011

Temporarily Pink

The blog is back. It is pink. I actually quite like it.

There have been so, so many times I have considered re-opening, wondered whether my more peculiar readers have long forgotten me, or whether those who know where I live are now convinced I will never blog again. So many times I have had something I wanted to share, or something I really wished I could get off my chest.

Facebook has been a lifeline, or a sideline, I'm not sure which.  If I made any real friends through blogging, found myself invested in anyone's future and wellbeing because of their friendship in this medium, then I've managed to make links with 98% on FB. On the one hand I have a window onto their situations, a place to chat or just wave; on the other hand it means I haven't stepped back out to read their blogs or continue with the depth of understanding that that a log/ public diary offers. I've known my friends were OK, so I've become lazy. Sorry.

I imagine that most people I ever knew here have moved on or across, also, and never read blogs these days, or if they do, at least not this one.

Still, first post done. Ice broken.