30 March 2013

Freaky vision

I've been playing with divination cards this morning.

Just saying that here feels so daring - I have Christian friends who would listen to the end, keep an open mind, keep testing, and yet I have others, whom I love dearly, who would shut up shop at the first words on this post, being so fearful and so certain that nothing good can come of it, that there are some things we should forever avoid, for fear for our immortal souls. I have been browbeaten by that threat of exorcism, (possibly not from God but from community, from acceptance), far too long.  Sometimes you are one of the forgiven, until you are not. Until you are scary. Such is the weakness of us all.

All I can say to them, is Ummin and Thummin, guys, or Jonah's drawing of straws; not to mention Samaritans and loving your neighbour.

End of ego-based digression.

I asked my God, my connection to all that is, to the Greater Power, to the source of Love (which is the source of light, which is the source of all matter) to allow a card to fall from the oracle pack I'd bought.

Just for fun.

Just for a lark.

Just sort of "Go on then, God, my old mate, I'm game for a laugh, tell me what I'm supposed to do today, because I want to do X and I ought to do Y and I really can't face even starting on Z"

And I received: Talk To Your Angels, with the tagline 'Instead of worrying, ask for Divine guidance'.

"Whoa, hang on there a minute", thinks I, "that's what I was doing when I asked for a card, doh."

But then something inside said 'Shut your eyes'. So I shut them, here in my messy dining room with my husband's radio show blasting out from the stereo around the corner, and the noise was loud and the light was bright and so I put my hands to my eyes to let the dark come in. The dark is the best backdrop for unsighted sight, yes?

And I found myself looking directly into the eyes of an angel, they were there right in front of mine, and they took my breath away. And as I marvelled at the beauty and the intimacy, I realised that the angel was kissing me. I was locked in an eternal, timeless, kiss with an angel and breathing only by the grace of God. My existence is a gift and reliant on the source of Love. And then I felt another angel's arms around be from behind and I am held up by the power of God too, lifted and protected and equipped, and in that brief moment I knew with all certainty that nothing, nothing in this world or the next could get to me except by the grace of God and so all of it is blessing, is gift.

And then, being human, I shook my head and retracted myself from this vision, back into the so-called-real world before a breath had passed; worked hard to ground myself by suspecting what I saw, patting down my ego for signs of swellings and lumps of self importance, and decided, what the hey, I don't want to forget this one in a hurry, so it'll do as a blog post, it'll get me off the hook for something to write, today, too, and so its a blessing anyway, whatever it was.

Such, I repeat, is the weakness of us all, but whether we know it or not, we are lifted up ;-)

29 March 2013

New Day


I am as usual, up alone. Today is holiday for the family but not for me.

Its good to have a decent chance for retrospection.

Including yesterday's unintended two hour catnap I have managed to spend a good ten hours of the last twenty four, out like a light, what with a solid eight overnight, although the other occupants retired long before me yesterday, and remain sleeping. If we didn't have a carbon monoxide monitor in the kitchen by the cooker and boiler, I'd start to wonder...

Benita Juanita Chiquita, thank you, for this!
I love myself, as much as I love my family and my dear friends, and I've taken a lifetime to get where I can say that and mean it, where I can know it in my bones, with or without a frisson of delicious empowerment. 

Looking back its a good fifteen years, not five, since I felt so cooped up that I expressed the urge to throw something at a hard corner.  This is wonderful. The interim heart attack, which is mentioned far too often in here, sent me limping off to join the zombie ranks; to wave the white flag, to endure all like a broken prisoner, to stand defeated and learn not to see, although the precursory, long term, incremental lack of oxygen, inability to think, work, rationalise or wake up, not to mention the insidious subliminal stress which also brought me to that, all these proved an excellent training ground for giving up, giving in, accepting socially and medically prescribed victim status.

As early as last week I assumed my continued secret anger at having to be so medically confined was a problem, a fury to heal and then remove from the scene before it further damaged my health.  What kind of therapist am I, anyway? Good grief, to forget that healing involves acceptance. "We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.". Good old Einstein. 
If this blow out has taught me anything, it is this - however much growing up my fifteen-year-younger self still had to do, I am today back at that same square one. My 'acceptance' is joyful, grateful and complete. My detour through the long evil freeze response is over, and I am alive, and I am so happy that I begin to cry, now, and will be signing off to tap until I truly realise on a cellular and even quantum level, that I can do anything.

Shove over, Shirley Valentine xx 

28 March 2013

Blazing row

Just had this huge, demonstrative, puffy faced red teary LOUD diatribe. I'd call it a row but G just stood there looking gormless. I haven't lost it like that in a decade, in fact, pardon me, I lost nothing, I was just so, so, what is the word,

angry disappointed let down frustrated betrayed belittled ignored.

He had been so

disdainful pig-ignorant selfish thoughtless self-involved.

I set about explaining to him how I felt in an "effusive and heartfelt" way which may have won a national poetry contest, if only breaking crockery and throwing away good food was part of the accepted stage act.

I love him. I love him to bits. I know right now I'm reciting that like some sort of dull dusty creed from an old book but I know that sometimes I really feel it. For example we know how to laugh together in a way that only people who have stuck together for twenty years have a hope of understanding. Except... except that wasn't just an example, that was it. All of it. We have a fondness and some good conversations, and occasionally a real belly busting laugh, especially when he's either home all week or away until the weekend, (not so much when like this week, he turns up and begins his down-time attitude half way through my work-week).

It all started because I couldn't keep my eyes open. At half five this evening I was falling asleep on the sofa, I asked him to let me rest for half an hour, to bring me a cup of tea if he was brewing one soon, and as he nodded I crept off to lie on the bed, fully clothed.  I slept hard and deep, although I never meant to, and he woke me a good two hours later, grumbling and complaining that he didn't know what we were all supposed to have for dinner.  I struggled to get up, waddled to the living room to find him already slumped back on the sofa in front of the TV and facing the door.

Did he make space?  Did he even sit up straight? Did he merely rush to continue his monologue? No, he looked at me like some sort of alien and asked me "What?"
"You wanted me to get up"
"No, I didn't want you"
"Okay. G'night."  I sloped off back to the bedroom, it being the only empty room and therefore the only one where I was certain of a relative welcome. Sleep was having none of it. Even somnus rejected me. Half an hour later I got back up to an empty house, a mess of a kitchen and a husband alone in front of his pre-recorded TV shows, slurping away at a bowl of soup. I explained my opinion of that outcome in an agile and impressively multi-sensory fashion. No. seriously. I was so disassociated that all I could do was watch myself go at it under a full head of steam, barely drawing breath, and be..... impressed.

See my kids may be young adults, but by that time they'd gone to bed of their own volition, hungry and incredibly early without being told that dinner wasn't going to happen, without being cajoled into eating a proper meal, without even being given free reign to forage for themselves. One went without. One saw his father's attitude and became compliant, insisted he also only wanted soup - his first meal of the day barring a scotch egg.

(G was actually proud that he had bought and brought home a pack of four scotch eggs, "one each for everybody!", and brought that up later in his own defence, which proved to be somewhat counter-productive. There there, good caveman. Take the spear next time)

It is good to get this written down.

Its good to look at the shame I refuse to wear; my mother's voice, albeit tiny and vaporous and far away, still ticking and tutting that 'You always cut your nose off to spite your face, you do', 'always have to make a mountain out of a mole hill', 'do love a good tantrum, madam, ought to be ashamed of yourself''.

It is good to read this over and realise it goes on to the page one way and comes off it another. I have a client whose partner became so frustrated with a sense of being unable to communicate, that they too resorted to the written word, specifically a scathing and hurtful email, which the client was then told to let me see. In my head I thought I was trying to appreciate both points of view, but how could I? Reading this back my own effort is obviously one sided although as I wrote, or more specifically as the words bypassed my brain and dripped off my fingertips faster than I could type even in a fury, as the virtual blood hit the virtual page, I did actually believe I was portraying the truth with a laudable sense of self restraint and equanimity. I thought my vision was not just clear, but complete. My client's partner is no longer so easy to dismiss as meaning things to have gone onto their own page the way they came back off them in the middle of a therapy session.

This week I have seen three or four clients. One, as above, was presenting like a rabbit in headlights, blindsided by the sudden announcement that what they see as happy-ever-after-land their partner claims to see as heartrendingly inadequate. Another, a single woman, thought she feared loneliness only to realise she was really afraid of her own power, of blinding the world with  the amazing truth of who she really is instead of forever trying to fit the mould prescribed by the next interested male. She did the whole Cinderella turnaround in one session.  Then in the middle of the week I also had a transformative CPD session with Benita and went into the future matrix to see who I really choose to be / who I really am.

I say all this because its very possible that borrowed benefits, by which I mean shared clearing of personal misconceptions  through all these similar sessions this week, have brought me to a place where my world is shifting into something truly amazing, just fast enough to be looking a bit like an earthquake as it does. Tectonic spiritual shift. Or suchlike.

Then again it may be possible that I went to these normally positive and proactive clients without setting my intentions or spiritual protections or worse, without plugging in to Spirit and allowing myself to channel (step out of ego) instead of working off my own resources, and that I have slowly taken on board issues and attitudes which are not truly mine.

What a wonderful, wonderful opportunity for growth and healing.

And now excuse me, I have to hug my husband and then go and lift a mixture of butter and glass from the kitchen lino before the cat can hurt herself.

Even though I'm,.... wow firecracker....... I completely love and accept myself.....

Good Night, God Bless


This week I've had 9am clients before dashing off to work Monday, Tuesday and today. Wednesday I took the day off to attend an all day workshop run by the amazing Sophie Mahir.

Hopefully I'll get to do some paperwork tomorrow. Four lots of client notes to write up, one lot to send out, and I still haven't followed up on the contacts I made at Jo Yates-Smith's networking event at LDEX last Thursday.

Not quite enough paying work to treat myself to a secretary, just yet, but enough to make me wish....

23 March 2013

Dreams and other stuff

Somewhere in my draft posts is a bit about the last few days. The Lewes Expo I went to on Thursday is what caused the delay because I wanted to outline all the new people I'd made contact with and all the useful information I'd come away with. Too much info. I can't even wrap my own head around it all, yet.

Then yesterday I saw a client on recommendation. An absolutely lovely lady, and the first time an ex-client has brought me one of their contacts. Its very honouring to know people think highly of my quality of work.

This morning I had a dream. Two dreams, actually. In recent months I've often had dreams about having to leave this or that situation, only to find that the 'leaving' involved waking up. Anyway I'd come to understand them as something more than my imagination because they were the wrong way around. Imagination dreams make you dream of running or fighting because you are double wrapped in duvet and fast overheating - they take a physical sensation and make use of it, or explain it away, within the setting of the dream. How can I explain away waking up, before I wake?  Each dream would be of an excellent conversation, or a crucial lesson, or a hug with a long-lost somebody, and then something would happen or be said to mean I had to leave, even if I didn't want to. Then I would stand up to go, or open the door, or turn away, before waking up.

The otherness of this morning's first dream was even more strange.  I was sat at a dinner table with a white cloth, eating with friends (people I've never met in real life). I told one of them I was jealous that they knew what their purpose and special talent was, and said I wished I knew mine, too.

She answered with a question: "What is the colour of meditation?"



"Oh no wait, its turquoise on the outside, when you look at it. Inside its deep purple."

"Right" she said, perking up and pointing to the space between her place setting and mine,
"so look here on the table and imagine a casket with purple pillars."

That sounded a bit weird to me but I imagined an oblong wooden box, sort of oak or walnut, good solid 1930s build to it, and then I kind of stuck four purple pillars sticking up slightly taller, around it.  I couldn't really see it, only imagine it,  badly I thought, but she was pleased.  I still couldn't 'see' it when she leaned in, opened it, and told me to take a little envelope from inside.  I didn't want to, and the child opposite me took the box instead, reached in, removed the envelope, wiggled it around and passed it to someone else on my right. They smiled and wiped it and handed it to me, but by now it was tangible. The envelope was a flimsy paper, around a piece of card. It was even fraying at one end, begging to be torn open as easily as the paper wrap on a MacDonalds straw. I was so tempted, and yet I didn't want to look. I tore the whole thing into quarters and hardly had time to apologise to the people at the table, because as I stood up, I woke up also.

Then I tried to go back to sleep and get back in to that room so I could look again at their reactions, second guess myself, but instead I vividly remembered when the landlord's decorators moved in on us straight after my stay in hospital and filled the bungalow with paint fumes when we had five or six week old kittens in the house. We caught them licking a newly painted door frame. One by one they died and we boxed and buried them, but not deep enough. The mother cat dug them back up, dragged their corpses back indoors and tried to lick them and nurse them. Twice over. The only image I could get was one riddled with guilt, of finding her mothering the corpses on the living room carpet and having to wrest them from her until Gary could get home to bury them better.

Why would I remember that?

Retrospectively it does seem as though a door was closed, whether the door to the decision or the door to sleep, I couldn't tell.

And then this morning a dear friend who I laughed with on FB long before meeting once, briefly, earlier this year, messaged me out of the blue and asked to connect by skype, because my name had come to her, so how would I feel about helping with writing a book. A book on a topic I love, for the people I love, with the research and main points already set out. All I have to do is translate it, present it, package it; write it.

Oh wow.  I already have a working title, but as far as journaling goes, that little brainwave is going down on paper.

Oh wow. Did I say that already? Ok then; squeeee!

19 March 2013

Energy Exercises

Diary note to myself:  Day three of doing Donna Eden's five minute exercise and the movements are beginning to carry an electric charge. I was startled and impressed and very pleased; this must be part of what she wanted us to experience when eliciting a promise to try this for two weeks, but I certainly wasn't expecting it.  There is something there for my hands to cut through as they sweep past my shoulders etc and its beginning to feel spiritual. The neurolymphatic points along the outside of my legs still hurt but the sore spots in my torso are moving up toward the armpits.
I've sacrificed bra underwires for this; maybe its time to increase my water intake and avoid antiperspirant for a week, just to encourage the soreness to go.

17 March 2013


So far, so good.

Last night was amazing.

This morning I woke late and naturally (which is very unusual, its normally an alarm, or a child, or a neighbour's lawnmower or revving engine). Gary stirred about two hours later.

I've done my Donna Eden five minute protocol and Gary got up and started singing. Happy songs. 

Donna can see auras. Actually when David puts it like that, she takes pains to explain that her whole family can see them, and so can all newborns, and the only difference between her and anyone else was having a family that accepted this as truth and  talked about it, so she never lost the knack.

I can 'feel' auras, or at least I guess I mean everyone can, but I am now aware that I can feel auras as one of the exercises yesterday unblocked the energy flow for Gary so much, that his popped and doubled in strength. He never seemed to notice, he just became more open to the seminar and eventually enthusiastic, as the evening went on. I only know that at one point there was this syrupy energy bounced up around him that practically bumped me to the left on the shockwave. The nearest comparison, I don't know if you've ever  walked down into a boiler room in a large building, and irrespective of the dark or light or any heat, there's this snap of electrical potential in the air and mixed with the dust its almost thick, so that you have to push against it and acclimatise to the pressure, to walk in. You know?

Anyhow, I'll be calling on my friend Benita soon, asking for Matrix Reimprinting. I need a practitioner instead of doing this on my own, because I actually want to fully 'step in' to a good infant memory and stay there long enough, so having a relaxed, patient and trusted therapist to keep me grounded or drag me back is going to allow me to swim so much further into the minutiae of the experience.

I've been mulling the idea that we can (or could once) all see auras. I've been taking on board something that was said, specifically, if you've ever held a newborn and watched their gaze track the space around you as if they were fascinated with something just outside of your head, then you've witnessed someone communicating with your aura.

So thanks to Doris commenting and asking questions, I know for sure that I do not have to learn how to see auras. I have to unlearn how to not, and as I learn to trust my subconscious to come up with the perfect next step, I am reminded that as a baby I was happy for hours if my pram was parked under trees. A leafy canopy, 20 or 25 feet above my newborn (and supposedly unfocussed eyes) would leave me entranced and I think if I was seeing the biofield, that would be a top memory to step right completely into and remember. I can almost see them now.

15 March 2013

Donna Eden and David Feinstein

Tomorrow I am off to London to see Donna Eden and David Feinstein!  I can hardly believe it!

What are the odds that they would just happen to be in London the weekend after I become addicted to them on YouTube?
Or that there would still be tickets left?
Or that I would have the money for the fares and tickets just hanging around ready?
Or that I would find someone to go with me so I don't have to brave the scary London Underground on my own late at night?

Things haven't slotted together this neatly (divinely?) since I discovered EFT and Karl Dawson

I so, so, so want to learn from Donna. I want to be as skilled as I can possibly be at the work she does. I want, want, want to spend my life dipping into other people's awareness just to make things 'all better again' and move on. What a rush.

My world as a whole is changing so fast that its hard to comprehend. The only shift that I know of that's happened internally has been a recent step around ego as I've had to get over myself and concede that its very possible I am 'supposed' to be doing something specific with my life (so, not 'finding' it so much as accepting it), and that its equally possible it could just be something amazing, fulfilling, joyful, purposeful, healing and sharing. Why on earth not?

The relief is indescribable. Oh hell yes, I second guess this all the time, that's just my nature, but simply absorbing the concept as a viable one has let me off the hook for pushing on doors to find the open one, trying to force my heart and soul (and business) into a niche, into an operable marketing strategy, into a plan.

I don't do that very well anyway, it saps my energy, and in the past I'd allow the standard business advice to worm its way in to my mind not as a bright idea and opportunity for creativity, but as a checklist, a series of musts and shoulds, a need to stand up and be judged or fade into the background.

The thing is, there is such a difference between an 'open door' and one which is merely unlocked, unresisting. What kind of a creator would direct our paths, and leave us guessing where that would be?

Letting go and letting God is a cliché, but its also a kind of Open Sesame*.

So here's the deal.

Having a husband who would go out, anywhere, is a bit of a big deal and new experience. He works away so much that yet more travel is not his idea of fun and he banks on weekends to recharge his batteries.

Having one who would (willingly, cheerfully) trail to London and back tomorrow night to something that is my passion, not his,  sooner than see me catch trains home on my own until after midnight, is an outright miracle. Love him.

Quite aside from this I have a seminar and two huge networking events lined up, and I'm working with Benita Scott and sharing a stall with her (although to be fair she is definitely doing most of the work) and I'm all set for a ton of training in May, which a few months back was on my pie-in-the-sky-and-wishful-thinking maybe-one-day list. Now its a fast approaching reality.

And................ I'm going to go see Donna Eden! Live! Tomorrow!

How can it get any better than this?


12 March 2013

Ernest Fricker

My neighbour is an angry man. I don't know why he is that way and on a spiritual level I completely accept every possibility that I somehow attracted him into my life. Still, that doesn't explain why he is so intent on raging through life and it doesn't seem very fair on his pour soul.

Since he moved in the year after my heart attack, (when I was still desperately lethargic and ready to cry for sleep) and began a refurbishment that would take two very loud years, he has systematically boxed his house in, by putting up 2 metre fences on all sides, even replacing fence previously owned by his neighbours. Its okay.

Its okay that his poor wife thought my darling hedgehogs were rats. I suppose if she sees something snuffling in a bin bag at night, she's conditioned to make assumptions. God bless her, she must have lived in some rough places. Its okay that he was so outraged on her behalf that he told all of our neighbours that we 'had rats, probably nesting in the front garden bushes' before asking. Its not like the hedgehogs or even the local fox come by, any more, not now he's replaced the fence baseboards with concrete panels and blocked the runs which were there, well, forever. The wildlife was a blessing, reminding me every year how grateful I was to be out of the city.

Its okay, now, that he genuinely thought the idea of warning the neighbours of new building works was a ridiculous idea and that not warning the sick woman was funny and a bit of a win.

So far he's put in his 2m fence so that my kitchen now looks out on that instead of the road. Then he's used sealant and screws to add a foot of angled UPVC to the top. Its okay. It waters my plants.  Its okay that he's built a huge shed backing on to our other connecting fence at the back, so close that the roof tips over on this side. Again, it waters my plants. What bugs me is this.

I can't quite believe my eyes. I mean, tell me why would a man in his sixties get on his new shed roof in the middle of a snowy night and chop at the neighbour's bushes? Did he? Did he really? Look at it, its practically a tree, its been there since before we moved in 15 years ago. Its a sticky-up wisteria or something with a w, holding up two different, beautiful and highly scented honeysuckles. Instead of taking off the odd tendril leaning over his side (there were none, his worker removed them when the shed was going up), he's hacked, and I mean hacked half the branches away even though there's no way they were touching the boundary.

I worry for his health on all three levels, physical, mental, spiritual, but I confess to withering a little under the weight of so much animated hatred aimed in my direction.  I was working so hard to project peace and goodwill back to him, I was doing my very best to genuinely love his higher self for living such an angry miserable life just to help others grow spiritually.  I have grown and changed and strengthened beyond recognition, out of necessity, because of the gift of Ernest Fricker as a neighbour. I was beginning to sense the peace of that instead of the black cloud of fury and territorial feudalism he projects.

My sending love and light doesn't seem to be agreeing with his digestion. I shall try harder.

10 March 2013

Did Something Right

After the work I did in the Matrix on Wednesday, I did a search online for Catch A Falling Star. I don't know why, I assumed it would have been by Frank Sinatra, maybe because of other songs like Rubber Tree Plant and Swing on a Star, although looking again, those are sweet but comparatively simplistic little moral tales to music, more about action than love.

No, I found it was Perry Como and what's more, when I put the title into Amazon it came up with a Perry Como double album CD, with another of mum's absolute favourites on there - Scarlet Ribbons.

Guess what my mum got, for Mother's Day (beautifully gift wrapped by some angelic soul who works in a back room for Amazon, probably in some huge office and warehouse complex in Ireland - thank you)

And it arrived on Saturday!

And I received, last night, a beaming and affectionate phone call from my mum, telling me it was an absolutely perfect gift and she couldn't have wished for anything more lovely.

All that for five minutes in the Matrix with EFT, reconnecting with the love.

Now I'm tapping on mum being proud of me, and me doing something right. Now I see it as a blessing that my own family is still snoring away and I am free to cry again. So far it's transformed into 'When I allow God to teach me, I always do it right'. I can feel it sparkling into my reality on every level. spiritual, cellular, you choose; its all going on.

Love EFT, love Matrix.

Happy Mother's Day xxx

09 March 2013

Am I?

I am a Christian. I AM a Christian.

What does that mean, to you?

Well forget it. I don't do dogma. Not even when its wrapped up in pink sparklies and any new age or archaic -osophy -ology or -ism. I have many wonderful friends who plant their faith on this or that checklist or system and in doing so, put up little fences against other possibilities. We can all only grasp so much as truth at a time, I get that, but I really am doing my best to let everything wash through and leave me space to always question.

There are so many names for the ineffable gloriousness we sometimes call God, or Spirit, or Universe. A rose by any other name - none of the titles do justice and it just so happens that my admiration for the man called the Christ has increased exponentially since I decided to throw caution to the wind and really, truly, test that faith.

Specifically, to keep to verses-come-clichés I determined to 'have no anxiety about anything' and to 'test everything against the word' even though, if you want to nit pick, I was technically doing that last bit the other way around.

It just seems that every time, in my conscious exodus away from organised state-run religion I come across a soul-ringing truth that vibrates through my being like angel song, if I look again, Jesus already said that, did that and bought the tee-shirt. I'm trying to break his winning streak as honestly as I can.

Still, Law of Attraction, Namaskar/Namaste, abundance, Ho'oponopono, all these concepts hold beautiful jewels of Truth and spiritual enrichment that could be called up as perfect examples.  I use a capital T deliberately.

I could put this newly crystallised understanding of myself on my Facebook page, but no, that's too social. Never put on Facebook anything which you would not stand on a table and shout across a crowded pub half an hour before closing time.  Everyone else thinks that's their front room too. Be kind.


Yesterday was amazing. Met a friend who is counting the pennies, with dust balls and a whistling breeze playing at the bottom of her purse - a situation I am far too used to myself. 

Juggling the finances down to the last 5p has been my habit and my life for a good thirty years at very least and this graceful and dignified encounter with someone else's cheerful tightrope-accounting allowed me to take stock and realise how very blessed I am, at the moment, to be enjoying relative abundance. This time, amazingly, I am the one who could afford to lend a friend a couple of hundred quid. Its mindboggling to think of the misery and degradation I used to take on, even this time last year, if I had to turn to my employers to beg a £50 advance. 

The odd thing is that I can't seem to muster up any guilt at being better off than a friend, nor much grasping anxiety about it all running out, in fact all I can feel worth mentioning is gratitude. Thank you God, Universe, I am safe. I want that to continue that way!  I want to experience more and more abundance, not to keep the wolf from the door, but so that I have more and more freedom to choose, to experience, and to share. There's a life changing distinction between running from the bad, and revelling in the good. You can't 'run to' the good; its already here. That is a huge change in my way of seeing the world. 

Confession: I am procrastinating. Up until 5pm yesterday, a rare and delicious day off from my old-life paid employment, I'd been to my first mumpreneurs networking meeting (love it, love the company and the supportive atmosphere), sat with a wonderful EFT-er, Benita Scott, and planned our expo - at least her table and my talk for the next Hove Body Mind Spirit event (My public talk! What am I doing and what tablets am I on?!?) and approached it all from the perspective of sharing what I do, purely for the love of it. If I wanted a rationalisation of that, well, I have lots of good excuses for 'not currently being able' to focus on looking for paying clients.

At five, or maybe it was six yesterday evening, I got off the number 12 bus I took to get out of Brighton and sat at the Seaford Library bus stop for ten minutes to catch the 12A that goes around the back streets.

There, across the road, is a beautiful wedding dress shop. They've only just moved into larger premises and word is that they planned on converting the offices above back into self contained flats for rental, but hit problems with building law on some level or other. The windows upstairs are clean and empty but for advertising hoardings promoting the builders and shop fitters.

I bought my youngest's prom dress from these people. They are professionals. They care. \They pay attention to tiny details such as keeping a prom dress list against girl's name and name of school, so that they never sell two identical dresses to girls attending the same prom.

Sitting at that bus stop I had visions of borrowing a room in the upstairs at weekends (it even has independent access) helping the grooms, best men and fathers of the brides to shine and stand proud when they give their wedding day speeches. The women spend a fortune on getting ready, but this is the kind of 'getting ready' the men really really need, right? Who needs an ulcer from nerves?

It all seemed so perfect; God given even. I could even imagine the flyers and business cards.

So. Procrastinating. Yes. Because I'm all dressed up and ready to go and make a tentative enquiry, and I'm bottling it.

Gah. Tap tap tap. Breathe.

06 March 2013

Hiding in Plain Sight

I am supposed to be journalling; for whose exact benefit I do not know, but I have changed so much over the past two years, made so many shifts, possibly imperceptible at surface level, but which in reality have spanned whole universes in my subconscious map of what the world is. It would be good to have a record of these ongoing changes, to be able to look back and say 'gosh, yes, I did feel that way. I did believe that, for a while'.

Currently, for me, EFT is all about tears. Not when I see clients. but in my own personal work, and I love it. In my little world, emotions have always been things best treated with extreme suspicion, held at arms length and carefully examined from a clinical perspective, although that was probably just as well. A drop of sarcastic detachment can be incredibly useful if your inner Goddess (gah!) is an immeasurably ancient Welsh dragon with sore teeth and sore feet and the temper of a granny denied her bag of mints and her rolling tobacco. (In fact, Emily Teague, beautiful-heart, creative lady and pretty spiffing medium, read my 'soul plan' this week and pegged my early life lessons as an 18:9 which I understand is a kind of anally retentive mass murderer. So there you have it, I am a walking oxymoron. I want a badge.) 

The thing about near-overwhelming tears is I have never consciously allowed myself to experience them, and in the dark days of the soul, even then, I transmuted them into fury instead. Rage is so much more productive than collapsing in a puddle, am I right?  Sorrow always seemed so defeatist.

It seems that without this defensive disassociation my heart is strapped to my sleeve, out in the fresh air and as sensitive as a wet nipple in a wind chamber. EFT is my sound-proof room; my safe space in which to allow controlled exposure and the incremental reconnecting of heart and mind.

Today, for example, I remembered that I first learned 'Catch a falling star' when my mother used to hold me in her arms and sing it to me, with such intense love in her eyes. I had painted myself a different, more practical and less hopeful reality based on words that have filled the years between. I had completely forgotten that moment of pure connection, and sitting in the matrix (in the alpha bridge) I was able to perfectly recall it. And I cried. And my world changed. And my knowledge of my mother, of myself, of my role in life, of my value, of the capacity for the sun to shine and the birds to sing, all these changed too. In five minutes.