She whispers to me and the waves of it hit me and seem to pull all the other thoughts and whispers and screams away, like magnetized splinters into a giant super magnet.

I have that original ache through my whole back … straight through to the front. Where the scar tissue lives. It labours my breathing.

‘You’re in labour. Give birth.’

She whispers to me with Love. She is proud to be me – even in the painful and dark moments – she knows me so much better than I know myself. This makes sense. She has lived longer than I have, and has gleaned and honed finer sensibilities that my present Self has yet to understand.

My future Self has unplugged me from the game show of comparison. My future Self is real. She is not an abstract concept that only ‘masters’ can tap. She is the person we all are, right now, when we see that who we are – from start to finish – has already happened. Just a matter of perspective.

Which version shall we choose to see has ‘already happened’, the most, this time around?

She whispers to me:

‘My dear child. You are not just what you think you are right now. You are a baby because you were a baby. You are an old woman, because you will be. You are the all and nothing of the one who feels both the sword of doubt being thrust into your cells, and the woman who can make that all-penetrating, matter of fact sword transmute into an all-penetrating, energy of possibility hand of healing. You are your first and your last breath.’

Breathe in. Breathe out.

‘Remember, dear child, you might feel sure that what you are is what you experience. And for certain, what you have experienced was at one time, something you hadn’t yet perceived. This is the way of the linear time frame. But it is only one way. It sees with limited perception. You seek the One Way. With unlimited perception. All parts of now are the past and the future. This is what it means to ‘know yourself’. You are hearing me because you chose to listen. And dear child, you can be sure that you can hear me. Because right here, it is written.’

Floating in the space where x, z, and why don’t matter as matter is energy and energy is transmutable.

‘Speak with Love. To me. To you. To all of you – to every one – every version. Forge that bond now and forever. In the love of knowing that who you are is what you choose to know you are, forge yet another path to the One Path.’

‘Heal. What you are is what you already are. What has already happened is as real as what has not yet happened. It is for you to choose if you wish to become. It is for you to choose whether you wish to ridicule the possibilities – to chalk this up to delusion, grabbing at straws of hope in desperation that ‘this could be true’ – or, to choose to KNOW that this is true, because it’s happening. Right now. Always has, always will.’

‘You can choose to continue to daydream and fantasize on the timeline of ‘good enough’, where hope is just a word, or, you can choose to exist on whatever timeline serves optimal outcomes, where hope is not just your GPS, it’s the Healing Code, and the only thing that’s real.’

‘Break up the scar tissue of ‘what it, is’. The idea that the speck on the bigger picture defines you will evaporate, like a ghost in the machine. You must believe in me. Which means you must believe in yourself. You must know that breaking free from one outcome does not mean you are dismissing it as real, meaningful or unworthy of Love; precisely the opposite. It means you are becoming aligned with the all-side. The multidimensional realm of infinite possibility. Where every misstep, struggle and even dis-ease came to you to show you that you are the navigator. You can access the Healing Code. All of it.’

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Photo Credit

Photo is pixabay creative commons

If this is real, then my pure intention must understand that I simply have not traveled as far and wide, through as many infinitely imagined, timescape possibilities as she has.

This timeline scares me. It has in fact scarred me. Attached to this 43 year old body, I have recently been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. The scar tissue in my cerebro-spinal fluid and on my brain … these things I have seen with my own two eyes. Visible proof that when we see it, the construct seems to become more real, in a way. Should I have not looked? No. It is not in my nature to deny the truth, in all forms.

But this timeline scares me. These scars makes my legs numb – ice cold – my thinking unclear, my vision askew, my mind depressed. What if this is it? Every day; that is what comes to me. What if this is it?

‘Yes. What if, dear child.’

All of this ‘proof’ makes this linear timeline feel so undeniably real; which makes writing about the possibility that there are timeslines on which I choose to not have MS – or any physical, psychological, provable trapping – a matter of choice, seems akin to telling God that his Divine Plan is flawed.

Okay then. As I believe in God as much as I believe one can heal a physical manifestation of a dis-ease with intention, the God I believe would smile magic on me for having the courage to see the bread crumbs left for me to find. In the grand design, we are seekers. And in order to seek, one must ask good questions. And accept good answers. Or no answer.

How many times have I respectfully and sometimes desperately asked a question and felt nothing come back? Felt entirely alone?

Fewer times than I have asked and felt everything. Felt entirely surrounded.

Is this a matter of choice? Do we choose the ultimate outcome based on what we choose to believe ‘along the way’?

Sometimes ancient, sometimes child, sometimes pure, sometimes pure crap, the confounded whispering continues to speak to this confused, piecemeal being; with broken filtration, with, at best, scattered ‘maybe’ wisdom.

The scars can be seen on scans. What I imagine and write here … wait. Isn’t reading the same thing as scanning? Scan it. May these words reach no boundary.

My future Self waves past the past, and her sound comes from above and below and penetrates the trappings. May I always do the same.

She is not my past. Maybe she’s ‘not real’ is the common sense, but that’s perhaps a good thing: She is not measurable like scars.

She is not me now. She is me, later. With all the pieces, algorithmed into a full picture. Like every alphabet coming together to form the broadest communicator.

She is me, later, when the brokenness is precisely what was necessary to create the clear masterpiece. She is me when the wisdom that comes is accepted in all its forms, accepted because she does not conform to the conditions of the piecemeal, broken, filtered, or scattered past.

She designs it – she designs me – because of what I have already chosen to give to her: My full attention.

She is not me as I understand myself to be. She is me as I have yet to understand myself to be. She is motivated to move me through myself, and for no other reason does she speak.

She is me, giving birth to me.

It hurts. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let it hurt. I do not envy her. Let her come through to full fruition.

Photo Credit

Photo is pixabay creative commons

Some of the things she tells me are things I would rather not hear. This is where it gets complicated. The human design, which encompasses ego, desire, need for control, need for that which doesn’t need us, or that which we do not want, often seeks the easy way out, not the path which serves Highest Outcome.

Whatever causes less pain is where we will usually find our consciousness.

So important: In order to truly know what path will ultimately cause less pain, we must see it all. We must have the broadest vision to see. Good and bad. Lies and truth. We cannot limit ourselves to just that which we think we know, or even wish to know. We must not hit the ‘easy’ button. There is no magic pill. The complexity of this requires more than what the simple algorithm of immediate gratification offers.

‘So, you’re woke af. Time to jump in. Are you well? Good. Do you see? Good. Look up. Do you see that the mountain you have just climbed is simply the base for the next one?’

Three dimensional eyes are open. I see what this is. I close them in horror and for protection from the truth. Clearer, broader visions come. I want to run both away and into it.

The spin of my trappings decide for me. They chase me and so I run. Like a surge of electricity, making my heart race and my breathing difficult to control. I could easily panic or focus on the breath. I start to feel dizzy and sick. Breathe in. Breathe out. Do not hold. There is nothing to hold, and that is fine. You chose this. To discover the truth. Run if you want, just make sure you’re running in the best direction.

And here it comes. The madness behind and inside the seeker.

You’re so ridiculous! Just give up! You will never know! Who are you to think you are special! You’re just a speck! You’re too old to get it! You’re too young to get it! You’re not enough! You’ve spent so much time surviving, so just be happy with that. You ingrate! Survive! Come on! Come up for air! Give up! Accept it!

It is what it is. Give up. That’s what bothers me about that expression. It says, in some sense, to accept what is, and give in.

Okee dokee.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

I hear both the trappings of my parts and the release of my Whole in her voice now. The honourable voice of my future Self presiding.

‘Don’t be fooled by what seems to be. Don’t be blinded by your need to know … do not feed the feeling of envy for the ‘if only ifs’ … if only this, if only that … listen with open eyes and see with open ears to these fractured voices and parts of you. Let your dear breathing vessel be engulfed by the truth.’

And so I let it all in. Might as well. Might is well. I am woke af, after all, right? I am breathing steadily running but entirely still at the same time. I recognize this. So familiar. Not an escape but a release. I am alive. Floating in a multidimensional space, beyond the x, z, and why.

Photo Credit

Photo is pixabay creative commons

The whispering comes from a place which comes and goes; has come and gone ad infinitum. Within the first memory and within the ‘last’. The whole sequence, played many times over, in order and out of order, changes as often as my perspective and understanding does.

There are an infinite number of potential timelines we could venture into. Even as many of us think ‘No! There’s only one way things can go, and that’s the way it goes’. (I just now realized why the expression ‘it is what it is’ has both resonated with me, and also, bothers me … ‘it is what it is’ is a very deterministic/fatalistic way of looking at life; a way which excludes other possibilities. A way that makes the mind refuse to see that even though, we cannot control how others behave or all the circumstances of life, we can control how we choose to perceive, and more importantly perhaps, how we choose to behave as a result. It excludes multiverse/superposition theory, and the ‘what if’ of every possibility therein).

I digress.

Perhaps this cage of linear comprehension (our dualistic, three dimensional construct) does not allow us to experience the looping, paralleled, layered timelines simultaneously (except perhaps in dreams, visions and deja vu), ironically, saves us from both insanity, and from losing traction within infinity.

After all, being able to focus on only one thought – or better – no thought: Is this not what meditation is? The ability to focus on nothing but the miraculous breath in and breath out? That one timeline, which is the Code of the Optimal One?

She whispers now. Reminding me that although we exist in infinite potentials, infinite timelines (for example, because I took a different route to work today), we are not as fragmented as we sometimes feel. We are not a missing piece in a puzzling infinity meal that never satisfies. Her whispering speaks to all of me; and the parts that are parts feel defeated by her unshakable timeless confidence. She is in superposition. In every place, in every instance, in every circumstance, in every possible multiverse, seeing me (and from the ‘parts’ stand point, judging me), simultaneously.

But she does not whisper to draw comparisons – to her, myself – or others. That is one of the things she came to teach me. And she is me.

Photo Credit
Photo is pixabay creative commons

Whatever it is that I’m falling into, it’s got all my attention.

If it’s romance, you’re going to feel profoundly treasured, at least for a little while (and much longer if you’re Paul). If it’s a work project, I’m going to be your dream employee, because I will think non-stop about that project from a million different angles to get it as right as possible.

If it’s a recreational pursuit, just accept that I’m going to be beating on a duct-tape-covered tire in the basement for a couple of years (my taiko phase). Or bringing home yet another finch for the enormous and cacophonous bird enclosure in the living room window (caged-bird phase, although damn, the baby quails were cute). Or returning from the paint store with armloads of discounted spray paints in strange colours and textures (reviving-tired-furniture phase).

My choices haven’t always been healthy, but they’ve definitely been diverse. Body-building; “mixed-tape” CDs for every occasion and everyone I knew; photo videos for every family member’s birthday; a rather odd period when I built and decorated giant picture frames and hung the unusual creations all over the house. When an obsession’s got me, you’ll know it.

The really big obsessions drive my career choices and my romantic relationships. The lesser ones guide how I use my free time. Most last four to five years. Some are shorter but no less intense, like when I got obsessed by the sheer wrongness and stupidity of the leaky-condo scandal and could barely talk about anything else for a year and a half.

The intensity dies down eventually for me, but no obsession goes away completely. It just assumes a less high-profile position in the hierarchy of my interests.

I still enjoy bird-watching, for instance, but no longer feel compelled to note every single cheep and who might be making it, or to keep a stack of eight or nine bird identification books always within arm’s reach.

I still care passionately about issues around sex work, but I no longer pin unsuspecting people to the wall at social gatherings with heated rants about why they should give a shit (well, not as often, anyway). I can drive down a Vancouver residential street now without checking every apartment for signs of moisture ingress.

Working in journalism and communications all these years has been a perfect career fit for my obsessiveness. The work is fundamentally a series of short-term projects that really suit an immersion approach. I was very happy at the Times Colonist for 15 years because there was no shortage of new civic or social issues waiting for me to obsess over them.

My spare-time obsessions have been more variable. My current one, which is still very much in its early heady days, is learning how to accompany myself as I sing and play the accordion.

I’ve been through several versions of this obsession – let’s call it “Jody Experiences Music.” Performing music and singing have been life staples since long before my pre-teen cousins and I first picked up brooms to “strum” in the Saskatoon PMQs where they were living and pretended to be The Beatles. But every new manifestation is a rush.

Just on the music front alone, I’ve been a piano teacher; singer in a band; choir accompanist; taiko performer; house-party pianist; seniors’ home entertainer; amateur opera singer (that was a particularly weird one). I spent two summers not too long ago testing out busking in Victoria, but gave it up after I realized passers-by assumed me to be a sad and desperate homeless woman left to eke out a living with my accordion.

I’ve secretly dreamed for decades of a gig playing music to an inattentive crowd in some sleepy beachside bar somewhere in Mexico, and suspect that my current accordion/singing obsession is related to that. Last week I also caught myself wondering about joining a choir again when we’re back in B.C., or starting a strange little band dedicated to playing surprising covers in surprising ways.

Like I say, there are dark sides to my obsessions. Just ask Times Colonist editor Dave Obee about my Andrew Yam period, which he had no choice but to endure for one long year back when I was a columnist and shared a tiny office with him. Or talk to my kids about the time when they were teenagers and I would snatch whatever food or drink they were about to consume out of their hands and ask them if they had any idea how many carbohydrates were in it.

But mostly I’ve loved this life of serial obsessions. It drives me to learn all kinds of things I wouldn’t have thought to learn. It pushes me out of my comfort zone to have new experiences that I wouldn’t have thought to have. It helps me shed things that have lost meaning, making room for new things to come.

There can be a blah period in between the end of one obsession and the start of another. I don’t like it, but it’s necessary. You need a little breathing time between the fading light of the last obsession and the dazzling brilliance of the next one. (Every new beginning is some other beginning’s end.) Plus the whole point of obsession is that it’s a surprise, which means you never see it coming.

But then it’s there, so sweet with its promise of discovery and newness, luring me up to play the accordion in the overheated second bedroom when I ought to be working, rekindling my hopes for a late-life career as a Mexican lounge singer. And just like that, I’m in love again.

Photo Credit

Photo by Jody Paterson – All Rights Reserved

Yin/Yang

My sister moved through the birth canal like a soft, summer breeze. She was already being photographed and passed from loving arm to loving arm when I announced my arrival with a cramp and shooting pains. I slithered through my mother’s vagina upside-down and backwards, splattering the bed with meconium black as tar.

According to Granny, I lay there clutching my placenta with abnormally long fingers as if I had dragged it with me on the way out. “One minute your mother was screaming like a Banshee, the next, the room was silent as a tomb, and there you lay, covered from head to toe in shit. T’was a bad sign.”

Granny’s always going on about bad signs so I don’t really pay her much heed. She says I’m the dark one, the yin to my sister’s yang. But, my hair is as white blond as Lucia’s and we stare out into the world through the same cornflower coloured eyes. Only my dad can always tell us apart.

Some days, Mother sits at her piano, her long, graceful fingers resting lightly on the keys and stares out the window for hours. On other days, the house vibrates with each note as if the music was trying to drill itself into the walls. Only when her back is to us can she always tell us apart. “You’re letting a cold draft into the room, Maura. Close the door and leave me in peace.” “Lucia, would you please be a dear and get me a cup of tea. Then close the door and leave Mother to her work.”

I was still a toddler when I first noticed the orb of light in the air nearby. Always hovering right there by my side. It was as if a mantle had failed to meld with my body when I had rushed into the world. Somehow I knew if I wanted to, all I needed to do was reach out and drape it over my skin. Then my grandmother would forget about signs and my mother would always know that it was me. Even when she was looking right at me.

Lucia’s own mantle shines from her and makes everyone smile when she is near. It makes Mrs. Evans tell her that her long, delicate hands are artist’s hands. Whereas mine are scrawny, stick-like protrusions. “Don’t bother finishing your art project dear; it will never be as good as your sister’s.” Lucia sometimes writes her name on my designs and always gets an A.

If I draped myself in that shining cloak my projects would always have A’s. The boys would look at me like they were thirsty and I was a tall, cold glass of water. The girls would want to play with me and help me comb out my tangled curls. But, Lucia and I hold hands and then skip home together. I am the yin to her yang. Deep down I’m afraid if I reach out to that spot of light and try it on, even for a moment, I would disappear and leave only Lucia.

Throughout our childhood we are never far apart. Except the year we turn thirteen. We beg our father for separate rooms. Lucia’s perfume is gross. My stuff is always touching hers. She likes Mozart and I like Bach. It is intolerable.

Father spends the entire summer refurbishing the attic. When he is finished, the windows of my room overlook the meandering river. If I stare hard enough I can see dark shapes move below its sinuous waters. Lucia has the gardens. The dark red and orange autumn blossoms seem to glow in the morning light from her windows. My stuff need never touch hers again. And when the doors are closed our rooms contain the lilting strands of our long-dead, favourite composers.

That first night I lie in my own room, in my own bed, feeling as if I am an overly stretched bit of elastic. I can’t breathe. And even with my eyes closed I can see the dark, twisting shapes beneath the ripples. “Maura?” Lucia’s whisper floats out of the darkness. She slips beneath the covers and we giggle late into the night. Our long fingers and fine hair wind together as we finally sleep.

It is to be a double wedding. Lucia’s fiancé is a tiny, dark-haired china doll. I see a dusky purple cloak beneath her pale skin and smile. They only cuddle together when Granny isn’t in the room. “It’s not natural,” Granny grumbles and glowers at me. “You made her this way. Always spooning together, even as big girls. We shoulda seen it and stopped it.”

My fiancé is tall; his hair is chestnut brown and always a mess. His skin is velvety and the colour of caramel. We smile at each other and sip our tea. He’s surrounded by a glow that only I can see. Granny drapes her arm through his and lets him lead her out into the gardens. “Has anyone ever told you how Maura arrived in this world? Head to toe in shit, she was.”

I sit and watch them through the windows. My bit of light still hovers beside me like a patient dog. I smile at it; I am still here and still me.

Image Credit

“gray_yinyang” by Ron Brinkmann. www.flckr.com. Some rights reserved.

Today’s post will be my last for some period of time.  That’s because I’m now so fully on “The Other Side of Me” and thriving, that I can’t keep up.  It is time to pause and reflect.  So I’m taking that time.

As I’ve moved into healing for myself – my business and life have accelerated into overdrive, so much so that I need to step back and pause, to take some time and focus on Defy Gravity and myself  — and on that ranch of my dreams that is on its way to me as we speak.

I’m currently chatting with a private television network as well as a large publisher about my story and opportunities for books or shows that share the message and lessons on a broader scale.  My goal has always been to share my experiences to help others, and now those doors are opening to me.

So much is coming to me – and I am so blessed. I pinch myself every morning and thank God for the divine path that is mine to follow.

I know that this pause will be the beginning of the second part of my “Other Side of Me” story.  To date, I’ve shared my journey through the depths of horror and into healing.  The next phase will focus on thriving in life and all its glory.

And so – I pause for however long the universe directs.

In the meantime, please know that each and every one of you has blessed me with your kind words, your support and most of all – your belief in The Other Side!

Love and light to you all.

Photo Credit

“DREAM THE IMPOSSIBLE Documentary Series – “Dreams vs. Nightmares”

I’m yet again amazed at how easily we can get stuck in the gravity of our past. The stories of our past come to determine who we are in the present and the future. And that’s exactly what happened me.

I found myself thinking yet again as the victim. Even though I was moving beyond that reality toward healing myself, , I still kept returning to that truth as my own personal story. Some would say it’s because of cellular memory or deep-seated subconscious trauma. Many would agree it was beyond my conscious control and that I had to continue to work on my healing to release slowly — because these things take time — and that until I released the story, I would continue to cycle, with the story losing its power over time.

There I’d go, back to the belief that healing has to be slow and painful — a struggle.

But in the past month I’ve learned that we do have the power to heal ourselves, in an instant. And we can forget the struggle; it’s not necessary. God gives us all the power to create any life we desire, from the moment we’re born, whenever we want to create it. We’re just programmed by our limited world to forget that power and limit ourselves.

My work with my shaman helped me to remember that truth and to release those beliefs as dysfunctional and limiting programming. I’ve been so close to my full power for the past few months that I can taste the freedom  yet something has held me in the pit of fear. I could feel the tethered limitations on my thoughts, my beliefs and my vision of my future. No matter how hard I tried or focused to release that story forever and step forward in faith, something held me back.

Two weeks ago a dear friend recommended a book that gave me the final tool I needed to achieve release forever. It’s called The Healing Code: Unlocking the Issues of the Heart, written by Dr. Alexander Loyd, PhD, ND (with Dr. Ben Johnson) whose wife faced severe depression, chronic fatigue and more for 17 years with no respite — until they found the healing codes, at which point she was healed.

The healing codes is all about healing cellular memory: the deepest, oldest imprints from our childhood and beyond that represent our first (and most permanent) programming. From the moment I opened the book, I knew the authors were talking to me.

I began to do the healing codes on January 7. Six minutes, three times a day is all it takes. Within 48 hours I felt the seed of my traumas and fears begin to lift. Within a week I could not even touch any of these fears and traumas consciously. I remember them, just as I remember what I had for dinner two nights ago, but there’s no emotion attached, no power. Thanks to one week with the healing codes, I disconnected my fears from their ability to control my life.

In that same week doors began to fly open int he form of 0pportunities for me and my book Defy Gravity; for my consulting work, speaking, coaching and more. They are coming to life so quickly  I feel like the BOSE ad where the big sound of the speaker blows the guy backwards.

We do have the power to heal. It’s in our DNA: spiritually, emotionally and physically.

For me, The Healing Code, along with my new-found faith in God, have catapulted me into a new level of faith thanks to the release of the oldest, deepest traumatic fears.

I am blessed.

Photo Credits

“Books at Parks” dktrpepr @ flickr.com. Creative Commons Some Rights Reserved.

“The Healing Code”

My theme for 2011 is simple: I Step Forward in Faith.

My first step of faith in 2011 is to share myself fully with all of you, my readers. So here I am!

In business, I’m Rebel Brown, a business growth expert, author, speaker and gun-for-hire. In my personal life, I’m the person you’ve come to know over these past months as Thriving on the Other Side.

Why the secrecy? Not for the reasons you might think. I didn’t start writing blog posts for this column, “The Other Side of Me”, under my own name for one simple reason: last September, I published my first business book, Defy Gravity. My advisors and I didn’t want to confuse that thread of work with the blog “The Other Side of Me” so we created Thriving on the Other Side as a temporary pseudonym.

In the past month, I’ve felt the urge to take another step forward onto my divine path. I’m not ashamed of my childhood or my life experiences. My intent has always been to be open about my experiences, and as of today I will be very public! My focus is to share my experiences and healing on a broader scale in 2011 and beyond, with a book and more.

Many people, including some gurus for faith and healing, have stepped forward to warn me about my decision to go public. They tell me that sharing my truth – my name – is a big mistake. They warn me that audiences and readers don’t want to know the personal side of a business author, nor do they want to know about the successful career of a spiritual seeker.

I don’t understand that line of thinking. I can’t understand how someone can possibly separate the personal from the business side of his or her total self. We are human beings in both of these roles. Our humanity, our experiences and our gravity guide us – personally, professionally, emotionally and more.

I’ve blended my spiritual and professional sides for decades now. My primary path has always been focused on business — helping businesses to grow. But I’ve also always helped people to personally grow within those businesses. I’ve helped my friends along their troubled paths, been honored to save a life, care for my parents through ugly deaths and generally support those in need. That’s always been my private purpose, even as I focused publicly on my career.

In my eyes, my choice is simple — I can step forward in faith and reveal myself or stay hidden in the safety of anonymity. Somehow, the latter just doesn’t feel right. It never really has and now that my book is published, there’s no reason to keep the secret. I am, after all, both a successful business woman and a woman thriving, on the other side.

And so, I choose to walk forward in faith. I am blessed by the opportunity to help others in this world – in both business and personal endeavors. I believe readers will appreciate my experiences with business and personal “gravity”.

I don’t have a clear picture of how this path evolves from here. But I do know sharing my name with all of you is the beginning of something greater for me.

So here I am, out in the open, and happy to be Thriving On The Other Side.

I hope you’ll join me as I step forward in faith – free of past limitations, empowered to create the life of my dreams – in all aspects of my life!

Blessings to you all as we begin this exciting New Year.

Photo Credits

Photo & Thumb Some rights reserved by Pequena Suricata

How do I shift into faith when the fear that separates me from my faith is part of my childhood cellular memory, the very imprinting that makes me who I am?

This week, I had an “ah ha” moment in which I discovered that the answer to that question can be simple if I allow it to be so.

It’s simple to say, but much more difficult to live. The answer is that when we step into trust and into faith in ourselves and our Greater Power, we enter the circle of love. From that circle, we can accomplish anything because that is where the strongest of all faith resides. After all, that’s what faith is – the complete trust in something without any proof of its existence.

By allowing myself to love me enough to want to have faith in myself, I took my first step back into faith. It was that simple. As soon as I loved that little girl inside me, held her in my energetic arms and told her she was worthy and loved by God, my fear shifted. As I told her that my destiny was to survive and thrive, that she had indeed been protected by God and angels even in her darkest hours, more memories emerged.

I remember myself wrapped in the wings of angels, embraced in their love and a light that was far more powerful than the darkness of that cellar where my abusers kept me. You see, the angels did come to me; God did send help. I can feel them even as I write this, as though I were a baby bird held in a palm made of their softly loving wings. I was embraced by angels, comforted and loved.  That is how I survived the torture and continued on to a successful life. My angels were always there for me.

God didn’t stop the horrors from happening again, because those horrors were part of my destiny — a destiny I’d agreed to before I ever entered this world. But God did send all the love and light I needed. As I remembered those angels’ embraces, I also remembered a dream I’ve had all my life, since I was a tiny child:

I’m in an amphitheater of golden and peach-coloured light. All around and above me are floating energy beings, surrounding me to the heights of the amphitheater. I can feel their love, their support and their guidance. In front of me is a golden flow of light — a light fall. I float into the fall and am embraced by its light. I spin and turn, revel in its power. As I play in that flow of energetic force, God embraces and teaches me. In that dream, in the place we all go when we sleep, away from our physical world and back to our energetic beginning, I am in God’s presence.

Recollections of that dream, as well as my safe bed in the angel’s wings, have reignited my faith. God does love me; I am worthy.  I am perfect in his eyes and I am beloved.

And so, I am stepping forward in faith.

With Faith There is No Fear

As with all things in life, just as I touched upon my faith, God gave me a test of that faith.

I’ve had a lifelong desire to own a ranch, the place of my girlhood dreams where I can have my horses and live in the beauty of nature. The ranch of my dreams has heart-touching views, the perfect land for my ponies and a magical energy.

My plan was to find that ranch late next year or the following year. God decided to shift that plan.

My ranch showed up on my radar one day after a session with my shaman in which she shared God’s simple message to me: With Faith, there is no Fear.

Who says God /Universe/Source doesn’t have a sense of humor?

God put my dream right in my face, and my first reaction was to say, “I can’t possibly do that now. I’m not ready, it’s too soon, how can I possibly pull this off in this market?”  Sigh. I was back to feeling unworthy again.

But the more I looked, the more I realized it is perfect. I recognized what I was doing to myself – how I was caught in that old engrained habit of fear and unworthiness — and I stepped into faith. I began to believe that I could indeed shift my timeline.

So I decided to call my mortgage broker. That’s when I found out I can’t apply for another loan in today’s constricted financial world. I only need the same loan I have today – no more — but I can’t even transfer that loan because I have a gap in my income records from a time period when I didn’t work as I was healing. My assets don’t matter – I can’t get a traditional loan. I could buy the ranch with cash – but that’s financially silly.

I was so devastated. But then an out-of-the-box thought hit me right between the doubt. What if I found private money? Hmmm. I know lots of people with lots of money. Surely someone would give me a loan for a year until I can qualify for a traditional loan.

Within 48 hours a private loan appeared —without a blip — from the first person to whom I mentioned my situation. A simple lunch conversation, a joke about the stupidity of my situation and then came the offer. Done, done and done. Now if that’s not a sign, what is?

God plopped my dream right in front of me as a test of my faith. It’s an extraordinary gift. I found my faith and moved further along my divine path and into my worthiness.

For 2011, my mantra is simple: I Step Forward in Faith.

I’ve already begun. We made the offer on the ranch this week. Wish me luck!

Photo Credit

“An Angel in My Window” Denis Colette…! @ Flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.