Spiritual Renaissance

Spiritual Renaissance
8-31-15


Excavated emotions exhale
Brittle, broken breath
As they burst to the surface,
Fighting to find freedom from
Decades of determined delusions.

Like a somnambulant
Roused from soundest slumber,
I find myself struggling to stabilize
The stimulation of senses that startle
My sensitive, sluggish soul.

Echoes of ether-world events
Energize my eternal self,
Enchanting and enticing me,
Encouraging me to enter
The eddy of light and sound.

No resistance remains, as I relax
Into the palpable power of my psyche
And I soon sing with the spirits,
Sensing, sending and receiving
Their radiating energies.

Informed by intuition and instinct,
Intoned by the invisible angels,
Instilled by instantaneous recognition,
Knowledge of the Great Spirit engulfs me,
Invoking its power and inviting me in.

I am connected to the all-powerful,
I see the all-seeing,
I feel the ever-present,
I hear the ever-vocal,
And I know the all-knowing.

Finally, I am revealed.

My Lessons From Lily Dale,

or

In Order To be Caught, You Must First Let Go.

August 23, 2015

The past six months have been very difficult.

I lost my way somewhere and became distracted by health challenges and the pressure to meet other people’s expectations regarding the direction my life should take.

I realized that my body language had become closed, shuttered, drawn-in, and that I was walking like a worn-out old woman.

That’s what I had become.

And then I returned to Lily Dale.

And initially I was disappointed by my experience. Last year, when I visited the Dale, I felt this rush of energy as I passed through the gates, experienced a rush of deep emotions releasing themselves after the healing service, and felt deeply in touch with parts of my soul that I had lost sight of for quite a long time.

I missed that this year. And I thought – mistakenly – that because I wasn’t feeling the HUGE sensations, I was missing something, or that I was not “getting it” this year.

Oh, how wrong I was.

This year, the transformation was much more subtle, but also much more substantive in nature. For this year, I stopped resisting.

The lesson that the Dale had for me this year was that in order to be caught, you must first let go. Think of a trapeze act. In order for the daring feats to be completed, the actors must be willing to let go of their hold and have deep trust and faith that their partner will be there to catch them. And then comes the roar of applause – AFTER the catch.

Last year, Lily Dale was preparing me for what was to come. I had to be opened to the idea that there was something more that I was missing. I had to be literally shocked into awareness, so my reactions were writ large in emotion and energy.

This year, the Dale knew I was ready.

This year, her messages were subtle, but powerful.

As we walked through the grounds on Friday afternoon, I kept catching brief glimpses of a pileated woodpecker in flight, just a flash of black, white, and red fleeting across the sky into the dense branches overhead. I was teased by their song and the sound of their drilling. And I was frustrated, for I really wanted to SEE them clearly.

And then in the evening workshop, John White brought a spirit message to me, saying “I see a crown of golden energy above your head,” recognized my multiple degrees and that academia had not been kind to me, but promised me that “things are going to get better, and soon.”
I smiled, but didn’t believe him. I was still closed off. It was even mirrored in my body language. I sat in the workshops, armed crossed in front of me, hunched in, looking like a cross old lady. In fact, one of my presenters called me on my body language, saying “your body language is all closed off, so I just open that your mind is more open.”

I spent much of Friday night reflecting, even in my sleep, as I breathed in the cool, crisp air and drank in the peaceful stillness that wafted through my open window. And I begged Lily Dale to shock me again, like it had last year.

I awoke early on Saturday morning, on a mission to get in a good walk of the grounds and take photographs to remember my visit. As I made my way to the lake, I passed another woman, who greeting me slowly and said “My, you’ve got purpose this morning! You’re walking fast!”

I laughed, and said “Yes, I’m on a mission this morning,” meaning my photography.

But I did have a deeper mission in store – the one of discovering the power of Lily Dale’s messages.

The lake was blanketed in a thick mist, rising from its surface, encasing it in a mystical cloud that shimmered with energy. It reminded me of the mythical village of Brigadoon that only emerges from the mist periodically, to share its magic briefly and then disappear back into the air.

I said a silent prayer of gratitude to the beauty and stillness of the mist-shrouded lake before turning back to the path to make my way into the woods.

And just as I turned, a pair of pileated woodpeckers swooped down to the tree not 50 feet in front of me, and began to engage in a titillating tango around the trunk. I stopped, not wanting to startle them, and raised my camera to my face. The pair circled and frolicked, dancing like children around a May pole, while I snapped photos. I held my breath, and did not move, not wanting to scare them away.

The pair entertained me for a good five minutes or so, imprinting on me a very strong vibration, before being startled into flight by another walker coming down the path.

And suddenly, I knew that Lily Dale had been sending me messages all along.

This was not the two-by-four of energy that had been necessary last year. This was a velvet touch of an idea, planting seeds in my soul that would be nurtured into growth long after I had physically left the grounds.


And I began to walk upright.

As I continued my walk, I spent time communing with the old growth trees, touching their trunks, feeling the power and life force that emanated from them, snapping photographs that resonate with their energy.

And when I finally left the Lily Dale grounds behind me, that energy that had seemed so calm, so reserved, during my stay, began to vibrate into life.

About halfway home, I noticed a Buck come out of the woods alongside the freeway a couple car lengths ahead of me. He stopped and watched the traffic passing by, until he saw my car. He seemed to stare right at me as I sped past, and as I looked in the rearview mirror, I saw him turn tail and head back into the shelter of the trees. It was as if he had been waiting for me.

So, pileated woodpeckers and a buck, each apparently with an important message to convey to me.

When I got home, I researched the totem meanings of each of these animals, anxious to see what they might be trying to tell me.
At the top of the informational page about woodpeckers was this quotation, “Keep hammering away at your current project. Success is at hand!” Immediately, it struck me that woodpeckers represent opportunity knocking. And since the pileated is about the largest woodpecker around, I figured that it must mean a pretty large opportunity.

And sure enough, when I opened my email, there was an invitation to accept a rather large project starting very soon. Opportunity truly was knocking, and I was quick to open the door.

But my time at Lily Dale this year also told me that there is a more foundational change that I am undergoing that transcends the mundane work world. So I kept reading about the woodpecker.

Another lesson of the woodpecker is that you should listen more clearly to subtle energies, because there is a message that only your intuition can interpret. The woodpecker’s tapping is also indicative of Earth’s heartbeat, bringing life to new projects and activities.
I remembered how disappointed I was that I missed the big clanging energies and messages of last year’s trip, and realized that the pair of pileated woodpeckers were telling me to pay attention and open up to the minute sensations, in order to make them feel large.

So what of my friend, the buck?

I have been struggling with the psychic aspect of my self lately, trying to balance being true to my self with the pressures of meeting outward expectations of behavior and beliefs. I have been closing myself off to my true self even as I said that I was going to explore it more.

And the buck calls us to use or develop our sensitivity at various levels in our lives, guiding us to refine our intuition and psychic abilities.

In other words, the buck was telling me to let go, so that I can be caught.

As I meditated on the lessons of my trip to Lily Dale, I concluded that the time is now for me to come into my true self and accept my gifts for what they are, letting go of the expectations and assumptions that have guided my life to date, and trusting that I will be safely caught by my Spirit Guides as they help me complete my predestined ‘routine’.

And by letting go, and not fretting over direction or purpose or expectations, I will be free to soar in the necessary direction to be
safely – and spectacularly – caught.

A Pot Full Of Beans

A Pot Full Of Beans

8-10-15

I realized, as I stood and stirred the bubbling pot of baked beans that had been simmering on the stove for hours, that my emotions were mimicking its actions, as they threatened to burst through the surface after months of being supressed.

Absently, I moved my spoon through the thick mass of molasses-colored manna, as I let my mind wander freely over recent events.
“How did I get to this place?” I asked myself. “How could my life be so different from what I imagined it would be, just six short years ago?”

The molten mass of beans chose that moment to spit hot lava onto my hand, startling me back to reality.
I moved, quickly, to the sink, to thrust my burnt fingers beneath a rush of icy water, breathing fast and hard to fight the pain of the burn.

Once the throbbing had begun to subside, I returned to my post in front of the stovetop, picking up my spoon like a weapon and brandishing it before the still-tempermentally bubbling pot. This time, I gingerly pushed the beans from the bottom of the pot, being sure to move them away from my body to avoid a repeat performance.

As I let myself slide into reflection once again, a myriad of emotions began to make themselves felt, pushing against the restraints that had so carefully tied them down for so long.

Longing, regret, desire, sadness, melancholy, loneliness – each emotion thrust its head to the surface, as if it were a dolphin gasping for air before plunging back to the depths once more.

I realized that somewhere along the way, I got lazy and let go of the daily minding of my life. Somehow, overwhelmed by the many challenges that were thrown unexpectedly in my path, I forgot that the greatest challenge – and indeed, the most important one – was to take care of myself. In the chaotic jumble that became my new life, somehow my own person was lost in the shuffle. I struggled to take care of others, to be available to family and friends, while somehow scrambling to pull together enough money to pay my bills, and left my soul unattended by the wayside.

I realized that I had become someone I no longer recognized, allowing myself to be pushed around by the needs and desires of others, without standing up and recognizing what I truly needed to do for my own health.

I smiled, ironically, thinking of the rush of cold water I had just poured over my heated skin moments before. Life-giving, soul-feeding, energy-filled water, the source of my truest self. And yet, I pondered, when was the last time I had been to the lake? Or walked by the creek? Or just swam in a pool? For years, I had a weekly commitment to swimming that nourished me body and soul, building up the store of energy that was so quickly depleted when others came to suck it from the well of my nurturing. But now, while they still come, the well is not replenished, and I feel that it will soon run dry.

I pondered about the word regret, too, and corrected myself. I do not have regrets, for I am who I am precisely because of what has come before. Choices and circumstances all combined to create the individual that I have become, and I do not regret that. Perhaps, if I could redo my life, I might make some different selections along the way, but I don’t think of them as regrets.

Perhaps it’s the historian in me, who knows that we cannot change the past, making the great “what if” questions irrelevant.

A pop from the pot startles me back to attention. I stir more carefully now, as the beans are cooking down to a hearty, thick mass that smells of brown sugar and worchestershire sauce. My stomach growls, and I laugh and chastise it with the admonishment that dinner is still hours off.

And I think about how to be true to myself, to find the ways to create a whole being, while also juggling the needs and expectations of others. In the past, I have put those expectations first; I realize now that I must not sacrifice myself to satisfy those around me. There must be a balance; for I cannot help those around me if I am depleted myself.

The conservation of energy governs the universe, and I cannot continue to give out energy when I receive none in return. I must find the sources to replenish the well that others are pumping dry.

And so my mind turns to Lily Dale, and my impending trip there. A fellow visitor posted photos of the Dale to Facebook the other day, and as I flipped through the images, my entire body began to tingle with the energy I could see in the photos, making me even more anxious to make my pilgrimage there in a couple of weeks.

It’s time to free the abilities that have been stuffed down in hiding for most of my life. It’s time to recognize that I have powers that others might fear. And it’s time to bring home those longings and desires that I have left unfulfilled for far too long.

Like the pot of beans before me on the stove top, my abilities have been simmering, aging, and preparing themselves for just the right moment to be presented to the world. And I think that day is quickly drawing near.

Watch out world, here comes Christiana.

A Murder of Crows

A Murder of Crows
10-10-14

Have you ever thought about how we choose to identify particular groups of birds? For example, we talk of a clutch of chicks and a brood of chickens, or a muster of peacocks and a brace of pheasants. We have a convocations of eagles, a parliament of owls, a richness of martens, a cast of falcons, and a crèche of penguins.

And don’t forget about the wing of plovers, fling of sandpipers, exaltation of larks, host of sparrows, gaggle of geese, watch of nightingales, bevy of swans, stand of flamingos, charm of hummingbirds, and bellowing of bullfinches.

We even get to the gulp of cormorants, kettle of vultures, murmeration of starlings, descent of woodpeckers, herd of wrens, and wake of buzzards.

Each of these, in turn, gives us a visual sense of the particular birds it describes.

And then, there is the murder of crows.

It sounds so ominous.

Nature has been trying to send me some not-so-subtle messages of late, including my Walk on the Beach, my Seasons of Life lesson, and my session with the Treetop Whispers.

She is not done yet.

Nature has been sending me crows. To be precise, she has been sending me a full murder of crows. Why couldn’t she have sent me a nice charm of hummingbirds instead?

After seeing this murder of crows repeatedly for about 2 months now, I hesitantly decided to do a little research and discover just what message they might be trying to convey to me, hoping that it was not just a premonition of death. And here’s what I discovered.

The crow is a spirit animal, or messenger, associated with life mysteries and magic. Native Americans view the crow as a totem and spirit guide that provides insight and means of supporting intentions.

Ok, so my crows represent life mysteries. I have plenty of those. But why is she sending me so many? Why a full murder, to be exact?

Throughout history, the crow has come to be associated with both positive and negative symbolic meanings, including life magic and the mystery of creation, the idea of destiny and personal transformation, alchemy (transforming elements into other elements), intelligence, higher perspective, being fearless or audacious, flexibility, adaptability, and trickery, manipulation, and mischievousness.

That’s quite a list.

Crows are also often associated with bad omens, death, or dark witchcraft, but also carries the power of prophetic insight and symbolizes the void or core of creation.

Now it’s getting interesting.

You see, I have been struggling with a lot lately, particularly in terms of the transformations that are currently taking place in my life. And the crow, which is black with tints of iridescent blue in the right light, is symbolic of the onset of creation, of the void, or what has not yet taken form yet. The crow carries the energy of life mysteries and the power for deep inner transformation.

Inner transformation. Precisely what I am struggling with at this very moment. So my crows are trying to help me with my chrysalization.

But it gets even better.

Crows often build their nests in very tall trees, providing them with better vision or perspective on their surroundings. As a totem, crows help to provide a position from which to see things from a higher perspective.

They provide the “big picture,” folks. And the crow is a protective spirit, too, able to raise the alarm when intruders or predators approach.

So, my crows are helping me transform, protecting me, and providing me better vision. What more could I ask?

Crows are also a lesson in fearlessness and determination. They encourage us to develop our personal power and speak our truths more loudly.

Wait, speak our truths? I just wrote about that yesterday…And now my crows are telling me to find my voice? Can that be right?

The crow, as custodian of ancient magical laws and wisdom, provides us with an instant flash of our authentic self. The crow sees our soul-self and in her call we hear the echoes within the body as we try to remember the language that she speaks. Crows bring the gifts of clairvoyance and change, while teaching the animal magic of shifting dimensions and mystical messages.

Our authentic self.

In other words, my recent repeated encounters with my murder of crows have been trying to show me to let go of the fear and resistance I have been experiencing, and to truly open myself up to the new transformation that is budding inside.

The crow represents the need to embrace our true identity, the Authentic Self, announcing that the time of change is here and now. She tells us that it is time to let go of the old self and all that is holding us back to enable us to step into our authentic power.

So in that sense, the crow is, perhaps, a harbinger of death, as she helps to usher out the old and midwives the birth of the new in its place. But with each “death” comes rebirth and regeneration. The crow represents the changes of life and death, and the changes in the cycles of life, just as I wrote about the Seasons of Life recently.

The murder of crows that has camped themselves out in my backyard are simply reinforcing the lessons that I have been taught recently: be patient, be aware and alert, and release resistance to showing my true self to the world. With the help of my murder of crows, the results are bound to be amazing.

Molten Fire Dance

Across the creek from my brother-in-law's place, there is a deep stand of woods. When I first started dating my husband, we were visiting his brother, who started talking about the Yetis that live in the woods. He then offered to drive me across the creek and through the woods on the 4-wheeler, so we set off for a ride. It was dusk, almost dark. As we drove through the woods on the 4 wheeler, I sensed a number of spirits (none of them Yetis). We reached a rise at the end of the trail, and Tom shut off the engine and we sat there for a moment. I started to see a series of spirits in the woods. I counted seven, in all, dressed in blue and red military uniforms, wandering around, carrying out a variety of tasks. I was quiet for a few moments, just watching, and I finally told Tom what I was seeing. He was amazed, and with a shaky hand pointed over to our left and said "There are a bunch of graves over there...They were French soldiers." I had not known about the graves. That was the moment that Tom accepted my psychic gifts as being true. That was also six years ago. Last night, Tom had a bonfire, and as we sat by the flames, licking up into the dark night sky, I kept feeling intense energy coming from across the creek. It was so powerful, it was disturbing and unsettling. I'm not sure if it was the impending meteor showers, or the timing of the moon, or just my presence there in combination with fire (always a powerful force), but the spirits were actively trying to communicate with me last night. That is the genesis of the poem below.

Molten Fire Dance
5-25-14

Embers glimmer like molten gold,
Flames lick higher and banish cold.
Within the circle, colors dance
Orange, yellow, and green all prance.
Beyond firelight I can sense
Spirits active in woods so dense.

Starlight twinkles above my head,
With each winkling I feel the dead
Wand’ring, lonely afraid to go
They hold onto the place they know.
Sensing in me a psychic chink,
They try forming insid’ous links.

As I focus on rising flames,
Through the darkness a picture frames.
Taken too soon from those they knew,
Soldiers linger, their fellows few.
Down to seven, their numbers fell
Restlessly checking all is well.

Til the day they will fin’lly find
Freedom from the prison they mind.
Here they stay to roam through the woods
Keeping sentry, as soldiers should.
Reaching out to me in their ways,
Hoping I might shorten their stays.

Ellen's Lament

Here is a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, about dealing with the jumble of emotions and energies that come from having psychic sensibilities.



Ellen’s Lament
3-24-12

Snippets of time
snared in psychic bands
echoes of feelings
that I never have time to understand.
Lost in a blur
of racing action
Wishing that life could stop
so I could gain traction.
Senses of souls,
emotions unleashed
reminding me of
those bound'ries unbreached
I long for the still
of midnight's dark cover
when maybe, just maybe,
these senses I'll discover.

Several Holocaust Poems.

(The Ghetto Wall in Krakow, Poland)

I had another episode last night and today, where I felt overtaken by spirits who wanted to be heard. Out if this experience, came several new poems, which I have included in this blog. I will let them speak for themselves.

The (Un)natural Law of Race
10-11-10

The genetic tree
Has twisted roots
Driven deeply into the past.
Social Darwinists
Dig out the rot
They believe have effects that last.

Eugenic science –
Imposter beliefs –
Guide the policies of the state
Cleansing of the blood,
Curing the ailments of her people.
In hopes that it is not too late.

Misguided in thought,
Manipulated,
The Germans complied,
And after these thoughts
Were carried out,
Millions had died.

The slippery slope
Eugenics led
Had great long-term effects.
It had at its core
The lofty goal of
Eliminating all defects.

Purity of blood,
Racially pure,
This was Hitler’s call
And then in the end,
Policies led
To Germany’s fall.


(the former killing center of Belzec, in Poland)

ABCs of Death
10-11-10

Auschwitz and Appell
Belzec
Chelmno
Dachau and Dehumanization
Einsatzgruppen and Experimentation
Fear.
Ghettos
Hitler, Himmler, and Heydrich
Ideology
Jews
Kapos
Lagers and Lebensraum
Mengele and Monsters
National Socialism
Ordnungdienst
Piles of corpses.
Queues of prisoners
Rations of Bread
Schutzstaffeln and Selections
Transports
Unterwertige, the Undesirables
Vaterland
Weltanschauung
“X”ecutions
Yiddish prayer
Zyklon B



(the Memorial at Dachau, outside of Munich, Germany)


Life Unworthy of Life
10-11-10

Hadamar, Hartheim, Sonnestein,
Places of horrors past,
Those whose images last,
Now mingling and blending through time.

Here the victims took final breath
Never to rest in peace,
Whose suff’ring never cease,
Immortal pain, even in death.

Euthanasia was the label,
Justifying killing,
Victims went unwilling
To their deaths upon the table.

Injection, pill, or starvation,
Perhaps a whiff of gas,
Is how their deaths would pass,
All to further Hitler’s nation.

“I’m not guilty,” all would argue,
Another bears the blame,
For this genetic game,
"For Hitler’ Reich these deeds I do."

So if the perpetrator’s role
Eliminates their guilt,
Their argument was built
Upon their victims’ loss of soul.

If not the doctors, then, I ask,
Who therefore bears the blame
In Master Race’s name,
To carry out this evil task?

Perhaps we all should share the weight,
For euthanasia’s cast
For generations past,
Whose crimes of hate will not abate.

For who decides the worth of man
And who is better dead,
When valued life is led,
Or whose whole future we should ban?

When mortals play the role of god,
And choose the path of fate,
An evil incarnate
Over the human streets shall trod.


(Shoes taken from concentration camp inmates)

Hana's Story

(my sketch of Hana)


This must needs be a multiple part post. It's a bit unnerving to me, to write about Hana, because it is so close to my soul. She is so much a part of me, that it is like exposing myself when I write about her.

But I promised, so here goes.

Hana's story is complex.

I have written here before about my Holocaust dreams, dreams that started when I was a child of only about 4 years old. Over and over again, I dreamt horrible things, images of the atrocities of the Holocaust. When I began to have these dreams, I had no idea what the Holocaust was, or what any of the dreams meant. I only knew they frightened me, and that I felt as if they were not merely dreams, but memories.

But how could they be memories?

As I grew older, I began to understand what I had been experiencing. It was not until I was in my mid-30s, however, that I comprehended their full significance.

I was having dreams from a past life.

The first past life that I fully uncovered was that of Rachel, a Russian Jewish woman, who was killed in a pogrom in Russia in the 1890s. She was married to a man named Yakov, and they had a beautiful daughter, Sarah, who also perished that day in the pogrom, despite Yakov's efforts to save them.

As I began to delve deeper into my past life experiences, I re-discovered Hana.



(The town square at Kazimierz-Dolny)

Hana was a 10 year old little girl, from the town of Kazimierz-Dolny in Poland. This was a quiet market town, about 2 hours outside of Krakow. She had a lovely life before the war, adored her father and was the apple of her mother's eye. They had a small farm and her father sold milk and produce in the town square every week.

One night, as I opened myself up to her memories, a flood of names rushed at me. I believe that her last name was Skibiskova, or something similar. She also was very fond of a man named Pulli Eckstein, from the village, who served a grandfatherly role for her. Her father, Wladek played the violin, and her mother Elsabet was a strong woman with broad shoulders and a huge heart. Her maiden name was Rawkow.

Their life was peaceful and calm, until the Nazis arrived.

Her family was rounded up, along with all the other Jews in the area, and sent to the camp at Maidanek, where Hana would perish in the gas chambers. She was captured by two Ukrainian brothers, Anton and Marko Danilovich, who were aiding the Nazis with the persecution of the Jews.

Once in the transport, Hana was ripped from her parents, and she became frantic to find them again. At the camp, a female Nazi SS guard took Hana roughly by the hand and began to walk her down the Black Path towards the gas chamber. Hana had her red ball in her hand, but dropped it along the way and was worried about finding it again. Inge, the guard, distracted Hana, singing songs and telling stories, and promising that Hana would find her parents once more at the end of the walk.

Instead, Hana found blackness.

Hana would perish, along with about 100 other young women, in a gas chamber at the back of the camp.

The dreams I had, starting with age four, were all various versions of Hana's memories. Most of them revolved around a huge door being shut on me, and my screaming in fear at the guards who were closing them. I also had repeated dreams about dying inside the gas chamber. This is most likely the source for my claustrophobia.

All of these memories came to me, repeatedly, before I made my trips to Poland and to the camps. Once there, especially at Maidanek and at Kazimierz-Dolny, I felt Hana everywhere. These experiences only solidified my conviction that I was Hana. Over and over again, I saw what she saw, felt what she felt, experienced what she experienced. And, ultimately, as I stood on the grounds of Maidanek, I knew when, where, and how she perished.

Her story has come out in bits and pieces, in the form mostly of poetry, which I will share here on this blog. And more of her story will also emerge, as I haltingly begin to let the memories tell themselves here.

Please help me remember Hana, and all the Hanas of the Holocaust, to ensure that such tragedy may be prevented from ever happening again.

Another spiritual visitor

(my sketch of Elena)

I have been thinking a lot about Hana, since I promised that I would tell her story here.

Hana's story is, in many ways, my own story. You see, I was Hana in a former life.

So her story hits me very very close to home. It is highly emotional to experience and retell it.

So, her story is reluctant to come to physical form.

In the mulling and thinking, however, I opened myself up to the other side. And last night I had another encounter, one that I am able to talk about now.

Last night, I met Elena.

I can always tell when spirits will contact me. I get very restless, and edgy. I feel as if I need to write, but don't know what. And the room gets cold.

Last night, it started with a face in my mind. A woman, probably in her 50s, with long black hair, dark eyes, and strong angular features. Elena's face. Her face was so vivid in my mind that I had to draw her.

I am not an artist. Not by a long shot. Mostly, I draw stick figures and flowers.

But I had to draw Elena. (I have also drawn Hana...but that will wait for her own post).

I drew the sketch and felt something so powerful from it that I had to share it with my friend, who also has psychic abilities.

She, too, was deeply drawn to the image.

Then, I sat back, and opened myself up to see what would come.

The first thing I saw was a small, white-washed cottage nestled in the deep snow. There was a tendril of smoke coming from the chimney, and all was quiet all around.

I could feel the cold and hear the crunch of snow beneath my feet. I smelled the wood smoke coming from the chimney.

I was alone.

I was Elena.

I/She was watching the cottage, closely, and I could feel her sadness. I/She was yearning for something there, inside.

Suddenly, I/she was running, being chased. Tried to run, but fell, tripped on an exposed tree root. I/she cried out, but there was no one there to hear. No one helped her.

And then.... she was .... cold. Gone.

But within that memory lay another one. A memory of Boris. Her man. I saw him carry her into the cottage in her arms, both of them happy and laughing. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and she kissed him as they entered.

Happier times.

Elena had been looking for Boris, hoping he was still at the cottage.

He wasn't.

It was 1917. Russia, outside Minsk, I think.

Elena was killed by Revolutionaries. Boris was in hiding from these same men.

She was searching for him.

Elena didn't realize she was dead. She has been searching for Boris all this time, camped out in front of that little cottage in the snow, getting colder and colder, and waiting for him to return.

I called my encounter last night a "psychic wrong number."

Elena was looking for Boris, but got me instead. I helped her come to understand that she had passed, and so had Boris, and that she needed to let go and accept it.

Some spirits have a hard time with the passing over. They don't quite understand how to do it.

Last night, I helped Elena make the transition.

And hopefully, once she did, she was reunited with Boris again.

Taking stock and cleaning house

(this is the view from our deck)

Yesterday, I spent several hours sitting on our deck, reading and doing a lot of thinking about things in general. I was taking stock of my life and what I needed versus what I was getting and doing.

And I realized that my life was cluttered, and was demanding way too much energy for non-essential things.

So, I decided to clean house.

Both literally (I cleaned the windows so they sparkled!) and figuratively.

I decided I needed to cut loose some of the things that have been sapping my energy and wrapping me up in unnecessary drama, and to re-order my life so that I was focusing my energy more wisely.

This is something that has been building, and coming for some time now. I wrote about it here, when I talked about de-choring my life and re-treating it. I realized that I was letting obligations get in the way of my own health. And I was so involved in listening to other people that I lost sight of what I was telling myself.

I made some conscious decisions yesterday about exactly what I needed to cut out or reduce in my life, and what I needed to retain. And I felled the axe. More cuts are coming, eventually. And some additions, to be sure. Healthy additions.

And tomorrow, I am starting my swim routine again.

I know, I know. I've been saying this for months.

But this time, I have made the necessary changes that will let that happen. My swim bag is packed and ready for me! And I need the water.

After all, I'm a fish!

And I need a new routine. One that is geared to my own personal schedule, and not tied to those around me.

So, today marks the beginning of a new era. A fresh start. A clean house, both inside and out.

Just in time. And we have a great, fun, and exciting weekend planned!

What will you do to clean house this week?

Another Holocaust Poem

This morning, I got up and was feeling pretty good, despite everything. I had some physical aches and pains, but I was facing them pretty optimistically. My mood was not bad, all things considered.

I came into school, determined to be productive and positive.

And then, while I sat at my desk, a tremendous BLACK wave descended upon me, almost smothering me in its intensity. I felt isolated, hopeless, devastated.

And I took a deep breath and asked who I was feeling.

Because it wasn't me.

Not today.

I felt a tremendous need to overcome this wave of darkness. So I pulled out the only available music in my office, which happened to be a cd of Piano Klezmer Music by Leslaw Lic.

And I popped in the cd, and began to listen. I focused on the notes, trying to push aside the black blanket that smothered me.

And I opened Word, and began to write.

Here is what emerged. It's pretty obvious that the sensations I was feeling were from a Holocaust victim.

So, here's my tribute to her.


Our last refrain
5-19-10

Where has the past gone?
Who has stolen it away?
When our lives were free and gay?
What have we done wrong?

Once we were carefree
Living our lives in peace
In an instant, that would cease
And we would have to flee.

The bark of dogs and guns
Chasing us into the woods
Blindly tearing at our goods
Not knowing who it was who runs.

Far from the home I love,
Our belongings cast aside
With nowhere here to hide
Behind, below, or above.

Even as I flee in fear
Fragments of that song remain
The haunting last refrain
Lingering in my ear.

My first Holocaust dream, at age four....

The earliest Holocaust dream I remember came to me when I was about four years old.

I was somewhat of a precocious child. I was reading at age three, much to the surprise and disbelief of the adults in my life. I preferred the company of adults to children. And I felt a particular affinity for animals and nature.

Yet, for all of that, I was a normal child.

I was surrounded by love and security. I was a lucky child, in many ways. I played games, sang songs, loved cookies and hugs, and knew very little of the atrocities of which humanity is capable.

Still, I dreamt of the horrors. In vivid technicolor and terrifying reality.

This first dream, like so many of them to follow, went something like this:

I was a young girl of about ten years old, dressed in worn and ragged clothing – a long dull skirt, covered by a wrap-around long-sleeved blouse that had once been white, but now was stained and tattered. On my head, I wore a kerchief, tied under my chin, and I had thin, worn shoes slipped on my bare feet.

As the dream opened, I saw myself standing before a set of massive wooden doors, constructed like a barn door with no windows or openings, as the doors swung shut with a bang, followed by the clank of iron as the doors were bolted into place.

Tears streamed down my face and I cried out for help. “Wait! Stop!” I cried. “Let us out. Pleeeaase.”

I felt desperation as I sunk to my knees with my palms resting flat against the barred exit.

Behind me, the building was cold, dark, and damp, but bustling with noise. I turned and awe an unbelievable crowd of women pulsing through the cramped spaces. All of them, it seemed, were intent on finding a portion of bunk on which to settle.

I scanned the crowd, looking for…. Someone, anyone, I recognized. And yet, I knew, even before I looked, that I would find no one. I was all alone.

The darkness seemed eternal, and I prayed that would soon end. I huddled in the corner of a bunk, jammed in with three other women, and waited. Gradually, quiet crept over the barracks, as exhaustion – or death – won out over the fear that kept us all filling the silence.

Finally, when I thought I could stand it no longer, there was a loud bang as the doors were thrown open, and the guards pointed their rifles at us, yelling “Raus! Schnell! Schnell!” We scrambled out of the bunks and massed out of the barracks, squinting into the bright daylight beyond.

As I was propelled by the crowd, I lost my footing and fell into a puddle, splashing muddy water across my face. Behind me, two hands reach down to pick me up, their owners not breaking stride as I was wrenched along.

Once outside, we were pushed into a formation of sorts, and we all fell silent.

Terrified, I snuck glances side to side, trying to discern what was happening. I looked up, between the rows of women in front of me, and my eyes could not believe what they took in: before us, on a platform, stood a scaffolding with six nooses, hanging empty. A line of prisoners stood just beyond the scaffolding.

Loudly, the guards shouted at these waiting prisoners, prodding them with their rifles, and they moved slowly up the wooden steps to the waiting ropes….

It was at this point that I awoke, in a panic.

A child of four.

I knew nothing of Nazis or Racial Cleansing, or death camps. I knew nothing but the warmth and comfort of my loving family.

And yet, there it was, thrust into my innocent dreams – the horrors of the Holocaust – and there it would stay, for the rest of my life.

Analyzing my own dreams

My brother stopped by yesterday, passing through town on his way home from visiting my parents, to bring me some things that had been in their basement.

We had a chat, standing around in the garage, before he went on his way.

My brother and I have not always seen eye to eye. These days, it seems, we are even further distanced in our perspectives. Our talk, I admit, bothered me to a large degree.

You see, one of the things he said to me was "you need to stop this Christiana Spiritguide crap if you want to find a new job." I smiled, and said I didn't think it was a problem, and changed the subject.

But his comment ate away at me, obviously, because last night I had some very significant and meaningful dreams, and I thought I would share one (and its interpretation) here today.

Because, as Christiana Spiritguide, that's part of what I do.

And that's what the dream was all about.

So, here's the dream:

I was doing serious research in a library, and was working with several other people on a project, but I was the only one getting anything done. We agreed to split up for a bit and work independently, then come back together to share what we found.

I left my office (a beautiful one, with huge windows, and lots of bright polished wood), and went outside to check on my car. I got into the car, and it was running. I thought that was odd, since I had remembered distinctly turning it off earlier.

So I turned the ignition key again, turning it OFF. The engine kept going. I did this over and over and over again, to no avail, getting very very frustrated. Suddenly, I realized I was late for my appointment with the others, so I had to leave the car running (even left the door open) and ran into the building, and instead of using the elevator, climbed up the stacks of books to get there.

I got there, on time, and the others just looked at me expectantly, to solve the problems we were having. I took charge of the meeting, with my mind still on my running car below, then after the meeting pulled one of them aside and asked if he had any ideas about what to do with my car.

He looked at me funny and said "Don't you know? It's supposed to do that. You can't just TURN IT OFF. It will naturally keep going. Why would you want to turn it off, anyway?"

And that's when I woke.

This is, overall, a very open dream to interpret. Cars, in dreams, are US, our personalities, our character. So, I was quite obviously dreaming about the fact that I can not hide who I really am, that even if I try to "turn it off" (referring to my psychic side), it will still continue "running" because it is a fundamental part of my construction.

The meeting, the library, even climbing the stacks, refer to the work I've been doing, both academically and personally, to improve myself and move forward, but always seeming to be stymied from the outside. Again, a reminder that I need to focus on myself and let that inner self emerge, without trying to change it.

The "office" in my dream, with large windows and lots of shiny polished wood, represents the "place" where I do my work: that is, my mind. It is, to me, a haven full of peace and beauty.

I have spent a lifetime, literally, trying to be what other people thought I should be, denying parts of myself because outsiders might not approve. It's time to stop hiding, stop pretending, and let the real person emerge. I am not ashamed of my abilities to "see" things, and I feel blessed to have them in my life. I refuse to ever be intimidated into denying my self again.

Thankfully, my wonderful husband supports me in this, and expects nothing less.

Now THAT is truly a blessing.

My skills as empath

(Image of black smoke taken from the internet....)

Tonight, my mother asked me if I had known that she was ill with cancer before she diagnosed. She said, it is something that she has wondered many times, but has never gotten up the nerve to ask me. Until tonight.

I told her, yes, I knew.

My father said, "did you know it was cancer, or just that she was sick?" (He's a bit of a skeptic). I said, "Well, I knew she was ill, I knew it was her lungs, and yes, I knew it was cancer."

Skeptic Phil replied, "I'm sure her cough had nothing to do with it...."

So I replied, "Dad, I knew in December that she was ill." (She was not diagnosed until July.)

Mom was quiet for a moment and then said, "You know, I wondered. Before I was diagnosed, you kept asking me if I was ok. Over and over again...."

And I said once more, "Yes, Mom, I knew."

So, given that conversation of today, I thought I would share a bit more of my "Back story" here. This segment deals with my abilities to detect lung cancer. It's really a very bittersweet gift.


It was not until I was in my late 30s that I would begin to grasp the gift that I had been given, and actively seek to develop my psychic abilities. As I began to open up to the sensations and insights, instead of suppressing or resisting them, I discovered that my psychic revelations were intense, accurate, and could not be ignored.

I discovered that I had a gift of psychic sight, as well as the gift of being an empath.

This mixed blessing has allowed me to feel others’ pain as if it were my own, sometimes blending the lines between the two. It has also allowed me to see what causes the pain. In fact, my abilities allowed me to “see” lung cancer in two separate cases in the same year.

The first instance was that of a young man I had met and gotten to know online. Howard and I had chatted frequently and gotten quite close in a matter of weeks, although we never actually met in person. We had exchanged photos, so I knew what he looked like. We had also spoken on the phone several times, so I could feel his energy.

One night, as we chatted online, I suddenly had a very strong image of Howard’s lungs.

They were black and spotted in my vision.

In particular, I saw the lower lobe of his left lung, facing his back. Howard had not said anything to me about not feeling well or about having any abnormal symptoms. I said to him, “I think you should see a doctor. I think there’s something wrong.” (I did not mention cancer).

Howard laughed, at first, and then said “How did you know I haven’t been feeling well?” He made an appointment to visit his doctor, who immediately sent him for additional tests.

It turned out that Howard was suffering from lung cancer – very rare for a man of his age and health category (he was not a smoker and had no other risk factors).

The day that he went for the biopsy on his lung (again, I did not know the date or time of the event until after the fact), I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the lower rear quadrant of my left lung. What I felt was the biopsy needle entering Howard’s lung. Howard’s treatment and recovery were difficult and painful, but I am happy to say that his prognosis was (and remains) positive.

If he had not sought attention when he did, who knows what might have happened. It seems that the power of being an empath, as painful and difficult as it can be, is a tremendous gift that must be shared and should never be ignored.

The second instance of empathic sight was more direct, more personal, and far more difficult.

Only a few months after helping Howard through his diagnosis of lung cancer, I saw my mother’s illness. A lifelong smoker, my mother had suffered from a serious smoker’s hack for years, but her doctors had always told her that she was “fine.”

Living some distance from my parents, I was not with them often, but I had heard her cough progressively get worse over a period of months.

Over Christmas, right before my experiences with Howard, I had a sensation that all was not right with my mother. There was nothing concrete about my feeling, just a sense that she should go to the doctor. I told her. She brushed me off and said “it’s just a cold.”

When her “cold” did not get better, even as she went into the spring months, my mother began to take her condition a little more seriously.

Then, on a routine visit to her doctor for a physical, he heard something in her lungs that he didn’t like, and sent her for additional tests. She did not tell me about this series of events as they were happening.

I began to feel more and more discomfort in the lungs, especially in the lower lobe of my right lung. And I began to get strong visions of my mother nestled among black smoke.

I had seen my mother’s lung cancer, much as I had detected Howard’s condition. When my mother finally told me the news, I already knew, and I already knew the prognosis.

Thankfully, the surgeon got her cancer early enough, and my mother has had a full recovery, with no recurrence of the cancerous cells to date. I found that this knowledge, this ability to “see” cancer, is a double-edged sword. It helped in making quick diagnoses in both cases, but it also was highly stressful for me.

After all, just how do you tell someone “oh, by the way, you have lung cancer and should get that checked out?” The mixed blessing aspect of my abilities was becoming increasingly clear to me through these events.

And yet, I did not suppress the experiences. Instead, I welcomed them and began to investigate them to better understand the extent and limits of my abilities.

I believe that I have been given this gift of sight for a reason, and thus I feel obligated to attend to it. Difficult though such knowledge might be, as I mentioned here, the effects on my body and mind are slight compared to that felt by those I can help though my abilities.