How To Ask For A Sign

The Eye of God – Helix Nebula from www.skyimagelab.com

“The Universe sets out little signposts for us along the way, to confirm that we’re on the right path.” 
~  Michelle Maisto

 

This week’s energies are supportive of connection, communication, signs, breakthroughs and synchronicities (you can read more about that here).

But how do you ask for a sign?

I recommend that you ask only once, and then satisfy yourself with the answer as it appears to you.

Here are some things that you can try:

Shuffle your oracle or tarot cards, offer up a small prayer that whatever you do be for your Highest Good, and then shuffle the deck again. As you’re shuffling, ask your question . Say it out loud or hold it as a thought in your head. Either will work.

Choose one card. How you choose is up to you. Split the deck. Fan them out. Top or bottom. Dive right in. There is no right or wrong.  Then really look at the card. Don’t use the book or the ‘proper’ meaning. We are being intuitive here, people! What stands out for you in the picture? What thoughts and ideas do the images provoke? What is the answer that comes to you? Trust that. Don’t ask again.

Ask for your Guide to appear as an animal or some other living thing, some sort of motif that you will associate with them and with their presence.

Image from www.printtuftandfold.wordpress.com

Ask to see a specific image or thing, as acknowledgement of a question, or in answer to it.  Perhaps you are driving and you ask to see a red Kombi van if the answer is yes.  Or you ask to see a particular type of bird or something else you’ll recognise as that sign…

Image from www.justmeblog.com

Ask, and then expect an answer.  Perhaps the answer will be a message on a  billboard, a line from a book, a voice on the radio, the words in a song.  The message will stand out for you somehow, and have a special meaning just for you.

Image from www.joke7x24.deals.lv

Angels are often associated with white feathers.  Guides are often associated with other coloured or patterned feathers.  I have found feathers during some of the most difficult times in my life, and have felt reassured by them showing up for me.

Image from www.angelreach.com

When I sense my Great Aunt’s presence I smell roses.  When my Grandmother is near, I smell or even see gardenias.  A friend smells tobacco smoke when her father is with her.  Sometimes loved ones will create a breeze where there was none, stop or start a clock, or move something.  Whatever they do will make sense to you, based on your relationship with them.

Image from www.allexperts.com

Sometimes God creates magnificent signs, for no reason other than to help us remember the love and miracles in our world…

Rainbow image by Ookami Kouu

And sometimes it’s well-meaning friends who help us know what’s in store for us on the road in life…

AP Photo – Image by Chris Nakashima_Brown

When the road ahead is uncertain, when you need to know you’re supported, when you are looking for answers – it’s okay to ask for a sign.  But do it once, and trust what you get!

♥ And here’s MY sign for you today (Okay, maybe there’s 3…):

Image from weheartit.com

Image from candyprincess4 at deviantart.com

Image from favim.com

A Me Update

Image from ibnlive.in.com

Image from ibnlive.in.com

“Solar Eclipse

Each morning
I wake invisible.

I make a needle
from a porcupine quill,
sew feet to legs,
lift spine onto my thighs.

I put on my rib and collarbone.

I pin an ear to my head,
hear the waxwing’s yellow cry.
I open my mouth for purple berries,
stick on periwinkle eyes.

I almost know what it is to be seen.

My throat enlarges from anger.
I make a hand to hold my pain.

My heart a hole the size of the sun’s eclipse.
I push through the dark circle’s
tattered edge of light.

All day I struggle with one hair after another
until the moon moves from the face of the sun
and there is a strange light
as though from a kerosene lamp in a cabin.

I pun on a dress,
a shawl over my shoulders.

My threads knotted and scissors gleaming.

Now I know I am seen.
I have a shadow.

I extend my arms,
dance and chant in the sun’s new light.

I put a hat and coat on my shadow,
another larger dress.
I put on more shawls and blouses and underskirts
until even the shadow has substance”
~ Diane Glancy

 

It’s been easy, in recent weeks, to forget for hours at a time, or even days, that beneath my skin lurk a host of bacteria. Lyme, bartonella, babesia and some other nameless beasts. They drill through the flesh and fluids of my interior. Many have been killed over these past two years as I have flooded my body with antibiotics, herbs and essential oils. But not all.

It’s the ones that remain which are so bothersome. Some have not been well targeted by any protocols I’ve yet undertaken. Others have cleverly changed form. They deconstruct parts of me and then rebuild themselves with pieces of my DNA, rendering themselves invisible to my immune system. They slough their cell walls and then slip into my own cells soundlessly, hidden from view. Hidden from drugs. Hidden from so many kinds of treatment.

These past weeks I haven’t thought much about all of these pesky invaders. Instead, I’ve tasted normal. I’ve known delights lost to me for so long I’d feared I’d never know a time for them again.

My body is stronger. My mind is working better. My immune function is the best it has been in years. So my docs asked if I felt ready for a round or two of more aggressive drug treatment before I went back to gentler, more natural methods of healing. Intuitively for me it was a yes – before I even got my bloods back. Yes. Ready. So, we began last week.

I’m lucky – I had the luxury of some free time before I need to be functioning well again for work. Weeks I had slated for writing time and a holiday before I gear up for my next retreats became the perfect opportunity for embarking on new treatment adventures. I knew this was right timing. It all seemed to fall so easily into place for me.

Except that I’d conveniently forgotten just how horrible such treatment adventures can be.

Oh.

My.

Goodness.

It started with vomiting and pain. My body did not like the drugs. Or what they were doing to me.

The misery ramped up as the bacteria within me began to die. Glands the size of golf balls. Night sweats. Fevers. Chills. Seizures. A tongue that rolled around in my head unable to grasp at words, or to make much more sense than a drunk. A brain on holiday. Night and day merged, hours merged. It got messy. Really messy.

Then there was the pain.

I’d forgotten about the pain, and how bad it can be. Body pain. Nerve pain. Brain pain. How did I ever live with this pain before? This loss of function? This rendering of myself into a million screaming and incoherent fragments?

There have been other delights too. Loss of vision. Confusion. Immense fatigue. The kind of fatigue where it takes all you have to lift your head from the bed, or to track your eyes across a room. Indignities such as loss of bladder control. Streaming eyes and nose. Rashes and shakes and parts of me misbehaving, no matter what my brain was bidding that body part to do.

Everything that had become easy was suddenly hard again.

But I know it’s not for long.

I know it’s just for this short window of time, after which this current treatment will end and I’ll step back, regroup and allow my body time for healing and rehabilitation.

There’s not one pill that will fix this. Not one magic bullet. I have thirty years of complex bacterial infection. On top of that, all of the chaos and damage those infections have caused to my brain, my organs, my central nervous system and hormonal systems.

What I’m doing to heal my lyme and co-infections is working. My results prove that. My daily life proves that. But it has taken a lot of gritted jaw to get through this last round of drugs and I have a few more weeks to go. Although I pray I am through the worst of it now.

I’ll tell myself that anyway. Just like I always do…

This is what life is. It’s what I’ve learned over time. Life is ups and downs. Mysteries. Breakthroughs. Dead ends. Wrong turns. Wrong turns that lead to the right places. Breathe in, breathe out. Place one foot in front of the other. Rest. Keep going. Keep growing.

In the ten days I have been on this new treatment three lymies (people with late stage lyme disease) I know have taken their lives. Too much pain, too much damage, not enough support, no access to adequate doctors or treatment, no light at the end of the tunnel, and they each reached the end of their respective ropes.

I understand that space. There have been times over the years – even the last two – when I have sat on that same bench, and had that same conversation with myself and those closest to me.

It puts my own illness into perspective, my treatment into perspective, my recovery into perspective.

I won’t do myself or this illness the disrespect of rendering the lyme journey down into a handful of trite new age slogans. Loving my disease, making peace with myself, loving myself – they’re all noble and worthwhile sentiments, and I honestly do my best. But how many people who got hit by a bus or a dose of MRSA from a hospital stay, or a life-threatening bout of meningococcal disease get those flags waved at them? Who of them would be expected to be healed by the simple waving of a crystal, the chanting of an affirmation or a thorough investigation of their past lives?

For me, a wholistic approach to healing means using intelligent diagnosis and solutions – a range of traditional and alternative treatments. Science. Ancient and modern. Spiritual practice. Drugs. Energy medicine. Herbs. Oils. Intuition. Food as medicine. Doctors and practitioners who use their brains in an investigative manner, allowing space for curiosity and open-mindedness, and a synergy of puzzle pieces. I expect that to be my own practice too. Of course there is room for magic and miracles, of course there is learning to be had. I’m open to it all.

Thanks for all your well wishes, and I’m sorry if my silence had you concerned. But you know me by now. Whenever I’m quiet so long there is always something going on.

I’m busy getting well. That’s what’s going on. Messy business, but I’m making progress, and things will be back to some semblance of normal here just as soon as I have the energy for it all.

Sending so much love your way, Nicole xx

Image from emiliesquotes.com

Image from emilysquotes.com

 

Those Misleading Rainbow Flags

Image from raiweb.net

Image from raiweb.net

“We can either emphasize those aspects of our traditions, religious or secular, that speak of hatred, exclusion, and suspicion or work with those that stress the interdependence and equality of all human beings. The choice is yours.”
~ Karen Armstrong, Twelve Steps to a Compassionate Life

“When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas, to California, and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. And it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live my life; it gave me the hope that one day I could live my life openly as who I am and that maybe even I could fall in love and one day get married. Most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he’d want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told they are less than by their churches, or by the government, or by their families, that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value. And that no matter what everyone tells you, God does love you, and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights federally across this great nation of ours.”
~ Dustin Lance Black

 

I have been staying in a stately old area of Brisbane this past few weeks. These suburbs have grand old trees, some beautiful old houses, and many churches. It’s an established area. A conservative area.

Recently, a church that I frequently pass decked itself out in rainbow-striped flags and bunting. It coincided with the day of the Sydney Mardi Gras.

Oh, I thought to myself, that’s wonderful. How welcoming! You see, I expected that those rainbow flags meant something.

After all, the Sydney Mardi Gras is one of the world’s most iconic, inclusive and joyful celebrations of the Gay, Lesbian, Bi, Queer, Transgender and Intersex community.

And to be truthful I was also grateful for those flags after a friend’s young teenager had attempted suicide in that same week as a result of being bullied at school for being gay.

Image from mardigras.org

Image from mardigras.org

Image by Hamid Mousa

Image by Hamid Mousa

A few days later, walking past the rainbow-bunting festooned church, I said hello to an older lady there.

We spoke of the weather, she admired my dog, and she asked where I lived. Had I been to the church before? Would I like to come along and join them?

I thanked her for her kindness and then told her of my surprise and pleasure that the committee had decked out the church with all those rainbow flags.

‘Why?’ she said. ‘Do you like rainbows?’

‘Of course,’ I answered, ‘who doesn’t?’

She smiled at me.

‘You did realise that those flags are also a symbol used by the LGBT community?’ I said.

She looked at me, her face suddenly furrowed into a look of confusion.

‘The lesbian gay, bi and transgender community,’ I added for clarification.

‘Oh,’ she said sharply.

The look on her face said it all. No, she hadn’t known.

She stared at me for a minute, and then she said angrily,’They are rainbows. We thought the children would like them.’

‘So the flags aren’t welcoming the LGBT community?’ I asked.

She didn’t say no. ‘They’re rainbows,’ she said. ‘Anybody’s free to use them.’

‘I see,’ I answered. ‘Well, thanks for talking with me.’ I turned to walk away.

A second or two later I heard her hiss ‘Hippy do-gooder’ under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear. To a friend who had just joined her she muttered, ‘One of those people…’

If only she knew.

I’m not actually LGBTI. I’m psychic. Different closet, but often similar reactions and discrimination on coming out. I’ve had Christians denounce me for being an abomination in the eyes of God, and an instrument of the Devil. I’ve had Jehovah’s Witnesses stand on the footpath outside my home every Tuesday for three solid years praying for my soul.

As insults go the ones from the church woman weren’t so nasty. But it certainly didn’t make me feel like I wanted to rush and join her congregation. If they don’t happily accept the LGBTI community, I’m sure they won’t be all that welcoming towards a practicing psychic with strong leanings towards buddhism, druidism and aboriginal mysticism. A psychic whose friends and family include those people, as well as a rainbow tribe of faiths, beliefs, traditions and viewpoints.

Image from buzzle.com

Image from buzzle.com

The rainbow flags and bunting are pulled down now. Like all of the churches around here their congregation numbers are dwindling as our lives and lifestyles change. These churches are doing what they can to draw people back to the fold, and that bunting did look pretty!  I hope they found the kind of people that they want to attract to their own branch of the community.

I don’t think that dwindling church numbers means we are less godless as a society. So many of us have found our own ways to connect with an energy and space of divinity within us and around us that better reflects our values and beliefs.

I’ve drunk from the well of many faiths, and found something at each place that has nourished me. But I’ve often wondered if my welcome would have been as warm had they known who I was or what I did. You can’t tell what’s inside a person by the way they look. I look quite average and respectable from the outside. My mother raised me to have nice manners. I know how to fit in.

I respect the right for anyone to have at your table those people with whom you feel comfortable. But if you invite me to make your table my own, I would like to think that all of my friends and loved ones are welcome; those of different faiths and beliefs, those of different cultural heritages, those of differing sexual orientations, those who believe in God, and those who don’t. So many of my friends don’t believe in the God that was taught to them at school. They see themselves as atheists or agnostics. Ant yet some of these people demonstrate the most Christian values and character I know. Just because you do not believe in God does not mean you are godless or lacking goodness. Isn’t the Divine an energy that dwells in us all?

I’m not sure there is a faith or religion encompassing enough for myself and all of those I love and hold dear. Right now, I think the best chance of creating the inclusion I desire is if I go place a table under a tree, festoon it with lights, lay out some food and invite you all to come join me as friends – in the spirit of kindness and compassion. In the spirit simply of love.

I hold out hope that love and kindness towards all people is possible. I pray for a quiet revolution of inclusive hippy do-gooders across the world, creating tables where all are welcome to sit, share and be nourished and supported.

That’s the kind of world I want to live in. How about you?

Image from pinterest.com

Image from pinterest.com

The Voice

“Sometimes beautiful things come into our lives out of nowhere. We can’t always understand them, but we have to trust in them. I know you want to question everything, but sometimes it pays to just have a little faith.” 
~ Lauren Kate, Torment

Yesterday afternoon I lay down for a nap and fell into the deepest, dreamless slumber.

A deep male voice woke me up. It was authoritative. And loving. It said this:

“Remember this. This is the sickest you will ever be. This is lowest you will ever be. Look at yourself. Remember this. Tonight you shall turn the corner.”

I felt so calmed by that voice.

Staggering out of bed I went to the bathroom and peered into the mirror. Here I was. Sick, fat, dumb-headed, exhausted, miserable.

The words kept echoing in my head, tonight you will turn the corner.

Still half asleep I slipped on some shoes and wandered down the paddocks to the cattleyards where Ben was feeding the weaners. Sitting beside him on a hay bale I told him about the voice.

“Better take some pictures,” Ben said. So he pulled out his phone and snapped a few. “This time in a year we’ll be able to think back from some holiday somewhere and look at how far you’ve come.”

This morning I woke up and so much was still the same. I’m exhausted, sick, sore. I still have my little window of ‘me time’ before I take the first drugs of the day and descend back into hell.

But something inside me has shifted. The only way I can describe it is as a spark. There is a spark of golden light inside my chest, comforting and restoring me.

I can’t explain why, but I trust that voice. I feel that spark.

So.

Onwards…

Wrong Numbers and New Friends

Image from www.Radio2.nl

Image from www.Radio2.nl

“Sometimes wrong numbers are the right numbers.” ~ Cecelia Ahern, The Time of My Life

 

Late yesterday afternoon I tried to call my sister. My new drugs are kicking in and so my eyes were all twitchy and I was having problems seeing. Somehow I put in one wrong digit.

“Hello?” An older woman’s voice, surprised, answered the phone.

“Mum?” I said. I’d been expecting Simone. What was Mum doing there? Was it even Mum? It had to be Mum… Trying to place the voice against the background noise of a blaring television I tried again. “Hello? Mum, is that you? Can you hear me? It’s Nicole. “

There was a pause, and then the woman spoke again. “That’s a beautiful name, darling. Nicole did you say? That’s French isn’t it?”

By now I had worked out that this definitely wasn’t my mum on the other end of the line, but something made me keep talking.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, you can call me Mum, sweetheart,” the old lady said. “I’d like that very much.” She asked where I was calling from, and I explained that I was here in Brisbane for a few days but that I normally lived on a farm.

Well, ‘Mum’ was away! Telling me all about her days growing up on a farm on the outskirts of Toowoomba, and then later the animals she kept at her little house in Brisbane after she married and when her children were growing up. She’d had ducks and chickens and a lovely big vegetable garden, right here at Mount Gravatt. Of course as she’d gotten older she’d had to let all that go…

Photo by Erika Stardig

Photo by Erika Stardig

“Ducks,” I said. “Good eggs, duck eggs. Great for cooking.”

“Oh, do you like to cook?” she asked.

We chatted for a few more minutes, and she told me about her son who had gone off to fight in Vietnam and who came home and tore the chook shed down after his father’s home brew kit, kept in a lean-to beside the shed, had exploded one hot summer’s night and scared the life out of them all.

Eventually I excused myself and hung up so that I could call my sister.

Just before I went to bed last night my phone rang. It was still early so I answered it, thinking the number was my sister’s.

“Hello, Nicky,” the voice said, “it’s Mum again. I have my own Mum’s recipe here for Duck Egg Sponge. I knew I had it somewhere, and I thought you’d like to have it. She cleaned up at the Show every year with that sponge. You can probably get duck eggs down at your farm so maybe you could give it a go.”

I carefully wrote down the ingredients and instructions.

Image from Dann Good Cake

Image from Dann Good Cake

“Are you okay, love?” she asked as I began coughing violently – a side effect of the evening’s drugs.

I waited for a wave of nausea to pass and then briefly explained that I was unwell and starting on new medications which made me feel sick.

“How about I call you in a day or so?” Mum asked. “Just to see how you’re getting along. Would that be okay? You know I’ll worry about you if I don’t. And don’t you go making that sponge cake yet. You should really be having a shower and hopping into bed. Go on then, off you go. Sleep well, Nicky love. And I’ll ask Saint Peregrine to watch over you. And Raphael too. He’s my favourite Angel. I’m a lapsed Catholic dear, but I’m still very fond of some of their Saints and Angels.”

I just love the synchronicities and everyday miracles of this life, don’t you?

We are, all of us, so very much loved, and connected in magical ways we’ll never quite understand while we’re down here living out our days.

Image from Epoch Times

Image from Epoch Times

Unexpected Blessings

Original image source unknown

Original image source unknown

“Women are never so strong as after their defeat.” 
~ Alexandre Dumas

I admit it. Yesterday, for a moment (or perhaps a little longer) I wondered how I would pick myself up and keep going.

I cried.

A lot.

My doctor wants me to continue with another full course of the horror drugs which had me counting the days and hours til I was done with them.

Six more weeks.

And this shall then be followed by more drugs which I’d previously not got on well with, in different combination.

Oh. My. Goodness.

So – drugs. I needed to buy more drugs. Yesterday, after my doctor’s appointment, Ben dropped me out the front of a shopping mall because it was crowded and he needed to park the car a great distance away. I am not up to walking far right now, and my progress is a snail’s pace. I wasn’t even half way to my destination – the pharmacy – when he had caught me up. I cried a little when he did. He had already been to the pharmacy and was doubling back to look for me. “God, you worry me,” he said, his face so sad and filled with compassion. He took my arm and steered me on my way.

After we’d dropped in my fistful of scripts and bought some supplies for our few days in Brisbane we headed back outside, where Ben left me in the shade of the front entrance while he went to fetch the car.

I felt fragile; so tired and weak, as I wondered how I was going to do this thing.

And then, out of nowhere I was enveloped in the biggest of hugs. A client, who is also a dear friend, had spied me as she sat in a cafe. Behind her other friends and her partner followed, all of them with hugs and kind words.

Their love lifted me up.

Image from Travelling Yogi

Image from Travelling Yogi

At home I changed into my pyjamas, ready to lie down and rest. As I took off a bracelet and placed it in a bag, something fell out at my feet. A little medallion.

I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. And began to laugh.

A few days ago I was talking to my sister about our family tree. ‘Did you know we have a Saint in the family?’ she asked. Of course, I didn’t. As we talked I googled her: Saint Margaret, the Patron Saint of Scotland. ‘You can get her prayer card,’ Simone said. ‘But I don’t know if she has a medal…’

Not being Catholic neither of us knew much about this whole Saint thing at all.

We both then agreed that it would be handy to have a Patron Saint. I googled Patron Saints for the rest of that afternoon, quickly becoming overwhelmed, and finding no-one that really jumped out at me.

The medallion that fell out at my feet?

My Saint Peregine medal

My Saint Peregrine medal

I found it on the ground outside a pie shop in a little town called Childers about four years ago. It was worn and grubby, and I had no idea what it was, but I slipped it in my pocket and brought it home, where it’s lain forgotten ever since.

It’s actually a Saint Peregrine Medal. Saint Peregrine is the Patron Saint of serious illness, cancer, AIDS and so on.

I said a little prayer, and I’ve placed that battered medal on a chain around my neck. It seemed like the right thing to do. It makes me feel that somehow, everything will turn out just fine.

So, out of a difficult day I received more Blessings than I’d ever expected. Isn’t life the most wonderful adventure?

Image from Hatke Quotes

Image from Hatke Quotes

Well, that was a bit premature…

ME_113_Patience

“Patience is the calm acceptance that things can happen in a different order than the one you have in mind.” 
~ David G. Allen

I was kind of hoping to be sleeping right now. It’s 2am, and I was only fretfully sleeping at best between 8 and 11pm. Now I’m wide awake and I know the rest of the night is going to be a horror.

So I might as well blog.

I’m still herxing. My hopeful post yesterday about waking up and being done (yay? 🙁 ) was all just a little premature. What I actually experienced was a lull before Cyclone Lyme returned for a little more devastation.

Let’s just say I’m not having fun.

This disease (and like most Lyme sufferers I have several co-infections rather than simply one nemesis) is certainly teaching me patience.

I have all this stuff I want to do. I have all this stuff I’d planned to do. And of course those plans have all gone out the window.

After I sleep next I might wake up and this will be behind me. After I sleep next I might wake up and still be deep in herxing land. The only thing I can do is go with it, be patient, and know that eventually this crazy ride will come to an end.

ride-the-wind

You can’t do anything useful while you’re herxing. As the bacteria are dying, sending endotoxins into your system faster than your body can clear them, you end up with a cascading inflammatory effect that plays havoc with your system.

Right now my symptoms include nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea, puffy streaming eyes and nose, chest pain, nerve pain, joint pain, abdominal pain, impaired balance, itchy skin as though I am being bitten by ants, fevers and night sweats, headaches, random stabbing pains, swollen glands and raw throat. The one happy thought is that prior to today my mind was also on vacation – everything felt as if I was thinking through cotton wool. Now my mind is bright and clear. It’s just the rest of me that isn’t playing nice.

I’m okay with the process though. If this is how I heal, then I can roll with it. I have an arsenal of herbs and activated charcoal and zeolites and other great feel-better tricks in my tool kit. I have terrific doctors and natural therapists. I have enough Epsom Salts to start my own bath salts company. I have crystals to clutch and aromatherapy to sniff. I have a veranda where I can sit in the dark and talk to the owls. A whole farm where I can howl at the moon. The hospital is a short ride away, should I need it. My husband is asleep in the next room, and Harry the hound is sleeping on my feet, keeping me company while Bert sleeps in the space I vacated. I’m so grateful not to be alone and going through this, as too many people are.

I’m so grateful to be having a massive herx NOW and not when I’ve been working, and not when I’m on retreat. It’s actually pretty good timing, all things considered.

Anyway, it only feels like dying. Having looked at that end-of-your-life place from far too close, I KNOW that this shitty space I’m in right now is worth it. Life is worth it. Health is worth it.

Every time I have a massive herx like this, I end up with an equally massive shift in my health and I climb further back out of this hell-hole that has been my life for the past thirty years.

I really did try to make the best of that hole. I wallpapered and made it pretty, installed a comfy couch, put positive affirmations on the walls, surrounded myself with uplifting things. But it was still a hole. And each year it got a little deeper, and the sunshine seemed a little further away.

Looking back at me, a year ago, I can see how far I have already come. A year ago I was dying. There seemed to be no path forward other than faith, and trust me, that was thin on the ground.

Now I’m making real progress. On a non-herxy day I have a brain that works, a heart that behaves, better bloods, more energy, the ability to walk, talk and breathe all at the same time. My prognosis is good. I’m writing again. I’m working again. I have my life back.

All I need to do is stick with the treatment, put up with the herxes, and hang in there. I’m getting better. I have tangible proof of that.

By the time you read this, with any luck I shall be asleep. Fingers crossed, hey?

If I could leave you with one thought, it would be this: Don’t give up. You never know how close you are to a major breakthrough.

Wishing you your own breakthroughs, synchronicities, answers and miracles today. Bless ♥ xx

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