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

The Strange Dream

“Dreams are today’s answers to tomorrow’s questions.” ~ Edgar Cayce

 

I had the strangest dream last night.

A dream that seemed less like a dream and more like a garden party.

My grandfather was there, handsome and charming as ever. Dressed in his best summer nautical whites.

My grandfather passed away some years ago. I knew instinctively that all of the other people in the dream had also died. But there was no solemnity or sadness. We were celebrating something, waiting for an honored guest, and it was very social.

My grandfather introduced me to an older woman, and a girl in her early twenties perhaps.

We chatted for a moment, and then the happy young girl fixed her eyes on me in a way I could not ignore. She asked me to give her mother a message for me. She told me her mother’s name and where she was from.

And then she gave me the message, which was short but clear.

The message was in two parts. Both for her ‘mom’, but one private and one I could share.

Here’s the share message.

God is love, and love is everywhere.

So this morning I am looking for Dani’s mom. I hope I find her…

 

Ghosts, Bones, Love and Forgiveness

Image from Jagero

Image from Jagero

“The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.” 
~ Mahatma Gandhi

 

Many years ago a woman came to me for a psychic consultation. She was probably about the age I am now, and she had travelled a great distance to see me in person.

She wasn’t my usual kind of client. She was an angry woman. Angry at the world. Angry at me. So angry, and so rude and dismissive of my abilities, so defensive and antagonistic that I wondered why she had come at all.

Of course she didn’t tell me. When I explained what I normally do in a consultation she stayed silent and grim mouthed. I could feel resentment ripple off her in waves. I also knew she was deeply tormented.

Towards the end of our session I asked if she had specific questions or photos of anyone she wanted to ask about. Until that moment she had not acknowledged her torment. She had blocked me at every turn. The woman took out an envelope and removed a picture which she passed across to me. It was a photo of three young children. Her children, taken when they were much younger. Two girls and one boy.

‘That’s me,’ a voice said in my mind. Not my voice, a male’s voice. ‘That’s me’. And I then felt rather than heard the name ‘Andrew’. I glanced briefly at the girls, both bright and intelligent. The older one was cowed now, although you couldn’t see that from the picture. I just knew. She was cowed and broken-hearted and downtrodden by life. How do you tell that to a mother?

The second daughter was now gone. Not dead. I mean gone as in emotionally absent, and by the feel of things, a long way away. I knew she had cut herself off from her family in order to survive better in the world.

The smiling young boy, Andrew, was the one I got the clearest connection from. I couldn’t feel him in the same way that I felt his sisters. But Andrew had a heart full of love, and I could feel how close he still was to home, emotionally and physically. He was clever too, and had loved to dance when he was little. Shy with strangers. I also knew he was gay.

What do you want to know, I asked.

The boy… She stopped herself from saying ‘my son’. He’s twenty. He left home. We haven’t had any contact with him for over a year.

It filled the space between us. So, it came across as anger, what this woman exuded, but as soon as she said ‘the boy…’ her heart opened up and I felt into her river of shame and guilt and love and hurt and loss. Her anger was the repressed expression of unbearable pain.

Are you asking if he’s okay, I said, swallowing, because I knew that he wasn’t.

No, she spat out. I want to know if he is queer. A homosexual, she added. It’s not normal. He can’t come home if he is queer. We won’t allow it.

But you already know the answer to that, I said. He is also your son, he loves you very much, and this is not a choice. He did not choose this. This is how he was born. This is how God made him.

She held my gaze, her face mottled red. No! That is a sin against God. That is not how we brought him up. How can we fix this? What do I have to do to fix this illness so that he can come home again? He’s our only son. He’s disgracing our family name. His father will never forgive him unless he renounces that sinful lifestyle. I need to know where he is so I can get him help and bring him home.

Andrew, I said softly. His name is Andrew. I was shaken by her anger, her rage at her son. Her hate.

How do you know that? she yelled.

Because he’s telling me, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.  And anyway, I knew, and I think she did too. He was dead.

Before I could answer she stood up so suddenly her chair fell over behind her. It was a mistake to come, she shouted. You too are an abomination before the eyes of God. I won’t pay. I won’t listen to your rubbish.

She left my office, slamming the door behind her. I was so shaken that I cancelled my next appointments and went home.

About a year later Andrew appeared to me while I was meditating. He was worried about his mother. He showed me that he had taken his own life because he knew that he was gay, and he couldn’t stop being gay. His mother had taken him to a psychologist, the church had made him do a program, but still this thing in him was there, needing to be expressed. He didn’t want to lose his family. So how could he live, when they hated everything that was this thing deep inside him?

He’d barely finished school when he decided what he must do. He packed up a few of his things so it would look like he’d run away. When he next left the house he took those things and put them in an industrial bin at the local shopping mall. Then he went home and into the woods near his family home, where he took his own life. It gave him comfort as he was dying, to have his home so close.

His father was sure he’d run away, and from that moment Andrew had ceased to exist for that man. But his mother had been frantic. Deep inside she’d known, even though there was no proof. Even though his parents had never even reported him missing. After all, Andrew was an adult now. He’d finished school. These were his choices.

Andrew wanted me to tell his mother where he was, and what had happened so that she would stop looking for him. He showed me the national park near his home. He asked me to tell his mother he was sorry. Not for being gay, but for having put the family through trauma. He was sorry too for not having the strength to live. He loved them all so much. And he wasn’t lonely. He was with Boo.

I found the woman’s details in my file. It took two days to muster the courage, but I called her and I passed on the information, including that Andrew was with Boo, whoever Boo might be. The woman listened to what I said and then hurled abuse at me and told me never to contact her again.

So, nearly ten years later, Andrew came to visit me again. He kept me awake most of the night. He told me that he wanted me to let his mum know that he loves his family and watches over them, that he hears their prayers, and that he forgives them. That his mum can still find happiness in this life. Also, that his oldest sister is pregnant, although she does not know it yet, and that the baby will be a girl. Comfort my mother, he tells me. Make her understand it’s all okay.

I am at my farm and my client files are in my office in Brisbane. It will be days before I am back there. Anyway, I cannot remember his mother’s name and I had promised to never contact her again. What can I do? I get no sleep for the worry of it. For wanting to do the right thing and for being sick to the stomach at needing to contact this woman again. Because, of course, I will.

The next morning I am in the car, thready with lack of sleep, my husband driving me home from breakfast at a favourite cafe, when my mobile phone rings. A woman asks if I am Nicole Cody. When I say yes, she tells me she has flown a long way to see me. She is standing outside my old address but the people there told her I moved years ago.

It is Andrew’s mother.

Can she get a cab to where I live now, she asks.

No, I tell her. I’m interstate. I live on a farm now. I felt bad that she had impulsively travelled so far, that I cannot tell her what I need to face to face.

Before I can say anything Andrew’s mother apologises to me for her behaviour. She tells me that she is no longer with her husband, who is a minister of a particular church. Her oldest daughter is still involved with the church, but married to someone outside the church. Her daughter is conflicted because she has been unable to conceive and finally she and her husband have resorted to IVF which is outside the teachings of that faith and considered a sin. Her other daughter went to Europe over ten years ago, and only came home last month. But she is going back. The daughter will not stay. She has a new life now.

She is talking and talking, Andrew’s mother, but I know these are not the things she wants to tell me. It is not why she travelled so far to try and see me.

Still she talks. I know you were telling the truth, that day you rang me, all those years ago, she said. Boo was my grandmother, who died before Andrew was born. I had never told the children her name. To them she was always known as Granny Parsons. But Boo was what I called her, my special name for her from when I was a little girl.

Here it comes, I think to myself. Here it comes. My arms are covered in gooseflesh.

Two years ago, she says, a hiker found human remains in the park that shares a boundary with our house. I thought of what you’d said and I went to the police. I told them Andrew had been missing all this time. I told them the whole truth. They used DNA to match the bones to my son. I hear the catch in her voice as she says the word bones, and feel my heart breaking for her.

You were right, she continues. He was there all along, and his body has lain in direct line of sight with my kitchen window all that time. Every morning, every night, I was looking out over him, and I never knew. I am so sorry that I was rude to you. Please forgive me. We buried Andrew a month ago. I knew that he was gay from when he was a tiny child. He killed himself because we did not act with love in our hearts about accepting his truth. We put him in a terrible position.

My husband still will not say his name. He did not go to the memorial. He cannot acknowledge Andrew and now he will not acknowledge me. I am cast out of our church, and I am okay with that. A God that cannot love their own creation is not a God I can believe in. She starts crying. Sobbing over and over, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.

I pass on the messages from her son. She is sobbing so hard that her breath is coming in hiccups. Will you be okay, I ask as her breathing settles. Yes, she tells me. Yes, I will. I know that she is telling me the truth. In her not-being-okay, she will still be okay. She will live with this Andrew-shaped hole in her heart but she has two living children she can be there for now, and a granddaughter on the way. I feel a shift in her; a sense of relief and a clearing of heaviness. I am crying too as I hang up the phone.

Later I pray that Andrew’s mother can find peace.

Love, acceptance, forgiveness, compassion. In the end it is these things that matter. It is these things that endure.

I am grateful that I was able to help. But I am shaken, and fragile and exhausted. I keep my family close all day. I spend the evening in the company of my husband and dear friends. There is a deep need in me to affirm my life and what matters.

Sometimes what I do is hard, and it takes everything I have.

But it is worth it.

Ghostly Messages and Weird Confirmations…

Most of you probably know that I’m a bit of a writing bender right now. I hadn’t expected to embark on a new project; I have two finished manuscripts to edit, workshop notes to write, and some courses to finish.  And of course I’ve started on my second novel with my husband.

This bender came about because last week Nicole from threedeelife made a comment on my post The Woman I Turned Away.

She said: Have you ever thought of doing a Young Adult psychic novel? It would be fantastic!

Of course I immediately discounted the idea. I have so much else on my plate. And, I wondered to myself, would anyone be interested if I did?

But somehow this Young Adult novel idea wouldn’t let me go.

I woke up at 1am a few nights ago with a head full of story. Yes, I thought, I CAN write this, because essentially I’ve walked this path, and writing about it will spark off awareness and recognition in so many of you. It’s the sort of book I would have loved to read when I was back at the beginning of my own journey.

The story has been pouring out of me and onto the page ever since.

On Friday night I sat back and finally took a breather.  My husband and I went out for dinner in Byron Bay, to one of our favourite haunts, Luscious.  We ate great food, caught up with friends, enjoyed a glass of wine, and then came home and sat in front of the fire.

A stream of new ideas and a new character came to me as I watched the flickering flames, and I went to my computer to get them down because I knew I wouldn’t remember with the same clarity come morning.

And then the doubt hit. Who will want to read this, I thought. Can I really tell it how it is? Can I really write compelling fiction about a young girl having a psychic awakening?

I began thinking about an element of the plot. Thinking really hard and searchingly. I wondered if readers would find it a stretch…

As I sat staring at the screen, while my husband sat nearby on the lounge, an overhead ceiling fan roared into life, startling both of us. We looked at each other, bemused, and then I stood up, went over and turned it off.  Somehow it had gone from off to on (and the highest speed setting at that!) with no help from us.

We went through the possible reasons for why the fan might turn itself on. Rats in the wall?  A possum? An electrical fault?

Even as we were listing them off we both knew we were clutching at straws. Stuff like this is not uncommon at our house. My sister still talks about the time she looked after our dogs and house while we were overseas and the vacuum cleaner started up, when it wasn’t even plugged in at the wall.

Items get shifted around all the time here.  Things go missing and turn up in the strangest of places. Jewellery does this so often we can laugh about it now. Lights turn themselves on or off.  Doors unlock. Objects just appear, like an owl feather on my pillow, or a book on my coffee table.

So, what did we make of the fan?

Dead person, I said to Ben.

Yeah, I think so too, he agreed.

Who? I’m sure it is my grandmother, who passed last year, and who was also very psychic. I took it as a sign.

Why? When the fan turned on I was thinking about souls who’ve crossed over, and how they can still guide us, communicate with us, and help us, from where they are. That’s what I’d wanted to include in my book.

I felt like I got a big ‘thumbs up’ from upstairs.

So I’m writing my new novel uncensored.  I won’t hold back.  I’ll tell it how it is.  You’ll all know that it’s just a story.  And you’ll also know that every word of it could be true.

Asking for a Sign

Eye of God – NASA’s image of the Helix Nebula

Have you ever wondered if there’s anyone listening? To your prayers, your meditations, your calls for help or inspiration…

Did you know that you can ask for a sign?

This is not a technique to be misused, but rather something to be done with serious intent – an action that calls for a response, an action that calls for something tangible that you will recognise when it appears in your world.

Here are some things that you can try:

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 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 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 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 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 en.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

The Power of a Father’s Love

Image from womenselfprotection.blogspot.com

 “Life is the first gift, love is the second, and understanding the third.” ~ Marge Piercy

One night, in the middle of 2010, I was on a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean. It was late, and we had been asleep for some hours. The room phone rang, waking us up.  When  I answered there was no-one on the end of the line. I hung up, groggy and disoriented, turned over and went back to sleep.

The phone rang again.

Again I answered it. No-one there. I hung up, cranky to have been woken a second time.

For the next two hours the phone kept ringing. Of course there was no-one on the end of the line. In frustration my husband pulled it out of the wall.

Then my cell phone rang. In the middle of the ocean. Miles from having any sort of reception. I fumbled for it and then gave up in disgust as once again there was no-one on the line.

And then had a realisation.

“Someone’s trying to contact me,” I said to my weary and shaken husband. We both knew what I meant.  A psychic thing.

“I’m going outside to do a meditation,” I told him. Wrapping a robe around me I went out onto the balcony and perched on a sunlounge. Soon I was deep in meditation, asking for guidance around what had just happened. Nothing came for a long time, and I pulled my robe closer as the air cooled before dawn.

Image by Thinkstock

Suddenly in quick succession I saw a single vehicle accident on a country road as a series of jolted images – sliding, rolling, slamming into a tree. It was so real I could smell the metallic tang in the air, the dust, and the blood. It was as if I were in the driver’s seat, and then somehow I was standing there, beside the mangled car. Steeling myself, I bent to look through the window.

A moan came from behind me.  I whipped my head around.

I knew his face, but I couldn’t place him. He looked so lost, so broken, and I found it very hard to breathe. It came to me slowly. He was the husband of a client.  I’d never met him, but I’d seen his photo, maybe two years before. The same man was standing on the road. With a sickening feeling I understood.  He was dead.

I don’t do dead people, I thought to myself, feeling panicked. Come on guys, I don’t DO dead people.

It all went black. Like the lights going out in a cinema. My husband was shaking my shoulder. “Come on honey, you’re freezing.  Come inside and have a shower.  We’re meeting for breakfast in half an hour.”

I shook my head. “I can’t do it. Can you meet them?”  We were supposed to be breakfasting with friends, but I was hollow, shaken and distressed. And I knew I still had unfinished business somehow.

Ben gave me one of those looks. Loving, understanding, unhappy all at once. “You okay?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“No. Neither am I. That was the freakiest thing. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. A  car accident I think.” I felt terrible for Ben.  Here I was on holidays and I was still working, my world affecting his, intruding on what was supposed to be a well-earned break.

After Ben left I took a warm shower and then dressed and settled back into meditation again, propped up in bed with the blankets over my legs. This time my entry back into that strange space was unsettlingly quick.

The man was where I’d left him, pacing up and down on the baking bitumen beside his wrecked car. “I need you to call my wife,” he said.

My heart began racing. Nicole, none of this is real, I told myself.  “You’re dead,” I said stupidly to the man.

“Yes.” He calmed down. “But it’s okay.”

In fact he was calmer than me. I was still feeling the horror and trauma of his passing.

He put his hand on my shoulder and a warmth flooded through me. “Call my wife. Not about me,” he added, “it’s about our daughter. Our youngest daughter. Please.  It’s urgent.”

I nodded yes. What else could I do? A picture flashed into my mind of a tiny baby girl, perhaps a year old. She was shallow breathing in a small crib. I felt a fluttering flooding feeling in my chest.

Father and daughter – by Emilia Pawlikowska

“My daughter’s dying,” he continued. “It’s her heart, she’s got a hole in her heart. I can see it now. She was sleepy all the time, and losing weight, and our family doctor said she was fine.  But we still thought there was something wrong. She just wasn’t thriving. She was fussy and wouldn’t eat. And then she began to have blue fingernails. So my wife took her to the hospital. The doctors there sent her home. They said she was just cold.”

“Please,” he said again.  “I can’t reach her. I can’t reach my wife. I tried, and then I thought of you. You have to call my wife and get her to take our daughter to the hospital. She needs to go right away. She needs to make the doctors understand. My wife will listen to you. Call her!”

I snapped back into my body abruptly, my open eyes trying to take in our room. Lurching off the bed I opened my laptop, scrolling through my old emails.  Finally I found her name and the contact details she’d submitted via my website. I checked my cell phone. There was one bar of service.  I stepped back out onto the balcony. There was land sliding by us. My signal managed to get a little stronger and I dialled the number with a shaking hand.

It was one of the hardest phone calls of my life.

But because of a father’s love and persistence a little girl was able to have open heart surgery, and now can lead a healthy life.

I spent the rest of my day sitting on the balcony, looking out over the ocean and being grateful for solitude. My darling husband told our friends I was unwell, and gave me the space I needed to pull my head back together.

And the next day Barcelona opened her arms to me, and I gave myself over to her healing charms.

Image from betcheslovethis.com

Comfort comes in many forms…

I drove from my farm to Brisbane very early this morning, leaving before dawn.  To be honest, I was feeling a little flat. It’s something I know you can all relate to.  Sometimes life just weighs you down a little.

As much as I love my work, I felt sad to be leaving my husband and animals for a week, and the energy of my land, and the love and support they all give me.

I am in the middle of a stoush with my insurance company for a property badly damaged in the floods over a year ago. Still nothing has been resolved, nothing repaired, nothing agreed to. This week I really need to take the fight to the next level. It’s exhausting and relentless.

My heart is bothering me, as much as I am hoping for it to settle down. The heat of the past week or so has seen me gasping like a fish and unable to do farm work or even gardening. The tightness in my chest is back. I have had to rest, to take things easy, to sit or lie down when I would prefer to be active and involved. This week I had to watch as neighbours lent a hand to do the cattle work I would normally do. I’m grateful for their kindness and their help, but I’m aching for my life to get back to normal.

So I am driving to Brisbane, feeling a little blue, with the work week stretched ahead of me.  Suddenly the cabin of my ute fills with the scent of full-blown roses.  A great feeling of peace comes over me.  I feel a warm unseen hand on my own as it rests on the steering wheel. It feels as if a golden river of light infuses me.

“Courage, my dear.”

Those simple words, spoken as if by someone right beside me.

I know it is my Great-Aunt, who passed many years ago.  She is always recognised by the scent of roses. She looks out for the women in my family.  Today she looked out for me.

I am buoyed by this wonderful energy, love and connection. I am reminded of my own strength, and the strength of my family line.

And I am shown, once again, that love and connection are eternal – stretching well beyond our own lifetimes. I’ll get through this. These trivialities of life are nothing in the end.

Sometimes comfort and support come from the most unexpected places. ♥