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.

Excuse me, are you the Witch?

Image from Mattsko

Image from Mattsko

“Perhaps I am the only person who, asked whether she were a witch or not, could truthfully say, “I do not know. I do know some very strange things have happened to me, or through me. – Lady Alice Rowhedge” 
Norah LoftsBless This House

 

Last year the little girl from down the road at our city house knocked on my front door. The family had not lived in the street long, and I hadn’t met her or her siblings, although I had waved to them on occasion.

I could tell she was nervous.

“Excuse me,” she asked very shyly, “are you the Witch?”

Before I could say anything she pulled a fifty cent coin out of her pocket which she placed on the doormat at my feet.

“Can you turn my brother into a toad or a rat or something? Not forever, but just enough so he’ll stop pulling the heads off my dolls?”

We never got to finish the conversation because her brother and his friends turned up out the front on their scooters and she took off down the road, giggling like anything.

Image from TiaraKim

Image from TiaraKim

A few weeks ago she again made the nerve-wracking journey to my front door.

She’s taller this year, and gap-toothed. On that particular day her toenails were the most shocking shade of orange, with bright pink glitter. But her eyes were sad.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, not quite able to look at my face. “I know you’re probably very busy…”

“It’s no problem. I have time right now. Can I help you?” I tried to use my kindest smile.

“I don’t have much money.” Her words came out in a rush and she thrust a ziplocked bag at me with a five dollar note and some coins in it.

When I didn’t take it, she looked up, her face screwed up in something between desperation and defiance. “I can get more!”

“Why would you need to give me money?” I asked her gently.

“My granny is dying. I thought you could do a spell for me.”

Oh my. Her words just stole my breath away.

As she stared at me her eyes filled with tears and her bottom lip began to tremble.

“You love her very much, don’t you?” I said.

The little girl nodded, tears spilling down her face.

“And I know that she loves you…”

As we spoke the little girl’s mother pulled her car up in front of our driveway. “Hurry up, Veronica. We need to get going!”

“Just a moment,” I called to the mother. “You’re going up to the hospital?” I said to Veronica, quietly so that her mum couldn’t hear. She nodded, yes. I stepped closer. “Honey, it’s your granny’s time to go. You make sure you get to hold her hand and whisper in her ear. Don’t be afraid. Tell her how much you love her and tell her it’s okay for her leave now. Ask her to watch over you and come visit you sometime. I know she will. Okay?”

“Okay,” she sniffed. “Thank you.”

And she scooted off to the car, leaving me wishing that I did have some kind of magical spell to take away the pain of little girls.

This afternoon I saw her again. She waved, and left her brother and his friends to come and stand at my fence.

Veronica’s face grew pinched, and she looked around to see if anyone was listening before she blurted out, “She smells like soap. That’s how I know she’s there. Granny, I mean.”

She ran over to the other children, not looking back, and I went inside to make a cup of tea. Maybe I gave her the right magic after all.

ef623eb189fed5d327cacbba22628db1

The Owl and the Eagle

“Baby eagles can never soar under their family’s wing.”
~ Liu Yang

I woke yesterday morning to find a Powerful Owl sitting on the clothesline in the last shreds of darkness, feasting on something caught between its powerful talons. The owl paid me scant regard and finished his supper before flying up into the branches of the teak tree, where he has slept all day, in view of my writing desk.

I like that I can feel his presence. I like that he watches me. Our farm is home to many owls, and for me their arrival in so noticeable a way always signals that something is about to happen. Owls have a strong energetic connection to my maternal line, and to my psychic abilities. I spent most of the day wondering what I might be in for next – if perhaps Alice might pay me a visit, or the Orchard Man.

powerful owl

Late yesterday afternoon Ben and I drove down onto the river flats to check the fences and to discuss planting a summer forage crop. Bert and Harry came along for the ride, but for once seemed quite happy to stay in the back of the ute, where usually they would leap out and head straight for the river.

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Ben and I walked the flats, our eyes at our feet, looking at the clovers and improved pastures and contemplating whether we’d have a wet or a dry summer. Still the dogs stayed in the back of the ute, mesmerised by something. They both craned their necks, so we did too, and there was one of our breeding pair of Wedgetail eagles, soaring on the thermals just above our heads. He’s huge, this eagle, and his wife isn’t much smaller.

He landed in a tree near us, watching. I felt like his eyes were right on me.

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Mr and Mrs Eagle built a massive platform nest last year and had their first clutch of chicks on our farm. Two eaglets made it to adulthood, and one of them still flies over our orchard from time to time. The other youngster has headed off to find their own patch of territory.

The eagle kept watching us as we drove the rest of the paddock, coming to a stop near the nesting area.

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His wife came out to see what we were doing, and then Mr Eagle swooped over us and home, some dinner between his claws. Their nest is so big that we could no longer see the birds, so we gave up and went down to the river for a swim before coming home to dinner.

As I sat in meditation last night a Barn Owl alighted in the Jacaranda. We exchanged glances as a a powerful swoosh-swooshing noise cut the air. The Powerful Owl sauntered past, flying between us just a few feet off the ground. He came to rest back on the clothesline again. Shivers ran down my spine and my arms came out in involuntary goosebumps, although the evening was mild.

I went to bed with that weird sensation of something about to happen.

And then my dreams were filled with all manner of craziness, culminating in me waking during a furious storm. I took myself outside to the back verandah where I could sit in the darkness and watch the rain and the blinking fairy lights in the poinciana tree.

So I was awake when the Orchard Man came.

But that’s a story for tomorrow…

Did you smell that?

“Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.” 
~ Rumi

I’ve had lots of comments and queries from the mention in my recent post You see dem owls? of smelling odours such as cigarette smoke or flowers when there was no obvious source for that smell.

It’s a big part of spiritual or psychic awakening – this sudden awareness of smells. Common fragrances include:

  • cigarette or cigar smoke
  • perfume
  • aftershave
  • the scent of a particular flower such as roses or geraniums
  • cooking smells
  • familiar but long forgotten scents such as a brand of soap or washing powder

The smells are usually associated with loved ones who’ve crossed over, or with our spirit guides.

We might also be connecting into people who’ve passed that have a strong emotional attachment to a place but not to us.  For example, it is quite common to smell cigarette smoke at our home in Brisbane, even though none of us smokes.  The original resident, whose husband built the house in 1937, was a heavy smoker, and was very happy at this home, according to all accounts. Since she passed away we have felt her energy and smelled tobacco quite strongly from time to time.

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Whenever I smell roses I feel the presence of my Great-Aunt Gwen, who brings comfort to the women of our family.

Gardenias remind me that my grandmother is near. The smell of diesel has often had me look over my shoulder for my grandfather.

There are other things too, that you may have experienced.  Perhaps you have felt a breeze or seen the curtains stir, even though the air is still or the house all locked up. A clock might chime, or stop.  An object might move from place to place, although no-one has touched it. Or you may have captured orbs in some of your photographs.

These are never things to be afraid of – instead they are signs that should encourage and cheer you. Life is truly a magical, mystical journey, and we will never have all of the answers. But after everything I have seen and experienced, I KNOW there is more to this life than just what we can see and touch.  Trust these experiences, trust your intuition and know that we are well loved, and never, ever alone.

If you’d like to work with developing your intuition, follow this link:

Strengthening Intuition – A program of exercises

Much love to you, Nicole ♥ xx

orbs

Before we get back to Owls, let’s talk Fairies!

Image from flora phone

Image from flora phone

“There are things 
that make no sense,
that seem unreal,
that can’t be grasped, 
or understood,
or explained,
that maybe don’t even exist…
And still, somehow, those wonderful things touch and change our lives.
Isn’t it strange?” 
― Richelle E. Goodrich, Secrets of a Noble Key Keeper

 

I present this information to you only as story, as interesting background. Although it might be more…

In modern times we often think of fairies as tiny winged creatures, flitting through the flowers, drinking from tiny tea sets and amusing animals and children. But once, fairies were considered to be a race all their own, some larger than humans, some human sized and similar in form, and some quite small, perhaps just a few feet high. They were closely associated with nature and the supernatural, and were considered to have ‘magical’ powers.

When you track back into ancient Irish, Norse and Scottish genealogies the lines start to become blurred between legend, mythology and fact. This is especially true once you start to weave in the fairy folk to these ancient lines.  It was once accepted that fairies walked among us, lived in certain places, and married into the lines of the Ancient Norse, Irish and Scottish Kings.

When a death or an important change was imminent, the Fairies sent owls as messengers to herald these deaths or changes.

Image from Flickr

Image from Flickr

It is also believed that a handful from the ancient family lines, whose blood shares fairy energy, reincarnate over and over, maintaining the ability to connect with the ‘fey’ – the fairies and other creatures of those ancient times – creatures not human, and in their own way, magical.

Each ancient family had its own fairy or fairy clan, and these fairies (as my friend Sokli would say) are geographically specific.

Owls are strongly connected to the Fairy Realms, and often act as messengers for the Fairies.

When I lived in the Kimberley, a vast ancient part of North Western Australia, my aboriginal friends would tell me about the Owls, and how they come as messengers of the Wanjinas, the Sky People who are Spirit Ancestors.  Owls are the children of the Wanjinas…

Aboriginal art - source Australian Museum

Aboriginal art – source Australian Museum

The Silver-Blue Light of Love

“Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”
~ WILLIAM BLAKE

 

If I’m going to tell you about the Owls and the Orchard Man, I’d better first tell you about the Silver-Blue Light.  It was probably one of my first memories of psychic phenomena, and it is seared into my memory as clear as the night it happened.

My sister and I were tucked up in the little bedroom we shared in our childhood home.  It was late enough that our suburban street was all asleep, and a soft summer breeze moved the gauzy curtains slightly.  I was four years old, and my sister was two and a half.  Moonlight flooded our room.  I was awake because my sister was fretful, tossing and turning with a fever.  She had the bed closest to the window.  I lay with my back to her, watching the patterns that the moonlight and the leaves of the trees made on the wall beside me.

Simone wouldn’t settle and so I climbed into bed with her, but it was distressing because she wasn’t really aware that I was there.

The room gradually became illuminated with a soft silvery blue light.  It was different to the moonlight, but the shadows on the wall beside me became more indistinct.  Suddenly a lady was in our room.  She was pretty, with shiny hair caught up on her head, and a long dress with a skirt that puffed out a little, and was fitted around the waist and chest. A very old-fashioned lady, not old like my grandmothers, but old enough to be a mummy.

Gently she took my hand and led me back to my own bed.  Then she sat down on the edge of Simone’s bed and I lay there, mesmerised, as she stroked my sister’s hair and sang to her.  I couldn’t understand the words, and I knew it was another language.  My sister settled under her watchful care, and then woke up.

I heard the lady whisper to Simone, and then my sister replied ‘Wee’ in her little voice. It worried me to hear her say that.  Did she need to go to the potty?

It was only as an adult that I realised my sister had said ‘Oui’ and that the lady had been speaking French.

Then I was asleep, dreaming that I was a big girl, in my ‘other life’.  I dreamed of a place that my imagination would ever after lead me back to when I was sick, lonely or afraid.  It’s a place I still dream about, and it’s so important to me that it has worked its way into a book I am writing, about pirates and fairies and the end of the world…

I hadn’t thought much about that beautiful lady in recent years, until she turned up in my orchard a few months ago.

She’s the reason the Orchard Man has been waiting.  But she didn’t come because of him.  She came to see me….

And I know who she is now. But that’s a story for tomorrow.

Much love to you ♥ Nicole xx

Waking from a long sleep…

Vintage 1947 pinup advertisement

Vintage 1947 pinup advertisement

“You can only come to the morning through the shadows.” ~J.R.R. Tolkien

 

I woke up this morning, stretched my arms out, yawned widely and realised that something has shifted as I slept last night.  My fever’s broken, my pain has eased, and my mind is bright.

It’s a great relief.  The last few days have been quite horrid.

But even in the misery I’ve endured there have been gifts.  I’ve spent a lot of time in the company of owls.  I’ve spent a lot of time flying through the night skies while the world was sleeping.

The silver lining of illness is the time I get to spend on Cauldrons, rather than Cupcakes.

In honour of that blessing, for the rest of the week I am going to write a little about my family connection to owls, and to magic.  And I’ll tell you what’s been unfolding with the Owl and the Orchard Man.

It’s a magical week – and I’m so looking forward to sharing some of my magical world with you!

This post brought to you by Randall…

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“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.” 
~ Roald Dahl

Hi. I’m Randall. I live in Nicole’s garden, and I keep an eye on things for her. I’ve given her the morning off from blogging.  She was up all night with the hooting owls, the flutter of bats, and all manner of strange visitations.

The Orchard Man was back, swinging his lantern around in the cold last night. And some other lady. She was new, the lady.  Haven’t seen her before.

It happens like that around here sometimes. Oh, the things I have seen…

But of course, we gnomes never tell.  We pride ourselves in that.

Maybe Nicole will tell you all about it herself one day.  Or maybe not.

For now, I’m getting back to minding the crystals, and watching young Harry run around like a loon on the rain-soaked grass. Nice talking to you.  Might see you around.

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**PS If you enjoyed this post please vote for Nicole’s blog, Cauldrons and Cupcakes, in the  Best Australian Blogs 2013 Competition. It’s endorsed by Gnomes. And Fairies. Votes are accepted from all over the world and You can vote here. Thank you. ♥

The Magical Angel Talisman…

This beautiful image by Josephine Wall

This beautiful image by Josephine Wall

“Angels have no philosophy but love.” ~Terri Guillemets

When I woke this morning, there was a tiny silver talisman on my dressing table. It’s beautiful, and I have never seen it before.

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When my husband woke up I asked him where he got it.  He said he’d never seen it before either. And it wasn’t there when we went to bed.

Things seem to appear and disappear and then reappear again with alarming frequency in our household, but this one – I’m counting it as special!

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I can’t explain it, and I’m not even going to try! 🙂

May you know Angel Blessings and unexpected happiness too today.

Much love to you all ♥ xx

Meditation Messages of Love, Hope and Wonder

My beautiful drusy Cobalto Calcite Crystal

My beautiful drusy Cobalto Calcite Crystal

“Love is a force that connects us to every strand of the universe, an unconditional state that characterizes human nature, a form of knowledge that is always there for us if only we can open ourselves to it.” ~ Emily H. Sell

I sat down to do a meditation yesterday afternoon using a crystal that’s recently been given to me by a friend (thanks, Lachlan!).  It’s a drusy Cobalto Calcite with an extra little  dusting of drusy Malachite on the reverse – a pretty thing, and comforting to hold.  This stone is excellent for all heart-related work, including work with physical ailments of the heart, emotional healing, love and relationships.

Settling down on my Kundalini Beanie (a fantastic meditation chair created by another beautiful friend, Angela Toohey), and holding my rock, I quickly moved into a deep state of relaxation and then meditation.  I was in that lovely heart space of connection for about twenty minutes when I heard a very clear, sweet soft voice.

“Please help us.”

Was I imagining it? I sat in meditation.  Nothing.  I opened my eyes and looked around the room.  Nothing.

Back I went into meditation.

“Please, please help us.”

Okay. I wasn’t imaging it. I couldn’t see anything, but I started to get a lovely warm feeling like I was floating in a golden ocean.

“Janie Edwards,” the voice said. “Can you help her?”

I have a client named *Janie Edwards. *Note – I’ve changed the names here to protect the privacy of the people involved.

No more words followed.  Instead I was filled with understanding. Somehow Janie was pregnant and losing her baby.  In fact, I sensed that the baby had already died.

“I’ll stay here to help the other,” the voice said. “Tell her we’ve been together so many times before. I love them all.  Thank you.”

Abruptly I came out of meditation still clutching the crystal which was now hot in my hands.

I didn’t quite understand all I’d been shown, but I immediately went to my computer and found Janie’s contact details. She was someone I hadn’t spoken to for nearly ten years.  Her home phone no longer worked but her mobile did.

I called her and after general niceties, and her shock at my unexpected phone call, I asked if she could be pregnant.

No, she said a little angrily.  She and her husband had been through twelve rounds of IVF, and gave up over a year ago.  At forty five she was in peri-menopause and now too old.

Oh my goodness, I felt bad for her in that moment.

“Are you sure you couldn’t be pregnant?” I asked her again.

“I do have some lower back pain,” she said hestitantly. It turns out she’d had back pain and pelvic cramping for a few days.  It took some convincing, but she promised to call her doctor right away.

I didn’t hear anything back until much later last night.  Janie’s husband *Peter called me. Janie was in hospital and doing fine.  She is nearly six months pregnant with twin girls, conceived naturally, and one had died in utero.  The doctors operated to remove the dead infant and the other little girl is still in the uterus and doing fine. They expect that Janie will now resume a normal pregnancy, although of course, they’ll be keeping a close eye on her.

I explained what had happened that led me to call Janie, and passed on to Peter the message that their unborn child had given me, about having been together before,  loving them all, and staying to look after her sister. It was a very emotional call.

Photo from iStock

Photo from iStock

Love.  It’s an amazing thing, isn’t it?

So, I woke up this morning feeling incredibly calm and happy. I spoke to Janie just a few minutes ago.  She’s sitting up in bed at the hospital having a cup of tea, and saw I was awake too after I posted on facebook. She gave me a call to thank me.  Janie is over the moon to be pregnant, and told me she and Peter have already named both their girls. Angelica Rose for the little girl they lost because for them she is an Angel who Janie stills feels so strongly around her, and they called their surviving daughter Nicole Grace, after me! Of course, I promptly burst into tears at such an honour. 🙂

RadiantHeart

I am so grateful that I am able to be a messenger for others. It humbles me and awes me both.

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The baby who needed to speak

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PS – If you’re interested in those nifty meditation chairs I mentioned at the beginning of this post, you can contact Angela directly though her website for more information, and to see the cool video that explains how they work.