Maybe....I'll Care More Tomorrow

One of THOSE days….you know, where if you end up taking a shower that day you considered it a big success. Where any make up feels like a lot of effort and thus a waste of effort.

So it was…the day was gloomy. The city awoke beneath a heavy, moist cloud and stayed stuck inside it, all day. As I walked through the dampness, I didn’t even notice the droplets that clung to my hair and sank into my sweatshirt. 

I wondered if I was sad. There certainly was a lot of transitions taking place and I was beginning to feel behind on all of them. Where as only a few weeks before, I was on top of it all like a bouncing ball that said, “follow me, follow me!”. 

But, I didn’t feel so bouncy. Even my hair felt heavy.

With little enthusiasm, my mind rattled a few things on my to do list around in my head. Meh, maybe I’ll care more tomorrow.

I even tried to distract myself by viewing the annual chalk art produced in front of the mission. Despite the wetness, many vibrant colors sprang forth, defiant to the moisture. And still, my heart went “Humph. Ehhhh”. 

I went grocery shopping and had to be mindful not to toss everything without care into the cart. I just felt so uninspired, by anything. 

I wondered, did I expect to feel inspired all the time? Was I supposed to be in love with life, everyday? Wasn’t I though? Or was I?

Maybe I was just what I need to be: aware. Aware of how I felt emotionally and energetically. I allowed my body to follow in suit, rather than force it to do something beyond its reserves. I just simply allowed myself to be.

My dog even eyed me suspiciously, “What’s going on with you today?” Her solution; to pack as much of her 80 pounds on top of me and fall asleep. I think in her sweet way she was trying to comfort me. 

Maybe I will care more tomorrow, or maybe not. I think the important thing is that I’m being honest with myself rather than hiding away from my Truth. Right now, this is my Truth. 

My Reactive Depression

On Tuesday, June 6th 2018 fashion designer Kate Spade hung herself inside her New York home with a scarf. She left a suicide note addressed to her daughter, age 13. Two days later on

Thursday, June 8th renowned chef Anthony Bourdain hung himself in his hotel bathroom in Kayserberg, France. He too also had a daughter, age 11.

1987: I was age eleven when my mother tried to end her life by taking a bottle of pills. It was her second attempt. The first was when my mother was in college.

1993: I learned about the second attempt from my mom’s sister. The story was delivered without much compassion, shared very matter-of-factly. I was not given time or space to process the information in a healthy way. Furthermore, I was not allowed to tell any of my friends because each of them knew her as a "professional figure and leader" in our school. 

Questions spiraled: didn’t my mother love me? Didn’t I matter? Did she realize that I would have been the one to find her body? Did she consider how that could have affected me? I believed I was not enough for her to want to fight her inner battles and demons. This felt like a betrayal.

2004: Deep in the trenches of depression, my mother was placed on suicide watch.

My sister and I went from daughters to guardians for 72 hours. My mother’s behavior during this period demanded attention. In an effort to provide a healthy distraction for my mom, I gathered a group of her friends to go out to dinner. My mother became jealous because I “stole” all the attention. It was that evening, as I watched my mother strive to have all eyes on her, that I realized the depth of her wounds and how those wounds had hurt me. Our relationship was built on approval, not unconditional love. She was competitive, not compassionate. One could not help but wonder if her call for help was really a call for attention? The very next week I started seeing a family therapist. 

Cut to present day…..

I tried my best to process the news about Spade and Bourdain. I consistently checked in with myself to see if I was feeling emotional or reactive but nothing registered. In hindsight, I certainly did not feel like myself. I felt tired, burnt out and attributed it to the fact that my husband Dan and I were overdue for a vacation. Being burnt out made sense.

Our vacation was three weeks and I felt burnt out through most of it. There were so many beautiful sights and wonderful experiences with family and friends but I felt separated from most of it. It was as though I watched it all from a distance.

Near the end of our vacation, I learned about Reactive Depression from a dear friend who’s mother did end her life when she was eleven years old. Same age as I was when my mother tried to take her life a second time. 

Reactive depression is a subtype of clinical depression or major depressive disorder. It is also sometimes called an adjustment disorder with depressed mood, and is characterized by a depressed state in direct response to an external event. * The term resonated with me. I felt the veil begin to lift; I began to understand what my body was doing, how it was reacting. The body is our best companion and it too will register and process an experience in its own way.

Back in Santa Barbara, in late July….

We watched “The Snowman”, a psychological thriller which stars Michael Fassbender, a detective in search of a serial killer. In the beginning, a young boy’s mother takes her life right in front of him. As the car sunk into the murky ice water of the frozen lake, the mother gazed at her son, while the boy watched helpless. The boy in the film looked to be about 10 to 11 years old. My eyes blinked rapidly in astonishment and I thought “What the f** is up with all these parents committing suicide whom have children?”

I felt a shudder of anger wash through me. In moments, Guttural, deep sobs unleashed from deep within. My husband held me and I allowed myself to shake in his arms as whirls of emotions purged deep from my soul.

I wrestle with the full being of my mother’s dark side. People like to argue their perception of her with my reality. Many people had the impression of my mother as a solid individual: strong, independent, direct and a get-it-done person. There was certainly that side of her. However, those closest to her knew she battled depression. I suspect, that had my mother sought counseling she would have likely been diagnosed as manic depressive. She operated magic on the highs and crashed into the darkness when in the lows.

I am grateful to have released those deep and heavy emotions that were buried for so long. I feel reconnected with myself in a deeper, loving way. I understand there will likely be triggers in the future and I accept that. I don’t believe my mother intended to hurt me or my sister in the ways in which she did. She was wounded and didn’t give herself permission to heal. 

Though my mother did harm, it is up to me consciously heal. My personal practice is to allow and give myself time and space to process when something surfaces. I know and trust that I am worthy and it is up to me fill the cup. My daily practice is to love thyself. Life lessons are profound and may we all have the grace to be present for them within our own hearts.

If you are in crisis, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255)

https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

 

READING REFERENCES

*Definition of Reactive Depression

http://www.psyweb.com/articles/depression/definition-of-reactive-depression/

 

Coping With a Parent’s Suicide

https://childmind.org/article/coping-with-a-parents-suicide/

 

An Open Letter to Any Child Who Lost a Parent to Suicide

https://psychcentral.com/lib/an-open-letter-to-children-who-lose-a-parent-to-suicide/

 

Support After Suicide (Provides helpful tips on how to be a supportive partner/friend)

www.supportaftersuicide.org/au 

The Jeweled Heart

There was a little girl who really wanted to receive her mother’s love. She did everything she could do, but it was never quite enough. As the girl grew older, her attempts changed. Still, the girl did not win her mother’s love, but instead her mother’s constant disapproval. The girl was very unhappy and begin to feel trapped. She tried to understand, tried to reason, but could never really make sense of it. 

Then one day, the girl met a beautiful gypsy. The gypsy had a big, red jeweled heart. The gypsy could tell the girl was intrigued by its beauty. The girl asked what the jewel meant for she had never seen something so bright, bold and clear before. The gypsy said “Love”. The girl was mystified as she didn’t know love could look like this. The gypsy offered the girl the jeweled heart as a gift, for free. The girl was stunned and asked, “What I have done to earn this?” The gypsy said “Nothing. Love is free. Everyone possesses the ability to love and everyone is worthy of unconditional love. You may have this”. 

The girl, amazed to tears, gratefully took the jeweled heart into her hands. As she held it, she began to feel its wonderful, warm, liberating power. She began to understand that it felt right not being earned and that it felt even better to share the love without asking for anything in return. 

With this new knowledge, the girl stopped seeking love from her mother. She was simply happy and chose to share her joy with others. One day, she came home and could not find the jeweled heart. Frantic, she managed to find the gypsy. “The jeweled heart suddenly disappeared!” The gypsy replied, “Once you chose to share your love with others unconditionally you no longer needed the jeweled heart to understand your worth. The love, the worthiness, was within you all along. You have embraced this. Thus, the jeweled heart returned to where is resided all along: within you.”

“Real love inspires us to focus on giving more than getting.”
— Sheryl Paul, "Conscious Transitions"

 

 

I Miss Her, Sometimes

A few weeks ago I revised my profile photo to bring awareness to an upcoming event. Within minutes, I received a comment.

“You look like your mom. I miss her.”

I wasn’t at all surprised. All my life I have heard that I am an image of my mother. Ever since she passed away 6 years ago, the new adage has been “I miss her.”

When I was younger, I internally cringed when people said that I looked like her. I do not deny that I look like my mother; it’s obvious in photos of her when she was younger. The negative association stemmed from my mother replying to these type of compliments with “Oh, but she’s SO much prettier than I ever was.” And she meant it, with a bitter tone, that was hard to miss. Each admiration was quickly chopped down to be about my mother’s insecurities. Always. 

My mom saw my sister and I as extensions of herself and there was not a lot of room to disappoint. Being that I looked a lot like my mother, added an intense pressure of having to do and be what she wanted me to be. I failed. 

My mother and I had a combative relationship a good portion of my life: when I was child and had not yet succumbed to being a mother-pleaser and in my twenties when I decided to consciously honor thyself and forgo the life mission of trying to win my mother’s approval. 

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Over time, I worked on healing myself and that allowed me to be present during her transition. I will not go into the details of that chapter here simply because I am not ready to share the most personal, intimate details of that experience that were profoundly beautiful and powerful. After my mother died, I began to dream about her. They were not just dreams, they were visits. Intense, spiritual visits that brought forth a deep healing. They continue today.

For about a year after she died, I had moments when I would think, “I should call Mom and share this with her” and then I would remember. There have been and will be occasions when I wish she was here. 

When Dan and I were traveling around the United States, while in Colorado I found myself in a funk because I was in search of my life’s purpose. I was questioning if my ability to channel was my purpose. Was it worthy? Was I?

The energy of my doubt and confusion was as large as the herd of buffalo that crossed the road we watched from a distance. While a large, male buffalo scratched his butt on a post, my heart sent out these questions like a satellite looking for Jupiter. The post eventually fell down and the male buffalo walked on. That night, my mom came to me in a dream.

I had picked up my bag and was just about to exit the door of our little wooden cabin where we had stayed for the night. In came the phone call. I answered and knew instantly who it was.

The connection was staticky but her voice clearly said, “What you are doing is worth it. It is important.” I could feel the energy it took get those words across the ruffled connection.

Then, she was gone. 

I feel more connected to my mother than ever before. I can connect with her anytime I need to because I am fortunate to have the ability to channel. It’s like a dial up to the other side. Our spiritual connection is strong and the love between us is one of the truest feelings I have ever known. It carries that sense of heaven that my grandmother did when she came to visit.

When people ask me if I miss my mom I pause before I answer; I know they’re expecting me to say “yes”. The truth is: sometimes. People miss other people when they are no longer present in their lives; a family member who is passed, a friend traveling around the world, an ex-lover. My mom is present. Her and I are connected and she is here when ever I need her. 

The topic if I am like her is a different blog. (wink wink)

 

The Girl That Once Lived in a Tree

There once was a girl who lived in a tree.

She befriended the flowers, birds and bees

and talked to the ants and spiders

that crawled along beside her.

She read books and sang songs

and went on magical journeys that were long.

When tired, she nestled in under the nests 

and allowed her fears and worries to rest.

When the Tree spoke to her, she listened,

sometimes aware of the tree’s tears as they glistened.

The Tree was wise 

and knew of the girl's dreams

and allowed her to be without disguise.

She beamed

bright as the moon,

and strong as the sun.

No fears loomed 

for the girl trusted The One.

In the branches and trunks of the Tree

the girl allowed herself to be,

ever so happily.

There once was a girl that lived in a tree.

“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. ”
— Hermann Hesse

The Dancer Within

When I was little, I would sit and watch the dance rehearsals my mom led. I would color or play with my toys, enjoy the music and happy energy that filled the room, sometimes an entire gym.

My mother was the department head of the Physical Education and Dance Department at our local high school; my sister’s and my alma matter. My mother developed the department into a successful division within the high school: it made money and improved many students’ self esteem. As young as I was, little did I understand how powerful of a positive impact the dance program had on my mother’s students. The annual Spring dance recital gave students something to look forward to; communion and community. 

As I grew up, I didn’t want to be a dancer like my mom. It was a disappointment - me not being a dancer like her - that she reminded me of quite often. I didn’t want to BE my mom.

I was a choir geek. I joined choir in seventh grade and was involved in a group all the way through my sophomore year in college. I loved singing and because of the various shows, I eventually became comfortable with stage movements once I joined our high school show choir. This led me into taking dance classes in college. I developed my foundation as “proper dancer” easily; it felt natural. It was as though all the dancing I had been exposed to at a young age had seeped in, stuck, and was oozing out. Being around the choreography, costumes, stage layouts and arrangements were absorbed by my young mind like osmosis.

In college, I would practice a dance piece hard and for many hours to get it just right. Ironically, I loved it. Choreography wasn’t about perfection for me, it was more like a road map in which to explore  and get familiar with my physical body. Suddenly, my lanky arms and legs had purpose! There was something almost magical when I felt my body in rhythm with the music.

I grew to love East Coast swing and salsa dancing. I picked those up like I had taken professional classes. It seemed I couldn’t get enough of any style of dancing. But, my body had its limitations; I pulled my left hamstring and that took me out of the practice. It was a forced break, that I resented at the time.

The two things I did not ever experience with dancing was feeling beautiful and whole. Due to the competitive nature, I always felt inferior, inefficient…a lack of skill, tone, strength, and beauty.

I found yoga in my late twenties and it felt so organic. People would say “well, it’s because of your dance background.” Perhaps. I loved exploring what my body could do and learn. I marveled being in a pose and feeling the changes in my muscles, the alignment of my joints; the connection to myself deepened on so many levels. Don’t get me wrong, in the beginning, I was after perfection in my practice. I really thought it had to look a certain way, based on what little I knew. 

Fast forward 14 years later, I became an advocate for the Accessible Yoga movement. The belief is that no matter your size, shape, age, illness, injury or ability - you can do yoga. Everyone can do yoga. I make my classes accessible: no person left behind. Not even myself.

I have had to recover from an injury to my right shoulder and left hamstring (again). That’s what happens when you try to sprint up a steep hill after a powerful dog who is half breed with a billy goat. I continue to practice and teach because I know how to modify and, more importantly, not push my body beyond its capabilities. The journey in healing is not about getting back to “where I was before” but simply allowing my body to heal as it needs to. I do not push my body beyond what feels right for it. 

My husband and I recently went to see the musical “Kinky Boots”. As I watched the final number, I could feel my entire body remember what it was like to be in a stage production; the coordination, camaraderie, communication, synergy and connection with the audience. I remembered it well. For a brief moment, I pondered “Should I take up dancing again?” It was just a moment.

I’m not interested in getting my knee to sweep past my head with a high kick or wrap my leg around one shoulder. I’m more interested in experiencing the subtle shift within. Today, when people compliment me on how pretty my practice is, a part of me cringes inside. They usually say something like, “You must have been a dancer, I can see it in your practice.” The practice isn’t about what it needs to look like; it’s about what it needs to feel like. It’s my intention to bring that awareness into my classes, to share that with students.

I am honored to be able to share my love and knowledge of yoga with people. My intention is to provide a safe and nurturing practice. It’s not about the headstands, it’s not about how cool you look; it’s about how you feel and being honest with yourself about it. I love looking at my students and seeing them each in a variation of an asana (pose) that is right for them. It shows me they’re honoring themselves and their needs. That’s perfection to me.

Today, I’m invested into the practice of self love. The dancer within shows up sometimes in the way I extend my arms or in subtleties like transitioning between poses, but the dancer in me knows that the love of dancing was only a path to what I do now. 

“Yoga is a dance within…and then something inside you grows so big, it spills out like champagne, that’s when you dance on the outside.”
— Tao Porchon Lynch

Incarceration or Incubation?

“I just want people to take a step back, take a deep breath and actually look at something with a different perspective. But most people will never do that.”
— Brian McKnight

The Thomas Fire ravaged many acres and disrupted many lives. The city of Santa Barbara was a ghost town amidst the dark, smokey haze that blanketed the region. Ash fell like snow and the sun, if visible, glowed an eery red. It was almost apocalyptic. 

The holiday season certainly took a detour for many. For some, the forced incubation felt like incarceration, others a time of reflection or a great excuse to get out of town. Residents that did stay home were sequestered, sealed in from the smoke, haze and ash. When outdoors, residents were required to wear particle masks. It looked like an attempt to keep a plague from spreading like a wild fire.

I locked myself in our bungalow and found life stripped of luxuries that varied from electricity,  daily walks and teaching yoga. I watched for updates constantly and talked profusely of the “what if we have to evacuate plan”.

People were not able to breathe fresh air for weeks. Never before, I had been so aware of how precious a breath of fresh air was. 

Many people did loose their homes, but not their community. Community, through the kindness of action, arose in many ways. Public libraries handed out free masks. People opened up their homes to evacuees and had guests sleeping wall to wall. Local eateries donated meals to first responders. People posted updates on FB to make sure all loved ones were up to date. Volunteers worked 12-hour shifts at the evacuation centers. Most of all; people said “thank you”. I didn’t hear anyone ask “Why are the fire fighters not doing a better job?” Even out-of-towners want to deliver cookies to the fire fighters.

Nothing about the fire made anyone less-blessed. I believe it made a great many people more aware of what to be grateful for. I do understand many will be traumatized by the experience for some time to come, but they will heal. For some, people learn the art of letting go through death. Perhaps The Thomas Fire encouraged many of us to let go of what it is not meant to be now. Fire is considered a purifier in some religions and perhaps this is Mother Nature’s version on a grand scale. 

I saw my sequester as a time of incubation.
 

“I love what I do, and I just remember that every breath and every moment is a gift and it can be taken away at any time, so I want to appreciate it and be grateful for it while it’s here.”
— Alyson Stoner

What Does It Mean To Be A Woman?

Ever since I could remember, I have been flooded with images on what the “perfect female” looks like. In my early teens the female silhouette that was en vogue was the curvy, hour glass and models like Christy Brinkley and Cindy Crawford embodied them. Me, being rail thin with no curves in sight, took it to mean that my body wasn’t special. I was different from the magazines, many peers, friends and family and began to feel unattractive. Once that seed was planted, it thrived.

I don’t suppose I ever fit the mold of a typical little girl. I loved playing cowboys, getting dirty, playing with bugs and hated wearing dresses and combing my hair. My first best friend was a boy and I would much rather play with his Star War toys than my barbie dolls and read his dinosaur books over my “cutesier books”. To this day, I still like getting dirty and building stuff.

I’m mentally boggled by the “traditional tasks of being female”; what women are supposed to do.” I don’t mean the ultra-cliche chores like cleaning and cooking. I don’t mind cooking and I like a clean house because I like a clean house. That has nothing to do with my gender, though I know there are people in the world who think so. I’m talking about society saying women need to be pretty, friendly and sexy at all times. 

One time, while I waited on cue to have my photo taken for a Costco membership card, a man whom I didn’t know said, “Smile, you’ll look prettier.”

Excuse me, Mr. Poo-Poo, I’m not your cheerleader.

My friend Kelly, who used to model, would spend time practicing holding sultry poses so that during a photo shoot, the awkwardness of the postures didn’t hurt as much and thus looked more natural.

I’ve been told I have a “strong personality”. I am honest, outspoken, protective of my loved ones, am a leader and can be assertive. Those are traits that are typically associated as being masculine and because I embody them, I’ve been described as abrasive. When I have gotten angry, there are men who have tried to shame me by saying that I’m aggressive. A woman can’t get mad but is only expected to get emotional. Bullshit.

Personality wise, I am who I am. I don’t try to pretend otherwise. As a human being, I am entitled to not always be “on” in order to make someone feel better. As an individual, how I express myself should not be a threat to anyone. As a female, my voice should be heard as equal and my choices seen just as powerful and positive as a man’s. It is my hope that one day all men will understand their own sense of masculinity, because if they did, then they would know it can’t be threatened. 

At 41 years of age, I have finally come to a place of self-awareness and self-love wherein I appreciate my physical body. Yoga helped me embrace the individual beauty of my form. It was through the asanas that I began to redefine each inch of myself, from criticism into appreciation. I now know that every decade has a female silhouette that’s in fashion and society will encourage all women to try and fit into the mold. I dress MY body for what makes me feel good, from the inside out. After 20 years, I have stopped straightening my hair. I was lead to believe that smooth hair was more sophisticated, cleaner and neater. I’ve let my wild waves roam free and it feels great! 

The pendulum is shifting; the divine feminine energy is rising and expanding. It’s being talked about, acted out and shared. Women are using their voices and working together to support one another. 

I’m blessed to have found a life-partner that doesn’t expect me to fulfill certain house-chores just because I’m a woman. I take the trash bins out, mow the lawn and every blue moon get in the mood to bake. My hubby and I make a good team in the kitchen. It seems to amaze some people. Recently, fresh out of the shower, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a nondescript t-shirt, my husband said that he found me at my sexiest, because I didn’t care what anyone thought. 

I leave you with one of my favorite quotes for all my Soul Sisters. Please know you are loved, worthy and beautiful - JUST THE WAY YOU ARE. 

“Wild moon woman

you were not made

to be tame.

You are an earthquake

shaking loose

everything that is not soul.

Shake, woman, shake”

~ Anonymous

Talking With The Dead

After I nearly slashed a shower curtain to shreds, the dreams began. Vivid and effusive, they delivered a profound healing of forgiveness. 

For months after my grandmother Carmen’s death, I battled my guilty conscious. She had asked for me during her last days and I resisted until the very end. There, amidst the family gathered, I stood near her bed, with my two year old cousin in my arms, and witnessed her draw her last breath. As I watched her energy leave her body, I sensed her essence fill the room. 

The dreams held hours of conversation with Carmen. They filled many nights, over several months. We communicated through emotions and a language not perceived by word of mouth, but through sensing. I would cry, deep tears of anguish and apologize incessantly.

In our final conversation, seated upon the small love seat in the living room of our house, I professed my guilt and sorrow one last time and she professed her forgiveness and I felt it. 

Months later….

One afternoon, as I laid down for a nap, I heard my grandmother whistling down the hall. I heard her rustling about and she eventually made her way to my room. I saw her soft, brown wavy head of hair and that she was wearing her favorite sweater. I felt the gentle pressure of her hands upon the comforter as she tucked me. Her hand ran down my left arm and near my hand, sending a warmth into my entire body. The sense was so deep, it washed through me. It felt divine and I knew it for what it was: pure love and peace.

In my late-20’s….

While journaling I received the words, “He see’s red”, as though someone had whispered into my ear. It didn’t compliment my train of thought nor did the penmanship match my own. I recognized the hand writing; it was my grandmother Carmen’s. I got the sense to call my friend Steve, a fire fighter. Carmen had a fondness for Steve, as he and I had grown up together.

I called Steve.

Me: Dude, this is going to sound crazy but…. (I explained the story).

Steve: (Laughter) Oh man! (More laughter)

Me: (Cringing on the other end of the phone line)

Steve: I happen to be home today because I’m officially on medical leave. Last night, our team was called to put out a kitchen fire. I was in the kitchen when there was an explosion and I was thrown back against a wall. Just before I blacked out, I saw red.”

Journaling became a practice of allowing messages from Carmen to come through. Each message was beautiful, profound and filled with a sense of peace. I didn’t know what to do with this gift or what to call it. I wasn’t a traditional psychic as I was not able to see or predict the future.

Eventually, I shared my ability with my mother and a few family members. My mother eventually shared it with one of her brothers Pete, whom had a psychic ability of his own and believed. 

After my Uncle Pete lost his wife Marion to breast cancer, he came to me and asked that I channel a message from Marion. No information was provided. Knowing he was in deep grief and said, “Sure thing, Tio Pete.”

I said a little prayer and wrote down what ever came through. Once the message seemed complete, I translated the portions where the language was a challenge to comprehend, typed it up and emailed it to my uncle. It went on like that for a few years: he’d ask for a message, I’d channel, type it up and send it. My uncle offered no feedback; I had no clue if anything I channeled was accurate.

About a year later, Uncle Pete said, “You know, Tania, your messages have really helped me. They’re right on. There were times when your messages contained things that only Marion and I knew. My questions were usually answered.”

He had questions?!

Too Pete helped groom my ability to channel. What had seemed like a blind tap-in was truly a connection of trust. Trusting spirit and myself. Not knowing what my uncle’s questions were allowed me to receive messages without being filtered by looking for an answer.

Over time, the way messages come through has evolved. I receive images, colors, banners of words, and can now see and sense energy in people too. I tap into the Spirit Realm to connect with Departed Loved Ones, one’s Higher Consciousness, Spirit Guides and other energy beings (including pets). Think of it like raising an antenna to reach a particular frequency. My extrasensory ability is called Clairaudient: I hear the messages.

I ask that clients do not share any questions with me before a session. This allows for what comes through to be pure and untainted without any expectations or guidelines. There is no hocus-pocus, no need for my clients to stand on their heads or meditate during the time of the channeling. Messages are filled with love, compassion and wisdom. 

I still connect with my grandmother. She visits from time to time in dreams and through aromas. Her’s is the scent of baby powder and roses. I also connect with my mother on a regular basis, Kelly my friend, and any spirit someone requests me to.

About two years ago, a medium looked at me and said, “Your grandmother gifted you this ability.” What both my grandmother and mother have said to me is that it’s taken generations for all of us to get to the Is-ness of this ability. With careful design and faithful agreements, through various lifetimes, was all intended to have me step out and share this gift now, rather than hide away with it. I believe, as they do, that this gift is intended to help people, just as it has helped me.

I am a channeler and healer. 

When Grandma Comes To Visit

During the Fall of 1994, the beginning of my freshman year in collage, one afternoon while studying home alone, I heard footsteps upstairs. I listened. The sound of the foot fall upon the ceiling and pattern of the steps was distinct. There was someone one upstairs. My mind raced. How did they get in? Was the sliding door to the balcony of the master bedroom unlocked? The footsteps left the master bedroom and began to make their way down the hall, to the stairs. My heart leapt to my throat. I quietly got up and went for the first thing that came to mind; a kitchen knife. I slipped it out of the wooden block and waited. The steps began to descend the stairs. Shit. Should I make a break for it out the back door? The steps descended, one by one…into silence. I stood frozen to the ground. I continued to listen but heard absolutely nothing but the sound of my own heavy breath. 

I looked out of the kitchen to the stairs; no one was there waiting. I grew braver and walked into the living room to get a better view of the stairs. Affirmation granted; no one was there. Did they sneak back up stairs? I walked to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Nothing. Now confused, I was unsure of what to do. Was I crazy? Hadn’t I just heard someone walking around upstairs?

Pride took over. I needed to make sure I wasn’t crazy. Slowly, I ascended the stairs to the hallway. Nothing. First thing I did was lay down on my stomach because, there in the hallway at the top of the stairs, one could have the vantage point to any of the three bedrooms. I looked, able to see under each bed; no one.

The next quickest hide away would have been the bathroom. A-ha! I thought, they’re hiding in the shower. I leapt up and slashed the knife through the plastic shower curtain…twice. Nothing.

What the….??

I did a careful search through each bedroom, each closet, under each bed. I even scanned the the carpet in each room looking for a shoe print. Still nothing.

I went back down stairs and put the kitchen knife back into its block. I half chuckled at myself and marveled at the perspiration that had gathered upon my brow. What was going on?

Then it clicked. The pattern of the steps had been in the master bedroom, where my grandmother had also slept. When she’d make the bed, she’d go from side to side, pulling up the covers, back and forth until the bed was made. Then she’d walk from the master bedroom down the hallway, to the stairs….

My grandmother had been dead for over a year.