LET MEDICINE BE YOUR FOOD?????

So cardiologists in Britain have it all figured out. MacStatin! Yes. Just add a little packet of statins to your fast food and you can eat all the high calorie, low nutritive food you like and not get heart disease. Really?

Well, it doesn’t work that way. Cholesterol lowering agents will not protect you from a gluttonous diet. Hippocrates said…a long time ago…Let Food Be Your Medicine…NOT Let Medicine Be Your Food!

You are what you eat! It’s true.

So much fuss about rising health care costs in this country. Well, I have a really simple plan to CURE AMERICA…Tax Sugar.

Yes, I’m serious. If a heavy tax was levied on sugar then low nutritive junk food would be so expensive that we would be forced to eat highly nutritious natural foods. The Sugar Tax would be used to pay for health care….simple. And guess what? By eating better, many of our health problems would disappear!

Imagine candy bars behind bars! Locked up because candy is so expensive that grocers fear candy theft!

Imagine the check out at the grocery store lined with…apples! And oranges and pears and cherries and grapes! Yes, fruit for the pickin’—inexpensive, easily accessible, healthy. Because all highly nutritive foods would be cheap, in comparison to low nutritive foods…our divine right to eat healthy and if you so choose—a luxury to eat junk!

Oh, you’re worried about pesticides on the produce. Well, don’t!  The Sugar Tax would be how we jump start the healing of our first world woes. A pyramid of taxes—with sugar at the base, followed by white flour, then a sliding tax scale based on nutritive value…the lower the nutritive value, the higher the tax on processed food…with a formidable exception…there will also be a tax on carbon footprint. The more energy it takes to get the food to market, the higher the tax—meaning it will save to eat local. The more natural foods would be the least expensive. Oh, and the pesticide covered produce—another level of taxes! No more feeding chickens and cows antibiotics and growth hormone, only completely organic foods, grown without pesticides and pharmaceuticals, with the lowest possible carbon footprint—will be not only the best food for us, but the least expensive!

Michele Obama is concerned that right now, the poor cannot afford to eat healthy foods. You can feed a family of four at McDonalds for $10…fresh produce, organic chicken, whole grains…are just too expensive. There is seriously something wrong with this system.

We can pay for all of our health care costs in this country without a “Cadillac Tax”, without socialized medicine, with free choice of health care providers, with insurance plans that favor healthy lifestyles…through the Sugar Tax!

So to begin: All forms of sugar would be taxed and all artificial sweeteners. Why? Because like sugar, artificial sweeteners increase insulin production leading to insulin resistance, diabetes and heart disease. Really it’s not the fat that makes us fat. It’s the sugar!

Over twenty years ago, we were told to eat less fat so we began consuming more sugar to replace the fat. We are fatter, have more diabetes and heart disease, more learning disabilities, cancer, and immune dysfunction than ever before.

Cardiologists blame cholesterol for heart disease. And conventional medicine has been blaming high fat diets for high cholesterol. Yet it’s really sugar that leads to high cholesterol production and the inflammation which is really the big killer.
Yes, there are other factors…toxicity from poisoning our environment but just wait…the Sugar Tax is just the beginning. We begin with taxing sugar, just like the tobacco tax…yes, I know, despite the tax, people still smoke…but much less and smoke free zones are more popular. Just one generation ago, smoking was posh and now…it’s frowned upon. You can still have sugar…you will just have to pay for the luxury. It will be a conscious choice to choose to indulge in unhealthy food rather than all you can afford.

Making healthy food cheap and fast food expensive, well….in just one generation, we will have cured at least half of our modern diseases…Really! It only took one generation of poorly fed young women…girls who grew up eating high sugar, highly processed, pesticide-drug laden, artificial foods…to bear a lot of sick children. Children suffering from learning disabilities, allergies, asthma, seizures, eczema, obesity, depression. We are what we eat!

We can eat out way to a healthy America! I believe other first world countries will follow our example. Aren’t we the leaders of the free world? So let us set the best example.

Let Food Be Our Medicine!

ITALIAN HUGS AND KISSES

We didn’t go to Philly often…Once when I was about five, my mother took all of us little girls on the plane to visit Nana and Poppop. The twins were three and the youngest a year old. We were dressed as if to go to church. You had to dress up to fly in the 60’s. My stiff red frock barely covered the frilly slip. My thick hair flipped up from my stylish page cut to peek around the little white hat. I tried to be still and keep my sisters quiet by reading them a book, but excitement got the best of me. So when the plane landed and the stewardess helped Mommy take all four of us down the stairs, finally I could see my grandparents waving at us. Not responsible for either twin, I was free to run into their arms. 

I don’t remember my father on that trip. But I do remember Poppop’s joy at seeing us. The press of his big lips against my cheek.  Enveloping my senses with his Old Spice cologne. Caressing my face with the softest oiled leather hands on any man I’ve ever known. Pop held me as if to never let me go. 

Their row house on Sheridan Street was home. The house I remember from my infancy. The plastic covered furniture. (Nana was obsessively neat!) The smell of sautéed garlic permeating every room. The skinny stairway and the pink bathroom! Sharing a comfy wide bed with the twins, playing in the converted basement filled with toys! More toys than we had at home…most were mine left over from when we lived with Nana and Poppop…including Tony the Pony!—a mechanical horse given to me for Christmas 1962—I was only twenty months old…Mommy was very, very pregnant with the twins and Daddy was taking my picture with a movie camera. I was chasing Nana on my pony and kept going in circles. Poppop would try to help and I would laugh and laugh because now he was chasing me! 

So many wonderful memories of my grandparents. We flew from California to visit them again when I was nine and then about fourteen. After that visit, my father made me promise that when I graduated high school in four years that I would go back East with them. Of course I would! He had more foresight than me. By the time I was 18, I was desperately in love with Steve (we met in high school track in my junior year) and did NOT want to go with THEM and leave HIM! 

A promise is a promise. So in the summer of 1979, we once again flew back to Philadelphia. And there I was in Poppop’s embrace, the smell of his Old Spice cologne filling my senses, the feel of his oiled leather hand against my cheek, and his sad, long face when we had to go. After six weeks away, I couldn’t WAIT to return to Steve’s embrace. But I felt Poppop’s heart break and even now I cannot erase from my mind’s eye his sad face at our parting. 

Nana and Poppop came to visit us every summer. They stayed three months from the end of one school year to the beginning of the next. They took us on wonderful trips—to Disneyland and SeaWorld, San Francisco and Vegas (we stayed in Circus Circus!)—lots of fun and adventure. Poppop paid for everything. And before school began, we went shopping for new school clothes, shoes and accessories. He would wait outside the shops while Nana and Mom helped us in the dressing rooms. He just handed Nana money from a thick roll and waited until we got everything we needed. “Are you happy, Poppy?” He would ask. “Did you get everything you wanted?” Sometimes my little sister would put on her pouty face and get one more blouse or belt and then of course, he insisted the rest of us get more. One year when we were all teenagers, he bought us leather jackets…very stylish. He spoiled us! 

The summer Poppop got to meet Steve, I was so excited. I knew Poppop would love Steve, how could he not…Pop loved me…so of course he would love my boyfriend! Spending nearly every summer with us, my grandparents had met a few boyfriends of ours and Poppop greeted each of them the same way—with a kiss. In the manner of Italian men. All the boys were very uncomfortable with him. Not Steve. Being a good Greek boy, he accepted Pop’s kiss graciously. And Poppop turned to me and said, “You keep this one.” I did. 

Steve adored him. How could he not? Poppop was the most generous loving man you could ever meet. Always happy to help you, delighted to spend time with you, so sad to leave you. He was kind to everyone and everyone loved him. 

But Poppop died eight months before Steve and I got married. I was devastated. They had come to California just before Christmas, finally, to retire. Poppop looked really bad when he got off the plane. Only a student nurse but I knew…he was dying. I tried to do everything I could to save him. Being the only medical one in the family…they all looked to me to explain what was happening.  Although sober for twenty years, he had cirrhosis. His liver no longer able to detoxify his blood and began to poison him. His mind became foggy and he could not do much for himself. But he wanted to look presentable so, he would ask Steve to shave him. And Steve did, tenderly and with tears in his eyes, even the day we had to put him in the hospital just before New Years, Poppop didn’t want to go unshaven. Just 21 days after coming to be with us, Pop died. 

I don’t remember the funeral. I know I went. They say I was there, but I don’t remember. I’ve blocked it and my pain blocked Poppop from coming to me afterwards for over seven years. Not until the fall of 1990 did I dream of my dear Pop. Steve had finished building the kids a jungle gym in the corner of our backyard. In my dream, Pop was playing pinnacle with one of the twins on a wooden front porch where Steve had built the jungle gym. I sat down with them and Poppop motioned for me to pick up the dummy hand and play. I whispered, “Where’s Nana?” She had died just 20 months after Pop in 1984. My sister said, “She’ll come when Steve finishes the kitchen.” Of course, Nana was always in the kitchen. 

Later that year, I was driving the kids to visit my family. Trepidation gripped my heart. I didn’t want to go without Steve. Even on Thanksgiving he had to work. Crime takes no holidays…so neither do policemen. Yet it was more than leaving my beloved…I had visions of crashing the car…and most of my visions came true. I didn’t want to go. 

Yet we were expected, so I packed up the Volvo with all the pies I had made, strapped the kids into their car seats and paused to wrap us in white light. Only two and six, Kyra and Jarys smiled at the white light. Still as I drove down the highway with my precious cargo, I was afraid. And suddenly, I smelled Old Spice and felt an oiled leather hand caress my cheek and heard…”It’s ok, Poppy.” Tears poured down my cheeks. How grateful I was to have this divine connection. Jarys piped up from the back, “It smells like Poppop!” Yes, my precious son, it did. 

Since then, I have experienced hugs and kisses through the ethers whenever I needed them. Love thins the veil between the worlds of this I am sure. 

I love you, Poppop. XOXOXO

DANCING WITH DEATH

I’ve been dancing with death. I believe that death begats birth…and I appreciate the tender new soul growth emerging from the soil of loss. Truly I understand the circle of life…yet my heart grieves still… 

Before we could bury Gran, I had to attend another funeral. 

Just one day after Gran passed; I chose to join my husband’s family at the beach. One of Gran’s favorite places. But they gathered without me…instead I drove 95 miles from the foggy coast to the high desert to see a patient. 

I don’t usually make house calls. Most of my patients live 50 or miles from me. Some are out of the country. So making house calls is not really practical. But I did this time. 

Anita was one of my favorites…not that I should have favorite patients…but we had been working together for almost four years…really tough healing work, the kind that shifts the soul…hers and mine. Anita had cancer. 

She came to me for a spiritual healing. Her cancer had advanced and her family thought this was it. I asked her. “Do you want to live or are you ready to die? Either way I’ll help you.” She chose life. So I did my best to help her live. 

Nearly four years of research, trying the best in alternative care—that was her desire—and integrating with some conventional therapies…the best of both worlds. It was a rollercoaster ride—thrilling and scary. I am not a cancer specialist. I’m a hormone specialist. But I’m really good at medical detective work. And I favor the underdog. I hate when patients are not given choices. So I try to investigate the root cause of their dis-ease and usually find something we can work on. Sometimes the root is physical. Sometimes it’s psychological. Always I dig up spiritual roots. 

So in our very first consultation, I got to the heart of the matter. Clearly there was not time to waste with stage IV head and neck cancer.  The conventional physicians she had consulted had not given her much hope…so she explored alternative treatments on her own. It’s sad that we don’t integrate medicine as much as we should. We are all on the wheel of health care together…why can’t we partner? 

Well, at least my patients are willing to partner with me. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s their dance. They pick the music, I follow their lead. And I love to dance! And I haven’t met anyone I can’t partner with on the dance floor. The secret is being open to receive them. Same with patients…if I am open to receive them…our dance is harmonious. 

So I danced with Anita. Followed her lead through the slow laborious melodies and the rapid tumultuous tunes. It was always her dance, not mine. Not that I didn’t have to remind myself on more than one occasion. Like last year, just before her daughter’s wedding. We were nearly there…having accomplished the last of her goals. She wanted to attend her daughter’s wedding as healthy and happy as possible. And all looked well…except I had a niggling worry. One that wouldn’t stop pestering me. Her daughter’s wedding was what she was living for…there was nothing beyond seeing her daughter all grown up, graduated from college and happily married. 

So I brought Anita home…Yes, I work at home…in an office on my property, surrounded by healing herb gardens and great energy…but never had I invited a patient to stay with me, until Anita. It was a deep healing journey for both of us. I helped her discover where her “death wish” originated. We all unconsciously and sometimes consciously direct our bodies towards dis-ease. Sometimes towards death. It begins as a belief that manifests in our body as dis-ease. Anita had hers…and I felt that my job was to enlighten her…then help her reverse the “death wish” and replace it with a “life wish”. That meant finding her purpose. 

She named a possible purpose…yet before she left I asked what she learned…and her “purpose” had not stuck… She said, “Being with you, watching you take care of yourself while you take care of me, makes me realize that I’m not taking care of myself as well as I could be.” 

Anita taught me a crucial lesson. BEING is more important than DOING. Walking my Talk…Being my Truth. Taking excellent care of myself physically, emotionally, spiritually left the deepest impression on Anita.  When we parted, she thanked me. The following month, she attended her only daughter’s wedding—as whole as possible in the face of her disease—pain-free, able to dance all night, as she wished. 

And afterwards her health diminished. Plagued by complications of metastatic cancer, she rallied for months. She tried a promising alternative therapy, yet the cancer progressed. I hesitated to order that last MRI. I knew she didn’t want to know. And we discovered the worst—the cancer had spread to her brain. 

It was time to let her go…to follow yet another path…this time to a major medical center. A path she had resisted…yet at the end she had to try one more possibility. I knew the specialists would want to try more than she believed in…so I went to the hospital to see her before surgery…to be sure she understood that it was palliative, not curative. She understood but had to do it for her family…to show she tried…everything…even though she was tired…even though she was scared. That was the last time I saw her walking and talking…clear headed…determined…yet knowing there was more. She wasn’t quite ready to go then, but she had accepted her death and felt the extra time would help her daughter let her go. And the last ditch effort to save her would help her husband feel they had exhausted all possibilities. She told me then that she did not want to die in the hospital…reminded me of her wishes…and thanked me for my care. 

Over the last three months, she was enmeshed in conventional cancer treatment. The specialists kept telling her everything looked good…but our phone consults, the reports from the visiting nurse, the lab reports told another story. I knew she was dying but her family did not. So I went to her home to help them let her go. 

All the way there I reminded myself why I had become a Family Nurse Practitioner. This was the circle of life. I birth them and death them…it’s a dance of midwifery into the body and out of the body. Yet still it’s hard to let go. 

When I arrived, Anita’s husband let out a great sigh of relief. I could feel the heavy burden he had carried for so long. I gave him a hug and greeted her daughter and son-in-law. They too were delighted to see me…and escorted me to Anita’s room. 

Anita was a lilac flame…a bright and beautiful energy…very loving, a bit tender, yet strong willed. But that night her brilliance had faded. The energy of the dying fades back to white. Hers had concentrated in her heart chakra only a faintly purple glow. She didn’t have much time. 

Carefully I examined her, describing to her family what I saw. Anita was resting, not comfortably and was barely lucid.  Gently I explained the process of death. What would happen to her physically, mentally and energetically.  They wanted to know why the doctors had not told them the truth. Just two days before, she had radiation and they had to cancel that day’s appointment. Clearly she couldn’t go. Clearly… 

As hard as it is for me to let my patients go, it’s harder for doctors. Death is seen as a failure in medicine. Anita’s husband felt the same. “I don’t know what to do if I can’t fix it.” 

I reassured him that they had done everything possible, but now it was Anita’s time to leave her body. I suggested things that they could do for her to help her be more comfortable and how to be with her energetically. I told them their job now was to imprint themselves with her energy, so when she chooses to come to them, they would more easily receive her. Her husband wasn’t sure about what I was describing, but I could feel his desire to know. 

Her daughter got excited by the possibility and remarked how strange it was that Anita seemed to be seeing things. I perceived the energy of Anita’s mother, dead now some 20 years, in the room as soon as I entered.  I smiled, “Of course, that’s your grandmother! And we’re tripping over a big dog that won’t leave your mother’s side.” Her daughter cried, “That must be Savannah! She died just before Mom came to you.” 

At that moment, Anita opened her eyes and nodded vigorously. Weakly, she waved me to her. I leaned close and she barely grasped my arm and whispered, “Thank you.” 

Anita died just thirty hours later. We got hospice involved just in time so the family had support. In fact, I believe her husband was finally able to let her go when he signed the hospice paperwork the next morning. I called the team who worked with her…my collaborating physician, the dedicated pharmacist, the caring nurse. Tears flowed for all of us…as we supported one another…but for Anita…she was free of her pain, finally. 

Her memorial service was so well attended…she had asked her sisters-in-law to organize a family reunion that weekend. She never made it, but they were all there to say goodbye.

Her family spoke eloquently with pictures of Anita as a young woman floating in the background. But it was her husband’s choice of music that touched my soul… 

“The Dance” by Garth Brooks…”I’m glad that I didn’t know.. the way it all would end, the way it all would go. Our lives are better left to chance. I could of missed the pain, but I would had to miss the dance.” 

Thank you, Anita, for allowing me to dance with you.

CELEBRATING GRAN

Gran’s funeral was a great day of celebrating a life well lived.

And the Italian side of the family cooked for two days before Gran’s Day. Steve squeezed over 100 lemons for lemonade and picked tomatoes and basil for the bruchetta. Everything came from our garden…the garden Gran loved so. While my Mom cooked up sausage and peppers, marinated shrimp and zucchini, and Mediterranean wraps, Kyra and I baked Italian cookies. In the middle of baking, I had to leave her with a particularly difficult cookie—bruttis—meaning ugly little cookie—made of ground toasted hazelnuts and meringue, they were delicious! So handling her baking emergency calls while driving to pick up Jarys at the airport…well, it was a very busy day…yet filled with joy, because we were doing it all for Gran. 

As Jarys got settled, I whipped up lemon icing for the agnolettis. Kyra had just put magic bars into the oven (Gran’s favorite). “Jarys is home and here we are baking,” she said with a bit of powdered sugar dusting her cheek, “it feels like the holidays!” Yes, it did. And Gran was with us enjoying every moment. 

Not that I didn’t cry at her funeral. I tried to hold it together with everyone looking to me for direction—not unusual since I tend to lead—but I didn’t have time to cry while setting up for the reception so I just got frustrated. Mom blamed it on hormones (or lack thereof) but all the cookies got plated and the buffet laid out nicely. Flowers from my garden graced the tables…Gran loved to arrange bouquets and her presence was strong while I placed the roses and hydrangeas in vases. So strange how my roses all perished the day she died…then new buds blossomed in time for her funeral. 

Before entering the chapel, I had to stop and cry under a tree. I know Gran wasn’t in that fancy coffin but with me and each of us…in our hearts…yet the tradition of burying the dead…it’s hard. I do not remember my own grandparents’ funerals. I remember their deaths…too well…but their funerals were not celebrations. I didn’t want that for my children…nor would Gran…so we celebrated! 

The chapel was filled with people dressed in…bright Hawaiian prints. Gran loved color! No somber black to dishonor the brightness of Gran.

During the service, Steve honored Gran first. He spoke of her energy and how attached we all were to her energy of hope and home. How by being loved by her, we would always know her energy; she would be attracted to ours and always be with us. Since her death, Gran has come to Steve. He is amazed but not surprised at the clarity of their connection. I am so grateful that Gran has become his spirit partner through the veil…there is no separation. 

Gran was home for the entire family. She never knew a stranger. She loved freely and as Jarys said “accepted each of us for who we are.” The pastor could barely contain us as we stood to speak our love for Gran. 

Five generations attended her funeral…she left a legacy of hope. The reception afterwards turned out to be the party we wanted for Gran. Sharing our memories, loving each other, enjoying the food…of course we made way too much…so Steve’s family was sent home with leftovers. 

Yet I kept some biscotti…to dip in coffee, a cup for me and a half cup for Gran.

IT’S BECAUSE WE’RE ITALIAN

A few days before Gran died, she was expressing her gratitude: “I’m so fortunate to have my family taking care of me.” My mother-in-law responded, “Of course, Mom, it’s what families do.” Gran smiled, “It’s because we’re Italian.”

My mother-in-law gently explained that they are not Italian. (In fact very Anglo-Saxon. The family name is Jones!) Now I’m from an Italian American family and Gran spent an awful lot of time with us…I do believe Italian rubbed off on her. How could it not? We spent most of the time in the kitchen cooking. The rest of the time in the garden enjoying a cup of coffee. Gran loved her coffee. While she was here, I never drank so much in my life! “Come, Debbie, have a cup of coffee with me.” She would ask late in the afternoon. “Oh, and maybe we can have those cookies we made the other day. Just a couple. We don’t want to spoil our dinner.”  How could I refuse? It was precious time spent with an amazing woman…my only grandma.

Italians pass the time playing cards. Gran never played cards before, but she learned fast. Her youngest daughter was surprised, “Mother doesn’t play cards!” Gran was brought up in the Reformed Church of the Latter Day Saints…no card playing allowed, no dancing, no drinking, no swearing. Well, in our house Gran played Gin-Rummy, enjoyed “just a sip” of Steve’s homemade wine and no, not a virgin margarita, but a real one “you know I love the salted rim!” and once we were having a frank discussion after dinner about the consequences of proposition 8 and Gran got upset, “It’s no one’s damn business who people love!” Oh yes, and she and I would dance. Foregoing the walker, I would hold her tightly in my arms and we’d sway to the music.

When Kyra would come home, we would all be in the kitchen making something delicious. My Mom would join us—she runs my practice which is right here on our property so I could be home for the kids and then for Gran—four generations making fig jam, stuffing zucchinis, preparing yet another meal. Mom would squeeze Gran and give her a kiss. “It’s not a kitchen without a grandma in it!” Just as Gran took me in as her granddaughter, she treated my mother as a daughter.

Gran had enough love for all of us and more. Years ago she “adopted” a young black man who reveres her. And her Hispanic caretaker came to the hospital in February, laid her head next to Gran’s and wept. She stayed hours petting and fussing over Gran.

Gran worked in the Farmers Market for 30 something years making friends with Jewish, Asian, Hispanic and Blacks. She did not see race or color or religion or sexual preference. Gran only saw people. And she was always delighted to meet them, all of them…and perhaps share a cup of coffee?

Steve and I were reminiscing last night. I know you tend to elevate the dead, forgetting their worldly transgressions and focusing on the good. But no need to embellish Gran. Like Steve said, “She was always genuinely glad to be see me, accepted me completely and my presence brought her joy.” Gran treated all of us like this…in her presence our truth shone…because she really “saw” us…she looked past the shadows and embraced the light in each of us…

Steve believes karma is incurred over your lifetime. He’s spent his consciously banking good karma. Gran didn’t know much about karma…but her bank was full. I believe karma can be imprinted. My research shows it begins in the womb…remember the Red Cord…yet I have been branded by Gran. She has imprinted me to the roots of my soul.

Only one day gone, I miss her so.

The family is making plans for the funeral. They want to get a hall for the reception afterwards, get a caterer…you know cold cuts and petit fours. I called my mother-in-law and told her “The Italian side of the family is cooking! Oh and we don’t do petit fours.” She laughed and told her sister. I could hear Auntie in the background. “Thank goodness, I love tomato, mozzarella and basil.”

I’ve started the menu entitled—Gran’s Day—the day we gather to celebrate her life: Bruschetta, melon and prosciutto, marinated grilled vegies, olives, of course lots of bread to dip in Mom’s sauce…she’s doing most of the cooking. I’m the baker in the family… Gran loved my holiday cookies and they go so very well with a cup of coffee. We’ll go to the kitchen to connect— I’m sure Gran will join us—to reminisce and to prepare delicious food, lots of it… It’s what family does…because we’re Italian.

Let’s Not Say Goodbye

We said goodbye to my husband’s grandmother. No, Steve insisted, not goodbye, but so long. My grandfather used to say the same thing. Poppop hated goodbyes. I remember his sad long face as he helped my father take our suitcases to the car.  “Say So Long, not Goodbye,” he would tell me.

“Why, Pop?”

“Because, Poppy, Goodbye is forever but So Long means ‘sooner than you know it, we’ll be together again.’”

At nearly 91, Gran was on her death bed. Yesterday we surrounded her with love. And afterwards I wondered how much longer it would be…my medical mind said less than 24 hours, my intuition said at the 11th hour. And she died today at 11am.

Just before the eleventh hour, I asked her through the ethers, “Will I feel you go, Gran?” A lightness of being floated through my soul. And then I got a call she had passed.

Steve then called our son. And Jarys already knew. He wouldn’t say how, but we know he’s intuitive. I reminded Steve of our conversation last night.

My husband and I sat up late talking. He had heard me commenting to his mother how faded Gran’s energy had become. And my mother-in-law, also a nurse, agreed. “Yes, no more irritable reds. She’s resting peacefully pale now.”

Gran’s life force was a soft watery turquoise color. These last few months as her health had been failing, she had been fading. Steve asked about how energy fades at death. I believe we come into this life as pure white light and through the prism of this reality become refracted into our life color. Gran was turquoise. I’m violet. Steve’s green, very green. Jarys is blue—indigo blue. Kyra’s gold.

“Well, what about the other colors—the chakras—you’re always talking about?”

We are all made up of all the colors. The chakras in rainbow order from first to seventh are red to violet. All shades of the colors…like the first chakra—the root chakra is red, but can be any shade from rusty brown to bright cherry. Yet these colors are within the life color—the color of the aura—like a brilliant inclusion of carnelian in a rose quartz.

Being a police officer, Steve has seen lots of death. “When a person dies rapidly like in a car accident, it’s more like an explosion of energy out of their body.”

That’s sudden death, but when a person dies from a terminal illness or old age they slowly fade back to white. He was confused. “I’ve seen old people dying in nursing homes and I would describe their energy as “dimming”.” 

Yes! He perceives energy as light. I perceive energy as color (and light and sound and sometimes smell…but that’s another story.) It’s the same thing, we just describe it differently.

Then we discussed whether the energy that made up our life force had consciousness. He wasn’t sure comparing the body to a car and the energy to the key. “It’s potential that creates consciousness.”

I believe the energy that makes us alive…our life force…our soul…is conscious. It gathers the energetic imprint of our life experiences and then is attracted to those energies in this life and beyond. When we get a visitation from a dead loved one—I believe their energetic imprint triggers our memories of them and we experience them—their voice, their touch, their smell.

Years ago, I was driving to my sister’s house with Jarys and Kyra in the backseat. They were little—6 and 2. I didn’t want to go without Steve, but he had to work that Thanksgiving. And I was nervous. I had been having visions of crashing the car. Suddenly, Old Spice wafted through the car and I felt an oiled leathery hand caress my cheek. Poppop. And I heard, “It’s alright, Poppy.” I felt safe and protected by his love. And Jarys piped up from the back seat. “I smell Poppop!” Yes, he did, thank goodness, so did I.

My grandfather died in 1983 nearly twenty months before Jarys was born. So Jarys never knew him. Or did he? My mother and I were sure Poppop helped guide Jarys to us. Mom was holding Jarys when he was a baby and he reached for a picture in her hall and said “Poppop.” It was his first word. And the picture was of my dead grandfather. So, I do believe the veil is very thin between the worlds. And some of can perceive through the veil. Jarys can.

Kyra, on the other hand, had a close relationship with Nana. When she was just two to three years old, Nana sang to her at night and picked four leaf clovers outside her bedroom window during the day. My grandmother died in 1984. Kyra was born in 1988. Kyra described Nana just as she looked as a very young woman. Not my memory, not even the lullaby Kyra sang for me. My Mom recognized it as one Nana sang to her, but she had never sang it to us or to her grandchildren. And Nana loved to search the lawn for four leaf clovers. Kyra also can perceive through the veil that separates this reality and the next.

Lots of children can and many adults retain or remember their abilities. It’s a gift.

In fact, death is more like a spiritual birthday. While we cry tears of grief here, in the spirit world, Gran is being joyously welcomed. We mourn her physical presence instead of celebrating her freedom. She is free from a body that no longer served her. And we were blessed to have so much time with her. Nearly 91 years!

And the past two years, my family has gotten so very close to Gran. A series of synchronistic events brought her to us. Two autumns in a row, she spent precious time in our home. We’re so fortunate. Gran’s energy, her personality is one of delight. She was delighted to meet you, to share a meal with you, to be with you. She was delighted with the sunshine and the stars, with the birds and the butterflies. She was especially delighted with flowers. A professional flower arranger…she taught me how to make the perfect bouquet…for every season…we collected blossoms, and herbs, greenery and leaves to make delightful arrangements for every table in the house, even outside. I have vases filled with gifts from my garden throughout the house and all the outdoor gathering places. A little bit of Gran…always. 

I’ve known Gran since I was 17. She’s always treated me as one of the family…”our Debbie”, she would call me. And my Granny died a few years after my Nana died. Gran was my grandmother too; I shared her with Steve and his two brothers and nine cousins and lots of great and great-great grandchildren. Gran was my only grandmother left on earth.

Gran was unique—someone who accepted everyone for who they were.  She saw the good in everyone. Steve said Gran has a Pop soul—my Poppop was by far the most generous man I’ve ever known. As my brother-in-law said yesterday, no matter how hectic their lives were, Gran was always there for them in that little house in Van Nuys. You could call anytime or just show up and she would take you in and get you what you needed to feel whole. She was home for her family.

Years ago when I was going to grad school at UCLA, I stayed with Gran. She took care of two year old Jarys while I pursued my advanced degree. I depended on her to take care of us and she did it so well, so graciously—delighted to spend time with me and especially with her great-grandson. The memories are so clear for me, for she was home for me too.

I’m so grateful that we have created a home for us. Gran loved it here. She loved the garden, the flowers, the butterflies and hummingbirds. She loved being here and we loved having her. Two years ago, she came to stay when my mother-in-law had to be hospitalized. Gran was a bit unsteady using her cane, so Steve took her to the pharmacy to test drive a four-wheel walker. No, no let Medicare pay for it…the family protested. No, no, I was not going to risk her falling on our wood floors or Saltillo patios, so I took her back to the pharmacy and got the walker. Gran cried. And became really mobile for the first time in over a year.  She pushed that walker all around the house, into the outdoor room and out onto the patio overlooking the herb garden. We had to stop her from trying to negotiate the steps on her own. The walker had a little seat that she would stack with dishes to set the table or laundry to fold while she watched “Ellen.” She loved helping me cook. Her coordination was not such that she could safely work over a flame, but she was a great prep chef, chopping and measuring. When my mother-in-law got out of the hospital and came to our house to recuperate, she was surprised to see Gran using a knife. “She’s on Coumadin! What if she cuts herself?” I smiled. “No worries, I can stop her bleeding. She’ll be fine.” And she was and free for a long time.

When Gran lived with us, she needed help bathing. The first time, I drew her bath in the guest room. I thought the tub would be perfect…a sitting tub with a little seat inside a shower. I helped her in and helped her sit down, and she said, “Uh, Oh!” Well, not so perfect. The seat was too low and her knees were higher than her hips. “You’re not going to be able to get me out.”

I said, we’d deal with that after her bath, and planned to call Steve if necessary. She must have heard my thoughts. “I’ll be so embarrassed if Steve has to help.” Yikes!

Well, by the time we finished, it was clear that I would not be able to get her up from outside the tiny tub. So I stripped off my soaked nightgown and stepped into the tub with her. She laughed; her youngest daughter did that too. No wonder. I had given bed baths as a nurse but not tub baths and this time I had gotten as wet as washing three little kids.  I bent my knees with one between hers, gave her a big hug, stood up, and we stepped out of the tub. She didn’t let me go. “It feels so nice to hold you like this.” I squeezed her tight. It did feel nice. Then she laughed, “But there are only three breasts between us!” I nearly dropped her slippery self. She was right. She had a mastectomy some 15 years before!

A great sense of humor in a vast pool of sweet wisdom spiced with more love than most people ever know. That was Gran. That still is Gran. Because I know she will come to me and to my children and husband and the rest of the family whenever we need her, if we are open to receive her.

So long, Gran. Not goodbye, because we will meet again.

For more on the Spiritual Transformation we call Death: read my article Death and the White Light  

Remembering the Divine Masculine

One thing I learned in writing LoveDance is that life at least for me is about Joyous Service. My husband and I are both in helping professions—he as a police officer and me as a family nurse practitioner. The stories we share at the dinner table of our respective work day are often quite similar. As a healer, I spend a lot of time educating my patients, counseling them, guiding them with heartfelt advice. As a police officer, Steve protects and serves…truly he is more of a peace officer. There is not enough room in this blog to record all the incidences of him helping others through their issues. 

Last year, we stopped in Santa Barbara for brunch on the way up to our favorite romantic getaway in Cambria. While we were dining, a gentleman greeted Steve with such profound respect and gratitude. I asked about him and Steve said that some 20 years ago, he arrested him. Before the man was imprisoned, Steve advised him to use the experience to help him grow. “And he did!” Steve said proudly, “He paid back society and became a responsible outstanding citizen raising a fine family in our town.”   You see, we both take care of those in need. 

Last evening after an impromptu date—dinner on the pier and a stroll through a summer street fair, I was making Steve’s lunch. My daughter teases that even though she and her brother are gone, I’m still packing lunches. A dear friend of mine just reminded me how I showed her years ago how to cut the kids sandwiches into shapes. I used to put little notes in their lunches—words of encouragement, of love, of hope. 

Well, as I was making Steve’s lunch, I felt my grandmother’s presence. Nana used to do so much for Poppop, most of which he could have done for himself, yet she needed to do it. Serving him fulfilled her. And he was always extremely grateful. My mother served my father in the same fashion…yet something was missing. It was more of an expectation of how wives and husbands act. They divorced after 24 years of marriage. My grandparents were married over 40 years; unfortunately they died young. Poppop was only 62. Nana followed him to the grave twenty months later. She stayed around just long enough to hold her first great-grandchild, my son—Jarys. I have a photo of her cradling him in her arms. She was dying of lung cancer, in a wheelchair with a cannula of oxygen hanging from her nostrils. He’s only three pounds—born ten weeks premature—under the eerie glow of the neonatal intensive care unit, gazing at her intently. She died shortly after that one and only visit. I miss both my Nana and Pop. 

But last night, Nana was with me as I prepared Steve’s lunch. Holding the energy of love as I sliced the left over steak, washed and tore the baby lettuce, arranged the roma tomato. As I made vinaigrette, I felt her guiding me…a pinch of Italian herbs, a little salt, a bit of pepper sprinkled into the olive oil and balsamic vinegar. 

When I was done, I found Steve doing his back exercises in the bedroom. “Why do we take such care of one another?” I asked. 

“Because we love each other so much.” He smiled and gave me a kiss. 

True, but I think it’s more. You see, he takes care of me so well. He cooks for me…and he’s an amazing chef…he took care of the kids with the finesse of any mother…he spends time with me…and enjoys it! After 27 years of marriage we are still very much in love. We are best friends, each other’s truest confidantes. 

Yet we have lives outside of us….I do my things…I have a circle of dear women I meet with regularly, a very spiritual supportive group. I love horses and can be found riding far and wide on my mare all over Ojai. I meet with my three sisters once or twice a year for a girls’ weekend and regularly spend girls’ time with my daughter. I work with my mother (she’s my office manager) but we “play” well together too. 

And he does his “guy” things. A yearly backpacking trip with old friends. Lunch and golfing with new ones. Biking from Santa Barbara to Ventura with a colleague. Just the men. 

It’s as if we created virtual chamams. In LoveDance, Mary meets with the women during her monthly periods in the baths. A special time just for them, taking care of one another. 

I believe caring for one another out of love not expectation, taking joy in the service of our beloved is key to our long and happy marriage. 

Last summer, I had an amazing dream that reminded me of an aspect of the Divine Masculine that has been forgotten, yet I see it so clearly in my husband. 

The Golden Bear 

In my dream I was entering the Home Depot through the lumber department to get to the garden center. I was going to buy jasmine. The center of the Home Depot was a raised platform and as I ascended the steps to the platform, a great golden bear came through the door. It was huge, larger than life, a golden orange color, translucent, brilliantly colored like a child’s crayon, surreal. I was the only one to see it. It snuffled around the entry and I crouched down on the steps. It snuffled its way over to me. And snuffled my hair, my face, my neck. Then tapped a great claw over my right eye, then over my third eye, again and again. Then it hunkered down over me like a mother bear over a cub. Yet I knew this bear was male. I felt loved and protected like when Steve throws a leg over me, pulls me into his body—trapped by love. Trapped under the bear, I was secure, feeling the soft fur of its belly, the weight of its body, the warmth, the mass…protected in a golden cave of bear energy. Then the bear transformed into a…man. I could feel his naked body, the roughness of his hair, the shift in weight, mass, warmth from bear to man. We stood and faced each other. I was WOMAN and He was MAN…all men, naked, dark skinned and hair like a Mediterranean man. We took each others hands and then he disappeared. A woman friend of mine said… “That is the forgotten aspect of the Divine Masculine.” And I woke up. 

When I lie in Steve’s arms, his leg pressing over mine—the weight, heat and furriness comfortable, secure, I am very grateful to have found my home in his heart. 

I pray the GOLDEN BEAR ENERGY OF THE DIVINE MASCULINE becomes well known by all. 

While I hope my writing is enlightening, in essence this blog is my healing journey. I have kept a journal since my youth. The pages have always welcomed me, comforted me in times of sorrow, and gave me space to place my reflections. In writing, I learn more about me, about my life, about my world. And usually it is what I cared most to record in my precious journal that I use to comfort others. 

A weblog is so different. You lay yourself wide open and quite bare online…yet it is who I am…like the heroine of my book—Mary Magdalen—I unveil my heart and soul easily. I hope my musings serve you, my readers…for I do it in joy. 

Love and Light, 

Deborah

The Father Wound—missing the Divine Masculine

I didn’t really know how profoundly I am affected by the separation from the Divine Father until this past Father’s Day. My children had come home to celebrate.  Jarys flew in from San Francisco. A newly credentialed teacher, my 25 year old son took the time from searching for a teaching job to spend with his father.  It was a joyous weekend. On Sunday morning, Kyra asked Steve if he missed his father. 

“No, baby, I never really had a father.” 

Our daughter began to cry, “I’m so sad for you. I can’t imagine not having you as my Dad.” 

We all teared up. For how sad is it that so many of us do not have amazing fathers? I see so much of this pain in my practice. Middle aged men still suffering the wounds of not having a father who supported them. Young men who struggle with fathers who do not believe in them and worse, young men without fathers in their lives trying to make their own way unguided. Women young and old still suffering from the lack of paternal approval or worse being violated by the one who should be protecting them.  My husband, a police officer for the past 27 years, says that, in his opinion, the increase in crime, especially gang related crime, is in direct relationship to missing fathers. And the young women in abusive relationships, even teen pregnancies, are a reflection of poor fathering. 

As the father wound began to fester, I began to have a profound pain in my neck. No amount of heat, ice, stretching, massage, natural anti-inflammatory therapy or conventional non-steroidal meds helped. My chiropractor asked what I was so stressed about. He thought it was Steve’s recent back injury. True, it is not easy living with a wounded warrior. Taking away his uniform and putting him on light duty brought up questions of self worth and struggles with aging. And yes, I have had a lot on my plate related to incredibly challenging patients. And true, I had spent last fall and this past winter dealing with aging parents on both sides. Yet this felt like something deeper. 

The last time a chiropractor asked me this same question, I was suffering from sciatica. I knew then it was related to birthing my son into the world. It began the moment I finished helping him fill out college applications and did not let up until I took him to the University of San Francisco for a tour of the campus five months later. Once I felt the energy of the place…that USF was where he was meant to be…my sciatica disappeared.   

So in prayerful meditation I asked, What was I being so stiffed neck about?  

And that day a person from our past surfaced bringing up such waves of sorrow that I had to explore the source. Steve and I discussed my profound reaction that evening. And again I heard Kyra’s voice praising Steve’s paternal skills. Steve’s father, an abusive alcoholic, abandoned the family when he was only six. He had no father figures in his life, yet he has become the most awesome Dad. How was this possible? 

“It’s because of you.” Steve answered my query. “My partnership with you allowed me to learn from my father’s mistakes and glean the good from fathers all around me.” 

I began to cry…partly in joy for the Divine Father my husband has become and partly in sorrow for not having such a father myself. And the pain in my neck intensified. In my fervor to create an abundant present, I had not been looking back at the past. I know we should live in the moment. It is our mantra for 2010—Be in the Moment. And I’ve tried, truly I have, yet people from my past keep surfacing—some in need, some to remind me of something I’ve forgotten, some to unveil the face of my fear. In spite of my awakening, I cannot manifest joyously until I clean house. This house, the temple of my body which houses my soul. My mind has been busy convincing me to move along my path to enlightenment, but it is my body that reminds me to do my deepest work. 

So the reason, this person from our past whose presence brought up so much emotion surfaced at this time is because Steve had been doing the same thing…cleaning house. It’s a little eerie how we ride tandem on our journey. He had decided to clean out his proverbial closets. If he hadn’t worn it in at least two years, out it went. The same with people in his life. If he hadn’t heard from them in spite of his efforts to connect in the past two years, he gave them one more chance, then either connect or move on. 

The pain in my neck throbbed as Steve shared his “house-cleaning”. Time to look back. Gingerly I turned back and saw the roots of my feminine woes…(it’s the left side of my neck that’s been in spasm…the left side of the body represents the feminine, the right—the masculine) and I remembered the Red Cord. 

So I’ve been researching fetal imprinting. What happens at the cellular level to the prenate…the infant in the womb. Well, she feels everything her mother feels. So if Mom felt unsupported, unloved, abandoned by Dad…the baby grows up with this cellular imprinting. Hmmm! So back to the womb, I went. And lo and behold…I discovered my “Not Good Enough” imprint. My mother’s perception of my father…his treatment of her and her reaction…well, that imprinted me as a fetus in her womb. And my childhood spent trying to get Daddy to notice me by being the “best” student, “best” athlete, “best” daughter…well, that helped cement the fetal imprinting such that even today, nearly 50 years later (that’s how long ago I was in my mother’s womb) as accomplished as I am, as wonderful the relationships I have with my beloved husband and children are, as amazing my connection to my patients, my community, the earth herself is…still I feel “Not Good Enough.” 

My parents have played their part beautifully. Even down to Dad suffering from spinal cord impingement so severe that I had to use all my connections to get him treated by a neurosurgeon….Now THAT was a pain in the neck…his neck and mine…Reminding me that no matter how grown up you become, not matter how much education, expertise and influence you hold, fathers (at least mine) do not believe that you know so much. It took a prominent male surgeon to make Dad listen. I did not want to become involved, yet my sisters begged me to help…so I did. Dad had his surgery but he’s back to his old hard-headed ways and I must let him go.  And now I’m back to no paternal guidance…no wise old man in my life. 

So I took my aching neck and my heavy heart out to the Medicine Wheel. Steve and I built a sacred circle in the back of our property. In the northern power point, where wisdom flows. It just so happens to be where the horses are…but the Native Americans believe horse represents power and my horses do treat the circle of huge rocks as a sacred space. So there, sitting upon the eastern stone, I communed with the Divine Mother. And through the Earth I felt her. She showed me how beautiful our relationship was, how deep and enduring, but she also revealed how rarely I looked up to the heavens. How long had it been since I communed with the Divine Father. Looking up hurt my neck something fierce. Gazing at the gray summer sky…June gloom here on the Pacific coast was in full force…I felt an embrace…of light. 

It’s been a long time since I connected to the Divine Father. Not since my formal religious days have I referred to the Divine as Father. Somehow I felt judged by the patriarchal in my life…the authorities, the medical community, the church leaders…so the patriarchal energy of the Divine was not so welcoming. In the past 13 years, I have come to know the Feminine face of the Divine. And since LoveDance, I have come to fully embody the Sacred Feminine so now the Divine Masculine now reveals his handsome face to me on a daily basis. 

Of course, I see Him in Steve. But also in others. Just last week, I saw Him in the trash man. We forgot to put out our barrels thinking that July 5th had been a holiday when I heard the trash truck lumbering down our street. So I ran out in my heels dragging the recycling barrel. The dear trash man, not only came back for my recycling but got out of his truck to help me take our three other barrels to the street. I thanked him profusely. And in his smile, I saw the Divine Masculine. He’s around…we, women, just have to look for him. And he shows up when we embrace our Divine Feminine selves…He’s in the gentleman who opens the door for us, the bagboy who helps us carry our groceries to the car, the male driver who lets us park in the closer spot with a kind wave.  Our job is to recognize Him with joyous gratitude.

I shared this story with my women’s circle last week. It was a tough sharing time for many of the women that night. The masculine in their lives was so distorted…the shadow side of men. I believe, those of us who are awake, especially us women, we must nurture the Divine Masculine. Like precious seeds of potential planted in the garden of life, our loving gratitude, our joy, our being our Divine Feminine truth is the water and the light necessary to grow a fine crop of men fully embodying the Divine Masculine. Then there will be no more fatherless children…for the Divine Father will come forth in those men. And perhaps someday the father wound will become an ancestral memory.

THE DIVINE DAUGHTER’S BACK!

I envisioned this blog to be one of Remembrance. Remembering the Divine Daughter—Mary Magdalen, the original Divine Daughter and the heroine of my book—LoveDance: Awakening the Divine Daughter—Yet now two years after the last post…I find myself needing to unveil…again… 

LoveDance: Awakening the Divine Daughter helped me heal the Mother Wound…the original separation from the Divine Mother…as my heroine Mary Magdalen awakened to her truth as the Divine Daughter…so did I…and in doing so received the fullness of the Divine Mother. I reconnected to Her…embodied in the Earth…enlivened in the hearts of so many women here in Ojai…mothers and grandmothers who receive me…as if I am the Divine Daughter…and I feel it. I see the Divine Daughter energy in so many others…women young and old and even a few precious men… Time to feel the fullness of our emotions and allow the Divine Daughter to dance us into wholeness. 

Here’s what I wrote in the book, “My understanding of human consciousness is an evolution of the Mother-Father-Son-Daughter aspects of the Divine. Originally, I believe, humans worshipped the earth as the Divine Mother, her body was ours. Then we looked into the cosmos and envisioned the Divine Father as spirit. In the last two millennia, avatars teaching in parables initiated a revolution of the mind, and ever since the Divine Son has been the center of religious worship. Now the time is ripe for the Divine Daughter to manifest in human consciousness. She is emotion weaving the mind, body, and soul into Sacred Unity with All That Is.” 

The Divine Daughter is alive and well…Awakened now through LoveDance. On the Earth at this time—dancing her dance—her dance of love—LoveDance. 

LoveDance became my philosophy of life. I created a whole website around it. LoveDance is my expression of Self. Love is at the center of the triad of Relationships, Soul Purpose, and Health. I include Health because as a Holistic Nurse Practitioner, Health of Body, Mind, and Soul is paramount in the Process of Enlightenment. It is not enough for me to talk…but to walk my talk…or rather…to dance my truth! 

So now in the midst of this summer of profound transformation, nearly three years after LoveDance was launched, I find myself facing another wound…the Father Wound—separation from the Divine Father. Yes, I have begun Book II…LoveDance is a trilogy…and I began the second book shortly after the first was launched…and I got 1/3 through the writing…just as my heroine Mary Magdalen confronts her father wound…I could write no more! 

Why? Because until I face it, live it, breathe it, am I able to write it. What I wrote in book one became manifest for me. I did not realize the depth of the mother wound I embodied, imprinted since prenatal time, brought into this lifetime as deep karmic imprints. I had done a regression on myself many years before. Way before LoveDance…In fact two years before I dreamt I was Mary Magdalen walking down the streets of Nazareth I brought myself back to the womb…Disentangled myself from maternal karmic imprints… from the Red Cord… 

I shared this story with the Grandmothers Council of Ojai on Mother’s Day. I was an hour late for the gathering, having driven back from a mother-daughter-grandmother weekend in San Diego. It was lovely to spend time with my daughter who was born on Mother’s day 22 years ago. My mother enjoyed herself too, but on the way home her issues with her mother surfaced… there was not much to say…so I just listened…and then dropped her off at her house some 70 miles from Ojai and headed home. I needed to be with the grandmothers. But they too were reliving their mother wounds! So I told them this story: 

THE RED CORD

Years ago, before my daughter entered puberty, I vowed to get a hold of my eating disorder. If you are a fan of this blog, you know all about it, if not…here goes… 

I was anorexic before Karen Carpenter died and the psychiatrists had named it. I was hypnotized, medicated, and psychoanalyzed. To no avail. Anorexia transformed into bulimia. Not the typical eating disorder because I did not fit their psycho-patterns. No, I had not been molested, no incest, only a father’s great expectations passed onto me of being perfect. Yes, I was the straight A student…and did great things with my life, but there was more. 

Recently eating disorder research has led from blaming the father to blaming the mother. 

Still, I had an excellent relationship with my mother. Had learned from her mistakes. And felt loved, adored by her and my father. My grandparents too, especially my grandmother. No, it wasn’t a parenting problem rooted in childhood. It was something deeper. 

I had begun research on the hypothalamus which led to my dream of Genesis Gold and had been taking the Sacred Seven amino acids for a year when I felt it was time to get to the root of my problem. 

Bulimia was a coping mechanism for me. And while I could stuff my anxieties down with food then purge them into the toilet and flush them away, many, many times, my fear was not my own. How many times had I felt driven to binge just to purge a fear that was greater than me. So what was this fear, I asked. 

I will tell you…it’s not the father, it is the mother…but it’s not about blame. It’s not what you think. 

In a dream, I regressed myself. 

Into the womb, I went. Looking down between my fetal thighs, I was surprised to see NO penis! No blade! How could I accomplish my mission in this form? I felt a pulsation deep in my belly, putrid fearful, coming not from me, but through the umbilical cord—the Red Cord. 

It was my mother’s fear. I felt her. Her world as she perceived it….the struggle with her parents, her new husband, her fear…her fear of her mother, then… 

I was in my grandmother’s womb feeling her fear through the red cord. And then in her mother’s womb feeling her mother’s fear and her mother’s and back and back in time. Like a video montage, yet I could feel the fear…yellow and acidic as bile….the pain, tears, terror…of losing children, abortions, stillborn babies. Of being raped, used as chattel, traded like beasts. Of husbands, and fathers and lovers beating us, blaming us. Of too many babies, of hunger and pain, of sending our sons off to war and our daughters into the same traps we found ourselves. Of burning at the stake, of drowning, of torture for being our truth. Of giving away our power. 

Through my mother’s womb, through hers, and unto the beginning of time. Back to Eve. All of women’s woes…that was my fear. The fear I had been purging forever. 

Time to release it. I awakened with a clear intention and pure desire to release my mothers’ fear, all of my mothers. 

Synchronistically that day, I had an appointment with an energy healer. She was working with another powerful male healer. He stood at my feet, she at my head. I didn’t tell them of my vision, but lay there fully intending to release. And I did. Like a volcanic eruption of black tar, the energy exploded from my belly into the atmosphere. I felt lighter and freer than ever. I opened my eyes and laughed. I sat up. The two healers were plastered against the walls of the healing room. “What was THAT?” 

“That was fear!”  And it’s not mine! 

Then I headed to the beach, and lay on the sand, my feet in the water, the sun on my naked skin and was held by the Great Mother. My Divine Mother loves me…I am everything she ever desired in a daughter. I no longer need to purge the fear of my sex.

 

So here we are back from the summer of 2001 to now—2010. A summer of great transformation lies before us. Today is truly the first day that it feels like summer here in Ojai. Finally hot…it’s been so mild…perhaps now we can burn the illusion away and unveil the truth. My neck aches from all this typing, but purging on paper (or rather, online) is a sweet means to a sweeter end. Yet my aching neck reminds me that it’s time to heal the Father Wound.

25 Remembering Mary Magdalen: Purging the Fear

May 25th, 2004 Bulimia is back. On the eve of my journey back east to make a connection within the publishing world, I fret, yet even in the midst of my angst, I still am connected, ever more aware of my humanness. My rabbi friend has come in strong at the beginning and now again with words of wisdom. She says there is something magnificent and horrible about being chosen.  Great responsibility/great reward. Great passion/great loss. Only Steve is the steady one—the first knight—dependable, honest, trustworthy, gracious, kind. He points out that my energy is like a magnet to which others flock, asking to be shown the way, but I am not the way. What they perceive as divine in me is their own reflection. 

Composing was regurgitation onto paper, painful but relieving, probably why during the eight moon cycles I wrote, I was not bulimic. It took me a long time to feel comfortable being Mary and then present the raw truth of who I am—the first draft tipping the scales at five pounds—over 1000 pages. Editing was like peeling off my skin with ragged fingernails, then trimming the underlying fat to get to the meat. And sharing the printed pages for feedback unearthed my insecurities. How nervous I was that it wouldn’t be perfect. Although I learned to appreciate whatever critique the universe delivered—the good, the bad and the ugly—bulimic Deb returned to unveil my fears.