My Father’s Daughter

As per my usual when meeting a new health care provider, I prepared for my first visit to ET, spiritual healer and medium, by making a list of ailments and physical annoyances I’d been experiencing, in the interests of having a place to start, a road map, if you will, if he and my Guides didn’t come up with one themselves.  

Yes, my Guides.  ET talks to people’s Guides or Guardian Angels—and he distinguishes between the two.  A Guide is a spirit being that has been or could be incarnate (i.e. a dead human’s spirit could, I guess, become a Guide—I’ll need to ask); an Angel is a spirit being who is only spirit, and can never animate flesh; but aside from that they function very similarly in our lives (what their actual functions are, I am only just beginning to learn).  To prepare for a first meeting with a new client, ET does a meditation with his own Guides (and/or Angels) and mine, the morning of the appointment.  In that meditation, he is shown various pictures and given various words or phrases that are important to the client and the healing that is about to take place.  

Let’s just say that none of the pictures he saw had anything to do with my right thumb, which has ached off and on, with varying degrees of severity, for the last 5 or 6 years.  Or, since I learned to knit.  

My achy thumb was on the list because, I’m sure, it’s a relatively minor pain in the scheme of things (so if it can’t be healed, it doesn’t destroy my hope for larger issues?), and I want it to go away without my having to take pain pills, or give up knitting (which I don’t do in the summer anyway, but my thumb still pains me).  

Cancer was not on my list.  

How interesting it is to me, now, after the 6 ½ hour session and the things that transpired, that asking for relief for one modest physical issue was okay to contemplate—but that asking for relief from cancer was not. He is a healer after all. Why did I want to see him, if not to be healed?

In part, I wanted to see him because what he does, what he sees, if he is speaking the truth (and I believe he is), is so game-changing for the way this planet works, that I wanted to go and see if he could help me, so that maybe, just maybe, I can someday help other people.  For several years now I have been practicing the Tarot both for myself as a way of communicating with my Guides, and for various friends or relatives if they happen to want a reading.  I am also hyper-aware of how my body feels at any given time (these things are all interconnected). I am aware of my energy state (and have long been in the habit of ignoring it if it’s not FULL STEAM AHEAD!); both physical and more . . .let’s say super-physical.  We all have energetic bodies as well as physical ones, and I can feel my energetic body and the shifts and flows in it. 

I’m finding it difficult to write this post.  In part, it’s because I have, from some perspectives perhaps, nothing to write about.  If you don’t believe what I’ve put down here already, a blog post is not going to be the forum to convince you that I’m not only telling the truth, I’m also talking about reality.  The other reason it’s difficult is that the experience really was, I think, life changing.  It’s a bit too soon to tell how, exactly, the changes will show up, but some fundamentals are profoundly different. I’ll share with you some of the specifics of the appointment, and you can do what you will with them.

First, we sat on the couch in the living room of ET's rural King County house and he gave me about an hour’s quick tutorial on Spirit/Guides/Angels, on energy, on the transference and creation of different energetic forms, stuff like that.  He wrote a book several years ago, and I read it before meeting him, so I understood—or at least was familiar with the words—most of what he was saying (and some of it I had already heard from others or figured out on my own with the help of my Guides, through Tarot or the I Ching).

We then moved to his massage table, which was just behind the couch, set at an obtuse angle so that I lounged on my back instead of being flat.  The angle was, really, completely ideal—I remember noting it a couple times throughout the event? appointment? reading?.  I was comfortable throughout, and I was there for most of five hours.  Once I was settled, ET called his Guides and mine (mine, five of them, came dressed in Native American garb, so he said—I still can’t see them or speak with them directly), and asked them to open up my 7^th chakra, the Crown chakra, so that he could get a better look at what was in there.  The Guides did so, stretching the chakra open behind me, so that the next time ET spoke to them, I heard him across the room, about 20 feet away.  

I think, for the sake of brevity—oops, too late—for the sake of finishing a post, I will focus on only one clearing he did, and leave the past lives (two were of import for this first visit) for another time, even though it all is connected.  

So.  Children mimic the energies of their parents to some extent.  When they are first born, and until adulthood, there are not a lot of choices kids have.  They don’t choose their parents (the physical, animal body doesn’t, at least), they don’t choose their schools, they don’t choose the books they first read, the religion they first practice, their nationality, their socio-economic group, you get the picture.  In learning how to be a part of their families, parental energies and practices are copied.  All of these things help form what ET refers to as the “default personality.”  In my particular case, something that happened in one of my two featured past lives set me up to be particularly good at taking on another’s energy, and so the energy I had from my father was not just my energy, built up to work with him and the family, but actually a lot of his energy.  “He was pretty messed up emotionally,” ET said (or something like it—I do have a tape, but have not transcribed it yet), “a lot of anxiety.  How old was he when he died?”

“Fifty-one.”

“Yikes! That’s not old!  This stuff really messed up his body!”

ET asked if I remembered anything from my childhood about Dad that might relate to me taking on his energy, and what I remembered was this: I was about nine years old, it was fall, and I had learned to blow a bubble when chewing gum.  My father hated gum chewing, not because it’s crass, but because it’s noisy.  Not really noisy, so’s you’d notice or anything, unless you were my dad.  Then it was noisy, repetitive, and the MOST ANNOYING THING EVER.  Unless you were clicking your ballpoint pen open and closed.  Or crink-crink, crink-crinking your pop can after you’ve finished your drink. Or anything else you did more than one time in a row.  I learned about his noise neuroses so early on that it never occurred to me to question them; I just took on the role of Daddy Protector, and warned whoever came to the house that my dad didn’t like gum chewing.  He also didn’t like open-mouthed food chewing, but that was another story.  In this story, young Calin ventures out to the barn where Daddy is working on a farm project.

“Daddy,” I said, going up to him as he came toward me, wiping his hands on his ever-present back-pocket grease rag, “I know you hate gum chewing, and I won’t ever do it again in front of you, but I just learned how to blow a bubble and I was wondering if I could show you.  Can I?”

“Sure,” said Dad, putting his still-filthy hand on my shoulder.  “Let me see what you’ve got.” 

I did my best and successfully blew a bubble.  “Okay,” I said, relieved and pleased.  “I’ll throw it out now.”

“You can keep chewing it,” Dad said, “just this once.”

I did keep chewing, for about 45 minutes, as I wandered about the barn and Dad went back to his work, but it didn’t feel right—I felt like my chewing was probably bothering him anyway—so I spit out my gum long before I normally would have.  I normally would’ve chewed a piece of gum for hours, until it was, literally, dissolving in my mouth.  You didn’t know gum can, in fact, be digested?  It can. In the mouth.

“I was going to say age 8,” said ET, after this story. “That seems to be when you actively took on his energy.  Well, he might want it back, and YOU certainly don’t need it! Is he still between lives?”

“Yes,” I said immediately.  Is he still between lives?!? How the hell do I know? But I DID know—I didn’t wonder, I didn’t think. I knew.

ET cocked his head, listening to something. “Yes, he is,” he confirmed.  “This is great,” he went on, “he can get his energy back, and maybe learn what he was supposed to from it, and not have to repeat this life, and you can get on with your own!”

He and the Guides did the clearing, and then cleared the energy associated with my mother as well.  

That evening, back at home in Wallingford, I took the dogs out for a late walk. I felt tall, and straight, and upright, and free, and calm.  I did my best to measure myself against the old mark on the kitchen door, and I looked one half inch taller. Better yet, the anxiety was gone.  I didn’t take a clonazepam that night when I went to bed, and I haven’t since.  

It’s been particularly interesting to be out at the Ould Sod for this weekend, taking care of the farm—to see all my old haunts, and think about them now that I am less haunted.  I’ve been spending time moving my energy around, flexing my chakras, bringing in Universal energy and Earth energy, feeling them swirl together, torrents of light coursing through me, causing involuntary shudders and gasps, and making me burst into laughter.  Yes, really.  I’ve also been taking my cannabis cure each night (I stepped my clonazepam down to half a pill when I started the marijuana, but it’s still interesting to not need any), and sleeping a lot (Ian and I are currently on diverging clocks: at sea, he’s up at 6:30 and in bed by 9:30.  Last night, I was in bed by 2 and up at 11.).  I’ve been climbing trees and leaping over fences, and walking to the pond, and picking blackberries, and I had L&S and Jessie-dog over for dinner and pie.  I’ve also been finding myself canceling appointments . . . and just resting.  

I’m amazed at how easy it is to take a break and lie down, when I’m no longer judging rest as useless, wasted time.  There will always be something to do.  It can wait for an hour.